bluefishcake
patreon
Sexy Space Babes Spinoff - Mechs, Maidens and Macaroons: Chapter One.
🕑 Added 2025-04-01 03:59:23 +0000 UTC“So, you going to tell me what this is about or just stand there like a gargoyle?” Mark asked, a tad nervously, as he set about chopping the vegetables.
The restaurant was quiet but for the sound of that chopping. The venue’s usual clientele of adventurous humans or homesick aliens had left nearly an hour ago. Even the other staff were gone. Now it was just him, the dim glow of the overhead lights, and the watchful eyes of Francis - his boss, mentor, and the closest thing he had to a father figure since the invasion turned Earth upside down twelve years ago and left Mark an orphan.
And here I am now, serving their food, he thought absently.
More than one person he’d met had found that particular dichotomy curious. At least one of those people apparently had some degree of contact with the Interior – the Shil’s shadowy secret police.
They’d found nothing of course. No ties to any of the various resistance movements running around. Not even after a midnight raid of Imperials in pitch black combat gear turned his apartment inside out, leaving him hogtied and black bagged on the floor while they did so.
Mark’s hands stiffened slightly as he julienned a stalk of vraka, its deep purple flesh yielding under the blade with a satisfying crunch.
“Just cook, brat,” Francis responded from the doorway. “And be gentler. Vraka’s tough, but you can ruin it easily if you’re not careful. Let the knife do the work.”
Mark grunted, but didn’t argue. The man wasn’t wrong.
The alien vegetable in his hands wasn’t exactly like zucchini – a little too bitter and rubbery to be truly the same - but it was the closest equivalent he could think of amidst the ‘Little Shil’s’ stock of alien ingredients.
Well, ignoring the actual zucchini they had in stock. The ‘Little Shil’s’ main selling point might have been that it served ‘alien’ food, but the fact remained that despite the ongoing… troubles the planet was suffering, domestic products remained cheaper than those sourced from off-world. A fact that had only grown more and more true with each passing year as the Alliance-Imperial conflict intensified.
The loss of Morka – some kind of farming world close to the frontlines – the other week had seen the cost of Sileen fruit increase by five whole credits.
For those reasons, Francis wasn’t above making use of domestic products in alien dishes in places where ‘they probably won’t notice’. A not unreasonable stance to take, especially given that the food they served tended to be more of an approximation of classic alien cuisine than anything else. An almost Tex-Mex fusion rather than a true recreation.
If they were aiming for that level of authenticity, they’d probably have sprung to get an actual Shil in the kitchen – or at least one of the client races.
Of course, there were reasons that would never happen, and the fact that Francis tended to be a little cheap was amongst the least of them.
“You planning to char that xilli root to ash?” Francis asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Mark glanced at the sizzling pan where the xilli root - his stand-in for eggplant - had started to blacken slightly at the edges. “Just getting a char going.”
“Shil don’t like bitterness,” his boss pointed out.
Mark swallowed down a hint of nervousness. “No, but you do.”
The old man snorted, but didn’t argue – and the nineteen year old wondered whether he’d just passed another little test.
Because that was one of the key facets of working in a restaurant that catered to many different species. One that went beyond dietary considerations like keeping onion out of any dishes you might serve a Rakiri or Pesrin.
No, being a chef in a restaurant like this was about knowing who you were cooking for. Different species had different palates. More than that, cultures within those species likewise varied – if to lesser degrees. Just as one could assume that a human from South East Asia would have a greater tolerance for spices than one from Europe, the same was true for the Shil and their many colony worlds.
The ‘Little Shil’ wasn’t super fine dining, but it was fine enough that those little personal flourishes were expected. The naval officers and senior administrators that came here were looking for a slice of home. To that end, the chefs were expected to deliver that to the best of their ability using the information relayed to them by the serving staff.
...That other information was often picked up by the serving staff at the same time as they quietly listened to the many aliens chat amongst themselves was incidental.
Satisfied, he cut the heat on the xilli root before grabbing a jar of crushed tormak berries, their deep red hue staining his fingers as he spooned them into a pot. Similar to tomatoes, if you ignored the faint metallic aftertaste, they’d help balance the char from the xilli. From there, all that was required was a splash of water, a pinch of salt before the sauce started to simmer.
