Chapter 8: Open-Handed

Moralez and the two agents made their way downspin, heading in the direction of the residential quarter, where the ambassadors were housed. The interview with the Broker hadn’t been too productive, but it had given him reason enough to doubt that they had been involved. There was no motive that Moralez could pin on them for sabotaging the meeting, at least none that wasn’t so secretive and convoluted as to be absurd. Perhaps it would be a good idea to pick up the end of that thread again if their subsequent investigations produced no results. As a great detective once said; if you eliminate the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

“Are you sure you want to skip over the Krell and the Araxie?” Boyd asked as he walked beside him, the artificial breeze rustling the leaves of the trees as they passed by a row of planters. “I agree that the Valbarans can’t have had the time or the contacts to organize something like this, but why not the others?”

“The Araxie have no motive,” Moralez replied. “They haven’t even been members of the Coalition for a year, and their troops have never served against the Betelgeusians.”

“I concur with the Chief,” Lorza added. “The Araxie do not have much political power on Borealis, they have been cozying up to the Elysians for protection from the Rask, and Ambassador Elysiedde made a good case for his defense.”

“I suppose you guys know all about what’s going on with the factions on Borealis?” Moralez asked.

“Da, it is our job to know,” the Polar replied.

“We have a listening station at the planet’s pole,” Boyd added with a conspiratorial grin. “A little favor granted to us by the Polars who used to inhabit the region. It trawls the planet’s comms and sends anything juicy to UNNI.”

“Isn’t that classified or something?” Moralez asked skeptically. “Why would you tell me about that, but refuse to spill any beans on the Brokers?”

“It’s a well-known secret,” Boyd replied with a shrug, “not exactly airtight. If the allied factions know about it, then they don’t pay it much mind. I suppose they figure that if the UNN operates their comms satellites, then we’ll have access to all of their data regardless.”

“The situation on Borealis is volatile,” Lorza continued. “Both the Rask and Elysian territories seek to expand their influence. Elysia through alliances and somewhat aggressive diplomacy, Rask through military conquest. We Polars elected to leave the planet entirely, and our population now resides in Siberia on Earth. The Araxie sought to remain hidden in their dense jungle, as they have for centuries, but Rask incursions forced them to come out of hiding and seek assistance from the Coalition.”

“Incursions?” Moralez asked, “wouldn’t any hostile actions against their neighbors violate their agreements with the UNN?”

“They would,” she replied, “the matter is being investigated. If it is found that the Rask violated the treaty that they signed, then there will be severe consequences. Probably not expulsion from the organization, but certainly sanctions of some form.”

“I get what you’re saying,” Moralez continued, pausing to let a column of marching Marines pass them by. “If the Araxie were going to be assassinating anyone, it would be the Rask. As for the Krell, we all know that they wouldn’t even swat a fly if they could avoid it.”

“What if the Krell think that they’re avoiding future deaths by preventing the Bugs from joining the Coalition?” Boyd suggested, “protective instincts and all that?”

“I can’t imagine that being the case,” Moralez replied with a shake of his head. “Not with all their talk of families and circles. They seemed quite happy to have another member species back at the meeting, they voted in favor.”

“Besides, how would they organize a scheme like this?” Boyd chuckled. “They’re not exactly renowned for their communication skills. ‘Shoot big fire stick at shiny bug, me pay you with wood charm on rope!’”

Lorza began to lick her palm, Boyd dodging out of range and covering his head with his hands protectively.

“Don’t you dare, you oversized housecat!”

“Do not belittle other species, malish.”

“Will you two can it?” Moralez complained, “we’re supposed to be doing a job here.”

The two agents fell into line, sharing angry glances as the trio continued on their way. As they reached the end of the military quarter, near the recreation center, Moralez noticed a group of people who stood out in the crowd. It was only thanks to the subtle curvature of the torus that he could see over the heads of the throngs in front of him, able to pick out black armor in unusual configurations, and the polymer housings of their prosthetic limbs. They were SWAR, no doubt about it. These must be some of the men that Murphy had brought with him to the station at the behest of Admiral Vos.

There were three of them, Moralez watching them step off the street and head for the recreation center’s door. Of course, where else would military men go to relax on the station?

Lorza had noticed them too, her senses were many times more sensitive than his own, and she spared him a concerned look.

“I know what you are thinking, Security Chief,” she said ominously. “But these men are not to be trifled with.”

“What’s that?” Boyd asked. “Did you see someone?”

“It’s about lunchtime,” Moralez said, keeping his gaze fixed on the men as they entered the bar. “Why don’t you two go get something to eat, and we’ll meet up again in an hour or so?”

“I would advise against that, Security Chief,” Lorza replied. “As we say in Russia, do not poke the bear...”

“Besides,” Boyd added, “Vos told us to keep tabs on you.”