He stole a glance at Francis, who still hadn’t budged. The old man’s eyes tracked every move, sharp and assessing.
Yeah, he was definitely being tested for something here. Which was a little nerve wracking, but a chef that couldn’t handle a little pressure rarely remained a chef for long.
The vraka went into the pan next, sizzling as it hit the hot oil. He’d diced some kresh tubers - starchy, pale, good in a mash - and tossed those in too, letting them soften.
The kitchen filled with a strange medley of scents: the sharp bite of vraka, the earthy undertone of kresh, the faint sweetness of the tormak sauce bubbling on the back burner.
“Ratatouille,” Francis finally said. “An interesting choice.”
Mark shrugged. “That was what I was going for.”
An earth dish made with alien ingredients. Something that would both be familiar to his boss and yet totally different. Something that wasn’t too time consuming or expensive to make either.
Mark’s hand moved on autopilot as he set about plating it. He layered the vegetables into a shallow dish, spooned the tormak sauce over the top, and sprinkled a handful of dried zeth leaves—his substitute for thyme. It was actually rather interesting to look at. Like normal ratatouille, it was a riot of different colors, but of a cooler variety than one made from earth equivalents.
He slid the dish into the oven, set the timer, and stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron. Fortunately, it wouldn’t take too long - some kind of Shil super-science turning a process that should have taken a good forty minutes in an earth-made oven into one that took five.
Not unlike a microwave, though the Shil technician that installed the system had seemed a little offended by that comparison.
“So, you going to tell me what this is about?”
“No.”
Well, that was that. He knew better than to badger his boss when he was like this. So he waited in… semi-comfortable silence. He doubted he was about to be fired or anything like that. Without being too arrogant, Mark knew he was a damn good chef. Definitely the best in the restaurant in any competition that didn’t involve the old man himself.
So it was, that it didn’t take too long before he was pulling the dish out, the heat stinging his fingers through the thin towel he’d grabbed, but he ignored it with the kind of long practice that only came from long hours in the kitchen. Setting in on the counter, he smiled at the sight as steam rose from the dish in lazy curls, carrying the mingled scents of his makeshift ratatouille.
Francis didn’t hesitate, snagging a fork from the drawer. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, kid.”
Mark resisted the urge to point out that it might have been worth waiting a moment for the food to cool. Instead, he watched with… mild trepidation as his boss scooped up a bite, the fork scraping lightly against the dish.
Bringing it to his mouth, the old man chewed slowly, deliberately, his face giving nothing away. Seconds ticked by, the first hints of trepidation slowly entering Mark’s mind. Finally, though, Francis swallowed, set the fork down, and leaned back.
“Adequate,” he said.
Francis let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “High praise.”
And it was. The man was sparing with his compliments and liberal with his criticisms. Not in a cruel or malicious way, merely that of an exacting teacher.
“Don’t go getting a big head now.” Francis’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk breaking through. “The char was a nice touch, but you used a bit too much tormak sauce. The aftertaste is overpowering the other ingredients.”
Mark nodded, taking the words in. “Ok then, noted. Now you’re going to tell me what this is all about?”
He’d kind of been hoping to call in at his girlfriend’s on his way back home. And not just because it would serve as an excellent cover for another stop he’d need to make on the way.
The old man crossed his arms again, his expression shifting, like he was weighing something heavy.
“Nearly a month back I got an offer,” Francis said, his tone casual but deliberate. “From off-world.”
That got Mark’s interest.
Off-world travel was a lot easier now than it had been during the earlier years of the occupation. Travel permits were fairly simple to come by, and a lot of people were taking advantage of that to explore the universe. Beyond that, more than a few were leaving simply to avoid the growing conflict between the Shil and Earth’s many resistance movements.
With that said, it was pretty rare for someone on Earth to get a message from the worlds outside it. Interesting, as a great many people found humanity, Earth and the human race were still little more than a blip on the galactic scene.