“The Admiral wanted you to report my activities to him, am I right? Well, if I’m talking to the SWAR guys, they’ll do your job for you. Or do you think that they won’t report everything that I say to them straight to Murphy?”

“He does have a point,” Lorza said, glancing down at Boyd.

“And I suppose it’s entirely coincidental that you’re agreeing with him when food is involved?” Boyd complained. “You don’t need any more food, you’re so wide that you can barely fit through most of the doors on the station. You ate four full English breakfasts this morning. Four!”

“I need the calories, malish,” she shot back. “I am a very appropriate weight for my species. If you will make fun of my size, then I shall make fun of yours, little bean sprout. If your height were proportionate to your ego, you would be banging your head on the roof of the torus.”

“Oh, very clever. Well you’re so fat that ... hey, where’s the Chief?”

The two of them paused their arguing to look around, but Moralez had already vanished into the crowd.

The familiar smell of cigarette smoke rose to Moralez’s nose as he stepped through the automatic door to the recreation center, the ceiling fans creating swirling vortexes in the haze as they spun lazily. It was midday, and so there weren’t many people at the bar, leaving most of the booths and tables vacant. Even so, the low murmur of conversations blended together, creating a background noise that kept things from becoming too quiet.

The three special forces soldiers were easy enough to pick out. They were huddled around a circular table, drinks clutched in their prosthetic hands and e-cigarettes between their lips. This was one of few places on the station where smoking was permitted, so it was no surprise that there was always a cloud of smog no matter the time of day.

He decided to pretend that he hadn’t noticed them yet, sauntering up to the bar and ordering a drink. The bartender recognized him, but if he thought that seeing the Chief there in the middle of the day was at all strange, he didn’t mention it. Moralez sipped at his glass of brandy for a few minutes, then turned to get a look at the trio of soldiers. They were still at their seats, huddled together conspiratorially.

Moralez hopped down from his bar stool and made his way over to them, their heads turning in his direction as they heard the telltale tap of his prosthetic foot on the wood floor. They didn’t greet him as he approached them, even as he pulled up a nearby chair and joined them at their table. They were much like Murphy in their dress and appearance, wearing plate carriers that were adorned with all manner of pouches and accessories, though these men had foregone their helmets while off-duty.

All three were quadruple amputees, making no effort to hide their prosthetics from view. One of them had rolled up the sleeves of his battle dress, another was wearing a Navy shirt beneath his rig, and the third had no sleeves at all.

Their limbs were not models that Moralez was familiar with, each one was different, customized in some way. One had layers of supplemental ceramic armor built into his arms, blending perfectly with the plating of his BDU, the knuckles of his prosthetic hands sporting studs that seemed designed to make his punches more lethal. An after-market mod, no doubt. No doctor would have consented to manufacturing such a thing. Another had subtle, dark grey patterns that had been etched into his housing, visible only when they caught the light at the right angle. They were like tattoos, hard to make out. The third seemed to have wrapped his prosthetics in a tight covering of Kevlar that was creased at the joints, giving the appearance of fabric.

Their legs were much the same. Two of them had skids for feet, and the third was wearing boots, which suggested that he had opted for more realistic replicas. There were pouches and holsters strapped directly to the housing in many places, all of them wearing shorts of varying lengths, the one with the boots securing the hem tightly around his knee joints to leave only his shins exposed.

What surprised Moralez about them were their faces. Only one of them had any scars, an ugly plasma burn that ran from his cheek to his neck, while the others were as fresh-faced as cadets. After what he had been through to lose three limbs, Moralez looked like a walking piece of hamburger meat. He couldn’t imagine what kind of trauma would cost these men their limbs without leaving other marks. Perhaps they too were covered in scars beneath their clothing, but it seemed unlikely.

As the three of them watched silently, Moralez drew his e-cigar from the breast pocket of his uniform, popping it into his mouth. It could be lit using a heating element, but he wanted to show off, drawing his XMH from the holster on his hip. He ejected the magazine, then turned on the battery, pulling the trigger a few times to send an electric current through the copper-colored coils. They began to warm rapidly, and when they began to glow red, he touched one of the coils against the tip of the cigar. It lit with a flicker of flame, and he took a draw, exhaling a plume of smoke as he returned his weapon to its place.

The three men remained silent, confident, but curious about the intruder.

“I saw you from the bar, and thought that I might introduce myself,” Moralez said. “I’m Security Chief Moralez, but most people just call me the Chief.”

“We know who you are,” the one with the scar replied, taking a drink from a glass of amber-colored liquid. His skin was dark, and he had an odd accent, African Union perhaps.

“I assume that your Lieutenant Commander has told you all about me,” Moralez replied. “You’re SWAR, aren’t you? You rode in with him on the modified Courser.”

“That’s right,” the man replied, eyeing him warily. “Her name is the Black Arrow.”