One that had grown even more inconsequential when weighed against the spectacle of an ongoing three-way war between the galaxy’s three most powerful polities, now that the Consortium had finally joined in ‘officially’.
“Apparently some… celebrity out on an ‘independent’ periphery world is after a personal chef for a few months. Some big shot gladiator or something. And somehow my name came up.” He eyed Mark. “The pay’s good. Absurdly good for a six month gig.”
Then he frowned, suddenly more than a little concerned about his ongoing employment. “You thinking of taking it?”
“Nah.” Francis waved a hand. “I’ve got this place. Not too eager to leave it. Told ‘em I might know someone, though. Asked if they’d been fine subbing someone in. Got a message back last night saying they’d be fine with it so long as the person had the skills.”
The old man eyed him.
“Me?” Mark’s mouth went dry again, the weight of the offer sinking in. “Why me?”
“You’re the best I’ve got, and you’re almost as good as you think you are.” He gestured with his fork to the dish Mark had just made. “Six months out there, cooking for some hotshot pilot, and you’d come back with enough credits to start your own joint. I know you’ve been talking about that forever.”
Mark opened his mouth, then closed it.
He couldn’t deny it. His own restaurant had been the dream since he first picked up a knife under Francis’s watch. He’d slowly been scrimping and saving what he could, but at the rate he was going, he knew it’d be years before he had enough.
This though… this could change everything. Honestly, he couldn’t wait to tell… Lila.
That thought washed over him like a bucket of ice-water.
He frowned.
“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lila… I don’t think she’d go for it. She’s in her final year of xeno-architecture and… I can’t see her dropping everything to follow me out there.”
Even if the world they were going to had a university – which was far from a guarantee if it was in the periphery – he sincerely doubted the Imperial Education System would let her transfer credits there.
Francis hummed, a low rumble in his chest. “I was worried you’d say that. You guys have been together, what, four years now?”
“Yeah, since highschool.” Mark managed a small smile.
“And you’re still not living together?” The man’s tone was studiously neutral.
Francis made a so-so gesture. “I mean, she’s got a toothbrush and some stuff at my place, but with the university being so close to the city center, getting an apartment nearby would have been murderously expensive. And traveling into the city each day would be… a bit of a pain in the ass with all the checkpoints. We agreed it’d be easier if she just stayed in the dorms while I got an apartment somewhere cheaper closer to the outskirts.”
The dorms were partially subsidized for students. Unfortunately, they were also only for students. Which he most definitely wasn’t. Between that and aforementioned security checkpoints, nowadays, they mostly saw each other on the weekends.
“I’m flattered, though,” Mark continued. “Really. That you’d even think of me.”
Francis said, sighed. “Well, far be it from me to tell you your business. Shame though. An opportunity like that doesn’t knock twice. Guess I’ll float it to one of the others tomorrow. See if they’ve got the guts to take it.”
Mark nodded, the words sticking in his throat. He wanted to say more… do something to delay the closing of the window of opportunity that had just been thrown in front him, but the old man was already turning away, heading for the door.
“I’m heading out,” Francis called over his shoulder. “Put that away and then make sure to lock up before you leave.”
The door swung shut behind him, leaving Mark alone with the cooling dish and a nagging ache in his chest.
---------------------
Mark’s car - a pre-invasion relic that still ran on gasoline - grumbled to a stop as he came up to his third checkpoint of the night, the engine idling loudly as he rolled down the window.
Hopefully though, this would be the last such stop he needed to make.
This checkpoint, much like the others he’d passed through, was a squat barrier of reinforced plasteel that could be raised or lowered with a single button push. To each side stood two towering light poles that bathed the area in harsh white light.
Just in front of that, a pair of soldiers stood waiting, backed up by a hover-APC just off to the side, the IFV’s intimidating repeater turret not quite aimed at his car, but pointed close enough in his direction to make him feel slightly nervous.
Likewise, the militia troopers were clad in full combat gear. No more open-faced helmets or light armor like the early days of the occupation - now they were kitted out head to toe, visors down, rifles slung across their chests.
That particular shift happened barely a few months into the war, when most of the fleet over Earth was suddenly called elsewhere. Along with a decent chunk of the troops they’d been supporting.
Suddenly, an occupation force that had once consisted of the low hundreds of millions was down to one that was barely a hundred million. At least, according to a few discussions he’d seen online about it.
It was possible those numbers were off, though… it wasn’t like the Imperium was publishing those numbers publicly.
What wasn’t up for debate though was that a few of Earth’s many resistance groups had somehow gained access to ‘modern’ weapons.
Imperial. Consortium. Alliance.
From what he’d seen in the news, it was mostly small arms at this point, but it was still a significant shift. For the first time since the invasion began, the average trooper on the street had no guarantee that the next shot someone took at them would be blocked by their space-age armor.
As a result, the Shil had stopped pretending Earth was a completely pacified world.
Though that wasn’t the only shift they’d made.
"ID,” the first soldier said, voice rough but unmistakably human, the accent clipping the word short with a Midwestern twang - Kansas, maybe, or Missouri. The modulator in the helmet flattened his tone, but that accent slipped through all the same.
A human in Shil gear rather than a Shil male. Which he supposed shouldn’t have surprised him too much. Shil were protective of their males. If you saw one, it was usually in more of a clerical role rather than something forward facing like manning a checkpoint. Still, Mark’s stomach tightened a little as he stared up at the aux.
He dug his ID from his wallet and passed it over, keeping his hands steady. No sense tempting fate with a jittery move. The soldier took it, gloved fingers brushing his, and ran it through a scanner clipped to his belt. The second soldier – who was definitely a Shil’vati female - stood a step back, silent, her visor watching keenly.
“Purpose of travel?” the human asked, handing the ID back as the scanner chirped green. His head didn’t lift, already half-turned to scan the next car creeping up behind Mark’s.
“Visiting someone,” Mark said, voice flat. He wasn’t about to mention Lila or the dorms - keep it simple, volunteer nothing that you didn’t have to. The Interior’s midnight raid on his apartment years back had drilled that into him. The less they knew, the less they could use.
In that regard, it was actually a little annoying that he was dealing with another dude. Alien women could usually be finessed if they otherwise felt like being difficult. It generally didn’t take much. A small smile. A little flirting. While those that had been on Earth long enough could sometimes be wise to it, the Shil brain was still wired to see the males of a species as the more ‘delicate’ sex.
Between that and their skewed gender ratios, they tended to be fairly receptive to even a little bit of charm being thrown their way.
Something he doubted would be the case for the guy now staring at him.
“Move along,” the soldier said finally, stepping back. “Curfew’s in two hours.”
Just like that, the moment of tension passed. The Shil’vati manning the barricade pressed a button and the barrier hissed open. Mark nodded, easing the car forward, the engine grumbling as he moved up. In the rearview, the human soldier’s armored shape lingered, shrinking against the purple-lit backdrop. For just a moment, Mark wondered what motivated a man to side with an empire that had conquered his homeworld.
Was he a willing and eager collaborator or just a man hoping to cash in on a paycheck? Or perhaps he was in a similar position to Mark himself? Ultimately, the chef supposed that it didn’t matter. Whoever he was and whatever his motivations were, he was part of the machine now.
The streets beyond the checkpoint smoothed out, human grit replaced by alien shine - curved buildings with glowing edges, signs in Shil script he half-recognized from the restaurant. A Rakiri loped by, fur bristling under a heavy coat, and a pair of Shil’vati laughed too loud on a corner. That wasn’t to say humans weren’t present too though, in business clothes or dressed up for a night on the town, they still outnumbered the aliens even here in the heart of ‘their’ part of town.
Underneath it all, this was still Baltimore.
Which was a decent part of the reason why parking was a nightmare, but he eventually found a spot about a block away from the university.
Stepping out of the car, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked toward the dorm, the night quiet but for the distant hum of Shil transports overhead.
Lila’s room was on the second floor, facing the courtyard. He’d been here a hundred times - sneaking in after the university’s curfew if not the Shil’s one - laughing as they dodged the RA’s patrols.