“Oh, very mysterious,” Moralez replied as he took another puff of his cigar. “You know, I’ve been in the Marines since before the beginning of the war, and I’ve never heard of a Special Warfare and Advanced Recon group until now.”

“We’re relatively new,” the stranger replied, staying tight-lipped. “It’s experimental stuff.”

“I’ll say,” the Chief replied, gesturing to the man’s hand with his lit cigar. “I’ve never seen any prosthetics like that before. I’ve known a few guys who lost a limb or two and decided to customize their gear a little, but these are something else. Are they custom jobs?”

The three men exchanged glances, the scarred one speaking for them.

“What of it?”

“We have something in common if you hadn’t noticed,” Moralez said as he twirled his cigar in his polymer fingers. “Think of it like ... stopping to admire a custom car at a gas station.”

These men were certainly proud of their prosthetics, judging by the work that had been done on them, and the way that they displayed them. It was probably the best way to get them talking. Most amputees took measures to appear as normal as possible, covering their arms with sleeves, and their hands with gloves. They wore long pants and boots, they didn’t want to be defined by their injuries. Moralez was a little different in that regard, he wouldn’t look normal again without a lot of plastic surgery that he wasn’t vain enough to care about, and so covering up his gear was somewhat pointless.

“I have to say,” Moralez continued, “it’s unusual to see someone return to active duty after sustaining such severe injuries. I didn’t,” he added with a shrug, “I took a cushy security position on the station instead. Could have retired, but I think I’d get bored living a civilian life. I don’t have to worry about getting too old to do my job, it’s not like I’ll be getting arthritis, right?”

That got a chuckle from one of the men. Good, he was getting through to them.

“I lost mine on Kruger III,” he continued, taking a drink from his glass as the men listened. “It was early in the campaign, and the roaches had occupied the third planet in the system. They had dug in deep, and so had we, they’d launch assaults on our trenches from their tunnels every few hours. They’d come rolling over those blasted mudflats, popping out of the mist to tangle with us, then disappearing back into their holes. I was tasked with leading a team into the tunnel network to root them out, and things went south pretty quickly. We engaged Betelgeusian Warriors in close quarters, even the Mad Cats didn’t stand a chance, they got torn to pieces. Bayonets, railguns, explosives. Nothing can scratch those things. Someone set off a grenade belt during the chaos, which caused a cave-in, and I got trapped on the wrong side of it. Me and another survivor managed to make it back to the surface, but we were engaged by another Warrior.”

He stuck his leg out from beneath the table so that they could get a look at it, giving it an affectionate tap.

“Lost this one to a Penguin gunship’s ground support cannon, fucker hit me as well as the Bug that it was aiming for while covering our evac. I went down, dropped the grenade that I had been holding, found it minus a pin when I came to a few seconds later. I tried to sift through the mud, but there was no chance of replacing it, and the grenade went off in my hands. Thank God for my chest plate and my helmet, they were the only things that kept me alive. When I woke up again, I was here, on the station. Took weeks of physical therapy to get me back on my feet, but I made it through. How about you guys?” he asked, glancing at each one of them in turn. “What are your stories?”

“That’s classified,” the African replied, swirling the ice cubes in his glass.

“Somehow, I doubt that you were all injured after joining SWAR,” Moralez said as he narrowed his eyes at the man. “Murphy was a quad, you’re all quads. Seems to me like they only recruit quadruple amputees, am I right? Maybe that’s why I wasn’t invited to the party, I’m one card short of a deck.”

They didn’t reply, and Moralez decided to try pressing them a little harder.

“Nobody goes straight into the special forces, you were probably Marines first, right? That’s another thing we have in common. Any injuries that you sustained while serving in the Corps won’t be classified. Will you at least tell me what carriers you served on, what campaigns you fought in? Marine to Marine, amputee to amputee...”

There was a certain sense of fraternity in the Corps, even more so between amputees. Moralez had never encountered a Marine, former or otherwise, who had no war stories to share with his brothers. It came off more than a little rude, but he was increasingly suspicious that all was not as it seemed.

“I served on the UNN Samar,” one of them finally said. This man had a light complexion and an American accent. His hair was shaved, as was common for people who frequently donned helmets. His prosthetic arms were wrapped in Kevlar, which ended at the wrists, leaving his skeletal hands exposed. They were more spartan than Moralez’s, their silver, metal joints gleaming between the black housing that filled out his fingers. “Did three tours, one long-range patrol and two combat missions. The Samar was sent to Kruger to reinforce the Bastogne, I’ve seen Kruger III.”

“The Bastogne was my carrier,” Moralez replied with a smile, “you must have arrived shortly after I left. What did you think of Kruger III? Not exactly an ideal place to found a colony, is it?”