The familiarity of it steadied him as he climbed the exterior stairs, keeping his steps light. He didn’t want to wake anyone. Hopefully she wasn’t asleep yet. She definitely wouldn’t be expecting him this late. But he really needed to talk to her about his boss’s offer. It couldn’t wait.
Quite literally, they wouldn’t have long to talk before he’d need to be elsewhere. Still, even a few minutes would be worth it to help clear his head.
Fortunately, the window to her dorm room had light coming out of it. He smiled to himself. Perhaps she was studying late? He knew the workload for her classes tended to get heavier towards the tail end of a semester. He stepped closer, peering through the gap, ready to tap on the glass to get her attention, though hopefully without startling her.
But then he froze.
Lila was there, as he expected, sitting on the edge of her bed.
But she wasn’t alone.
A guy - tall, broad-shouldered -stood over her, shirtless, his lightly tanned skin gleaming under the lamp’s glow. His hands were on her shoulders, sliding down her arms, and she wasn’t pushing him away. She was leaning into it, her fingers brushing his chest as she said something Mark couldn’t hear with the glass between them.
Though he doubted even if it weren’t present he’d have been able to hear over the sudden sound of blood rushing in his ears.
His stomach dropped, a cold, sick weight settling in its place. The guy leaned down, and Lila tilted her face up, their lips meeting in a kiss that was… familiar. Easy. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it’d been happening for a while.
…Though perhaps he was reading too much into it. He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. As evidenced by the way he’d just been blindsided by his girlfriend of four years cheating on him with some random asshole. The thought nearly made him giggle hysterically, as he ran his hands through his hair.
He grabbed the railing to steady himself, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Four years. Four years, and she was - what? Bored of him? Enjoying a college fling? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.
For a moment, he considered storming in there and kicking that guy’s ass. He could take the bastard. But it was a fleeting thing. What would even be the point? It wasn’t that prick that betrayed him. And just as quickly he dismissed the thought of heading in to confront his now ex-girlfriend.
That wouldn’t end well. There’d be raised voices for sure. Then security would get called. And it was technically after curfew. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Charges could be pressed for breaking and entering.
No, a confrontation here and now wouldn’t work out well for him.
Still, it was a struggle to resist that urge as he moved away, his hands shaking as he descended the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The night air bit at his face, but he barely felt it. His mind was a mess - anger, hurt, betrayal all tangling together until he couldn’t tell one from the other.
He reached his car and fumbled with the keys, dropping them once before jamming them into the ignition. The engine sputtered, then roared, and he peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing against the pavement.
The city lights streaked past, a kaleidoscope of color he couldn’t focus on. His phone buzzed – he ignored it. Then again. And a third time. By the fourth he was wondering if she’d actually seen him through the window as he was leaving.
He turned the device off without looking at the screen.
He didn’t want to talk now. The anger had gone from hot to cold. And denying her this was the only act of spite left to him. To that end, he wanted to go home. To be alone. To sleep. To do something.
Unfortunately, he still had one more stop to make tonight, and it wasn’t one he could just blow off – no matter how much it felt like his world had just imploded.
--------------
Clothes lines had made a surprising comeback in recent years, their taut cords strung between buildings and laden with damp clothes fluttering in the breeze. Of course, there was a practical reason for their resurgence beyond nostalgia or thrift.
Drones apparently struggled to peer through the chaotic patchwork of fabric, making it harder for them to track people or cars moving through the streets. Mark had no idea if that was actually true, but it made him feel better as his car pulled off the main road and into a ‘covered’ alley.
He killed the engine, plunging the space into near silence as the growling noise of the vehicle faded away.
The whole part of town was a forgotten sliver of the old city, sandwiched between crumbling pre-invasion warehouses and the newer Shil-style buildings. The smell wasn’t great, given the presence of a nearby set of dumpsters that clearly hadn’t been emptied in a long time.
A fact he only vaguely noted as he leaned back in the driver’s seat, rubbing his face with both hands.
Normally he hated this bit. The wait for his contact to arrive – assuming they weren’t already here and simply scoping him out to make sure he hadn’t been followed – was normally excruciating.
Ignoring the fact that he was technically, ya’ know, engaged in treason by consorting with enemies of the state… the area just wasn’t a particularly ‘safe’ one. Neither Shil patrols nor the new Militia Police made trips through here very often or at all really. And while that made it a convenient location for him to meet his resistance contact, it also meant he was ever wary of being carjacked or mugged.
In fact, he was pretty sure he could see a drug deal going on in the alley across from his own through his rear view mirror.
Still, he almost welcomed the tension. It felt more… immediate. More tangible than the dull ache that came whenever his thoughts strayed to Lila.
It also felt good to be doing something… important – even if it wasn’t much.
He wasn’t a fighter - not like the guys who blew up Shil outposts or smuggled weapons. He wasn’t even really a spy. He just occasionally happened to hear things while working at the restaurant. From Shil naval officers, civilian contractors and marines alike. Little things like them bitching about upcoming patrol routes, ongoing gripes about supply shortages or the occasional excitement over an upcoming bust.
Mark passed it all along, those few small scraps he sometimes overheard. It wasn’t much, but it was his way of pushing back.
Ironically, he’d only started doing it after that first raid on his apartment - though not entirely because of the intrusion itself.
No, that he could have lived with – even if it would have burned at him. What had really got him moving was what he’d heard while lying there, hogtied on the floor in his underwear, the cold bite of alien zip-ties cutting into his wrists.
Even with the bag over his head, he’d been able to hear the casual chatter of the Interior agents that were overseeing the search. First, disappointment at how they’d found nothing, but as he lay helpless, they’d discussed taking him in anyway, just to be thorough. See if they could get something out of him. It was a mundane exchange, tossed around like they were debating whether to grab eggs on the way back from a shift - routine, indifferent, chilling.
He’d thought at the time that it was a trick. That they’d just been trying to scare him into confessing something.
Not that he’d had anything to confess. Not then.
Still, after they’d left, leaving his apartment a mess of overturned furniture and scattered belongings, he’d walked himself to the least trashed corner, righted his laptop, and dug into what little he could find online.
And it was little.
For a non-noble under Shil rule, explicit legal protections were actually quite thin on the ground. Medical care. Housing. Pay. Safety nets for those were all guaranteed in stone. But from persecution by law enforcement? Oh, there were vague promises of ‘due process’, but even a casual search of a number of forums showed just how quickly those vague promises evaporated when the Interior came knocking.
It had been rather chilling. To know that they could have just hauled him off on a whim, to be held indefinitely.
Because there were plenty of people out there crying out for the release of loved ones for whom that exact thing had happened.
That moment, that realization, had settled into him like a cold weight.
He, like most, had been living in a dream. Life in the Imperium came with many perks. In many ways it was better than the world that existed before – at least according to a number of the old timers he’d spoken to at the restaurant.
But that… ideal world only existed so long as you weren’t a problem. A citizen to be protected rather than an issue to be excised for ‘the good of the whole’. And he’d come vanishingly close to being such a problem. For the ‘crime’ of choosing to work in a location where he had both the capacity and motivation to harm the Imperium.
He hadn’t made his move immediately. It took a few months, but eventually he’d made contact with a local resistance group through a friend of a friend. Or rather, they’d contacted him.
From there, he’d fought back. It was small, but it was something. And tonight, he had a few tidbits - from a Shil captain griping about overstretched patrols in a nearby sector. Nothing earth-shattering – it never was - but it was something.
It was also a welcome distraction from the shambles of his personal life.
He stepped out of the car, the cold biting at his fingers as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, pacing a few steps down the alley. A faint scuff sounded behind him barely a moment later, boots on the pavement, too soft to be accidental. Mark froze, his pulse kicking up.
Before he could turn, a voice hissed, “Don’t move. Don’t turn around. Stay right where you are and keep looking in that direction or this will get unpleasant for you fast. Understood?”
He nodded.
Slowly.
Not least of all because whoever was speaking wasn’t the voice he’d been expecting. His usual contact, a woman who called herself ‘Raven’, had a low, clipped tone. Basically, all business and no nonsense. Still, ultimately feminine.
Kinda sexy, even if he’d never dared say as much.
This was deeper, rougher, with a faint rasp – likely a heavy smoker who’d not availed himself of any number of Shil medical advancements that were now available.
Also, very clearly a dude.
Mark’s stomach lurched as he felt something press against his back. Something sharp. Christ on a cracker, was he about to be mugged? If so, he could only hope Raven was about to show up.
“Who are you?” Mark asked, keeping his voice steady despite the sweat prickling at the back of his neck.
He stayed still, hands half-raised from his pockets, eyes fixed on the grimy brick wall ahead.
“Doesn’t matter and me telling you would rather defeat the point of me making sure you don’t turn around,” the voice said. “You should know Raven’s not coming.”
Mark’s throat tightened.
“She got nabbed in a raid on one of our safehouses two days ago,” the voice continued. “Purps have her.”
Mark’s throat tightened. Raven had been caught? And if they had her…
“Shit,” he muttered, more to himself than the stranger. “So they know about me?”
“No idea,” the voice replied, a hint of frustration in his tone. “Now Raven was a tough bitch for a spook, but no one really knows how someone will respond to being strapped to an interrogation chair. She might hold out for years, or she might have cracked already. Much as I hate to give any credit to a purp, the Interior’s been at this for a long ass time. They’ve got ways of making people talk.” He sniffed, the sound wet and nasally. “Though you weren’t being followed tonight and you’re not already in a cell with her, so that bodes well for her continued silence.”
Mark was barely listening as he resisted the urge to laugh, a bitter, hysterical bubble rising in his chest.
First Lila, now this - his whole night was just turning into a parade of gut punches. “Hooray for me then.”
If so, he had no fucking intention of going quietly. Into an interrogation cell or the dirt if this guy was about to try and tie up a loose end.
…Not that he really was a loose end. His only contact had been Raven and he hadn’t really known anything about her beyond the fact that she worked for a resistance cell. Hell, he hadn’t even known her real name. The most he’d have been able to do was pick her out of a lineup if he’d been rumbled instead of her.
Which he was sure was by design.
“Hooray indeed,” the voice deadpanned. “Now, fortunately for you, Raven had a lot of informants. And, no offense, you’re just one name on a list and definitely not anywhere near the top of it. That might buy you some time if she really has cracked already.”
“So what now?” he asked, staring at the wall, its cracks spiderwebbing under the dim light. “You here to make sure I don’t talk if I do get caught?”
“Hardly. If that was the case, I wouldn’t be making sure you can’t see my face would I?” The voice said. “Plus, we don’t operate like that. You’ve been solid so far. Passed along good stuff, kept your mouth shut. Out of respect for that, I can get you out of the city. Resistance has a few routes – though you’ll be on your own from there.”
“Not going to offer me a spot with your cell?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “Raven floated the idea a few times.”
His hasty refusals had always seemed to amuse her.
“No.” The man’s tone turned dark. “After all, the Purps got info on our safehouse somehow. And while it probably wasn’t you, it was likely one of her contacts. So as far we’re concerned, you’re all tainted.”
Well, he could see the reasoning there. Even if it meant he was essentially being left twisting on the vine.
…Still, it seemed that whichever group this guy worked for, they weren’t an entirely callous bunch. After all, the guy was out here wasn’t he? Risking his neck to give Mark this warning. Even though he could well have been walking into a trap by doing so if Mark himself was the leak – or if he was being monitored already.
That only served to bring another fact further into focus though.
Mark wasn’t that guy. If he was, he would have already joined up properly.
He wasn’t a coward. Or at least, he didn’t think he was. But he wasn’t a soldier either. He cooked, he listened, he helped in his small way, but he wasn’t cut out for the guerrilla life. The idea of it - grimy, tense, always looking over his shoulder - made his stomach twist.
And that would have been with the resistance. On his own? Trying to hide from the Imperium by hanging out in the countryside? Ha, no. He’d last a week, tops.
He knew what he was and what he wasn’t. And he knew he wasn’t cut out for that.
He swallowed. “What if I’ve got another way out? A way to get offworld in the next few days? Out of the reach of the Imperium?”
The contact didn’t hesitate. “That’d be better. Much better. Not least of all because I won’t have to burn favors that I don’t want to spend getting you out of the city. If you’ve got an exit of your own, take it.”
Mark nodded slowly. “Alright, I will.”
“Good,” the voice said without preamble, already fading, footsteps retreating soft and quick. “Stay here for another few minutes before leaving… and good luck, kid. Sic Semper Tyrannis.”
And then he was gone, the alley silent again except for the drip-drip of the gutter and the faint buzz of the city beyond.
Mark stood there, hands still half-raised, breathing hard. His legs felt shaky, but he did as the guy asked. He counted down a good two minutes before he forced his legs to move, stumbling back to the car.
He slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door harder than he meant to, and fumbled for his phone. His fingers trembled as he powered it back on—five missed calls from Lila, a string of texts he didn’t open. He swiped past them, pulling up Francis’s number instead.
The line rang once, twice, three times. Mark glanced at the clock: 2:03 AM. Francis was gonna be pissed. Finally, a groggy growl answered. “The hell you want, brat? It’s nearly one in the morning!”
Mark gripped the phone tight, his voice steady despite the chaos in his head. “That offer - the off-world gig. Is it still open?”
A pause, then a rustle like Francis was sitting up. “What’s got into you? Thought you were all torn up about your girl.”
“Things changed,” Mark said, clipped. “Is it still open or not?”
Francis grunted, annoyance bleeding through. “Yeah, it’s open. Told you I’d float it to someone else tomorrow, but that’s clearly not happened yet, has it.” He paused, his tone turning from irritation to something else. “Why the change of heart? You were hemming and hawing like a damn fool not six hours ago. Now you’re calling me up in the middle of the night.”
“You caught me off-guard at the restaurant,” he said somewhat truthfully, because he genuinely had been surprised. “After I got home and had some time to think about it, I realized I just… didn’t want to miss the opportunity.” Mark said, staring out the windshield at the alley’s shadows. “So yeah, if that offers open, I want in. The sooner the better.”
“Alright, alright,” Francis muttered. “Christ, you’re really gung-ho about this now. I’ll send the details in the morning - travel permit, contact info, all that crap. Should be able to get you on an outbound ship in a day or two.” The man paused. “You better be sure you want this though. And you better not flake on me. I don’t care if a sudden fight with your girl brought this on, I arrange this for you, you better fuckin’ follow through.”
“I will,” Mark said, and he meant it, mostly because he didn’t have a choice. “ Thanks, Francis.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep brat, you sound like hell.” The line clicked dead.
Mark dropped the phone into his lap, leaning back against the headrest. His heart still raced, adrenaline buzzing under his skin, but for the first time all night, the ache in his chest felt… lighter. Not gone - just different.
He knew that was because he was running, from the Shil and from Lila both. And while he doubted that was a healthy response to one of those items, for the moment, he didn’t much care.
“Six months off-world, at least to start, cooking for some mecha gladiator hotshot,” he muttered. “I can do that.”
He didn’t even know what a mecha gladiator was… but he found that timeframe, that idea, made it all seem… achievable.
Six months rather than the rest of his life.
He turned the key, the engine sputtering to life, and pulled out of the alley, the city’s lights swallowing him up as he drove into the night.
Of course, all of that would mean nothing if his name came up on some list and he got scooped up at the next checkpoint, but for some absurd reason, and against all evidence, he was feeling lucky.
If nothing else, he’d finally get to see the universe.
Comments
missionz3r0
I'm late to the party, but I'm glad to see this storyline. And, I'm eager to see what Mark gets up to in it
Rob
Now THIs is the good stuff! Very refreshing to see this. Even if it is more slice of life, I would be very happy to have more world building, understanding the politics and how earth fits in the grand scheme of things. Great start!
Gregory Sampson
Still disappointed our old protag is gone, but I'm interested to see where this goes.
Trevayne
I asked this a few days ago. The answer was that they are posted as they are written for now, with a formal schedule to be decided.
Bunten44
Do we get uploads as usual on Friday, or does the upload day move to Tuesday?