“I’ll say,” the man chuckled, “nothing but mud and dead trees as far as the eye can see. Anyone who tries to make a go of it there is crazier than we were for fighting over it.”

“Gotta uproot the Bugs either way,” one of his friends added, another Australian by the sound of him. They certainly recruited their members from a variety of places.

“Yeah, no doubt,” he replied. “But if it’s any consolation, Security Chief, we killed everything bigger than a mud worm on that planet. Never did find the Queen’s chamber in that maze of tunnels, but we cleared most of ‘em out, starved ‘em of resources. When the Drones stop coming to the surface, you know they’re done. No doubt some future colonist will explore the tunnels and find her emaciated corpse, serves the fuckers right.”

“I hear that,” Moralez replied. “So, did we both leave a few limbs down on the mudflats, or did that happen later?”

“Later,” the man replied, not seeing fit to elaborate further.

“It’s not all bad though, right?” Moralez continued. “There are some benefits to having gear. You can punch a guy and be sure that his jaw is going to break before your hand does, you can swap a melted XMR barrel and not feel a thing, recoil is a distant memory.”

The three soldiers nodded in agreement, they seemed to be warming up to him.

“Better than blood and bone,” the man with the African accent added. “I don’t miss my Mark Is.”

“Mark Is?” Moralez asked.

“Blood and bone,” he repeated, he must be talking about his original limbs.

“Sometimes I just want to hack off my last organic limb and slap a new one on there,” Moralez continued. “Feels a little lop-sided, you know?”

“That would violate the Yellow Sea treaty,” the Australian replied, giving his companions a sideways glance. “I doubt that you could find a doctor who would perform a procedure like that...”

“Indeed,” Moralez said, taking another drag from his cigar. “Some might say that the treaty is obsolete in these trying times. We reconsidered the ban on plasma weapons when the Bug war broke out, so why not take another look at the laws prohibiting augmentation?”

“The LC warned us about you, Moralez,” the African man began. He set his glass down and leaned his imposing prosthetics on the table, the angular layers of supplemental armor giving him an intimidating profile. “He said that you were too curious for your own good, that you would try to pry information out of us.”

“Come on, Ndiaye,” the American muttered. “This dude seems alright.”

He raised a prosthetic hand in response, glaring across the table at Moralez.

“I think we’ve been relaxing for long enough,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let’s get back to work.”

The trio left the table, the American glancing back at Moralez as they filed out of the recreation center on their prosthetic legs. The Chief watched them leave, taking one last puff of his cigar before extinguishing it in an ashtray.

“Wish we could get assignments like this more often,” Boyd muttered, glancing around as they made their way along the torus. This area of the station was more like a shopping mall than a military base, the walls lined with stores and restaurants, a cool breeze ruffling his hair. “It’s been a long time since I visited the Pinwheel, I feel like I’m on vacation.”

“It makes a nice change from what we’re used to,” Lorza replied, a hapless tourist dodging out of her way. “We usually have to go undercover on remote colonies that barely qualify as habitable, or cramped outposts on the edge of nowhere, pizdet. I’m all for trying new things, but rodents roasted over exhaust vents are not one of them.”

“I told you not buy anything from the street vendors on Callisto,” Boyd replied. “You think the Chief is gonna be okay?” he asked, changing the subject. “I’m starting to feel like we shouldn’t have let him slip through our fingers like that.”

“He is willful,” the Polar said with a shrug of her broad shoulders. “Perhaps he will discover something of value. He has more in common with the SWAR operatives than we do, after all. The presence of UNNI agents would likely only serve to seal their lips.”

“I just hope he’s barking up the right tree.”

“The most pressing issue is what we are going to do with our free hour,” Lorza added, grinning down at him.

“Besides eat?” Boyd asked skeptically. “Come on, even I can smell the food from the restaurants, and I know better than to stand between you and a meal.”

“How many times must I tell you that I eat an appropriate amount for my species?” she protested. “A human might be able to subsist on two thousand calories a day, but my people need five times that at least if we are to maintain a healthy weight.”

“You could stand to lose a few pounds is all I’m saying,” he added, looking her up and down pointedly. Lorza began to lick her hand, and he scurried out of her reach.

“Come now, malish, how long has it been since we have had time to relax? Not since our journey to Jarilo to collect the asset, no?”

“I’d hardly call being cooped up in that Courser’s tiny quarters relaxing,” he grumbled.

“It is true that relaxation was perhaps not at the forefront of our minds,” she added with a sly smirk. “We always find ourselves sharing confined spaces, do we not?”

“To be fair, most spaces become confined when you enter them,” he replied. Lorza resisted the urge to chase him, narrowing her blue eyes at him.

“Oh!” she gasped, pointing across the torus. Boyd followed her clawed finger, seeing that she was gesturing to a nearby store. Like all of the buildings on the torus, it had been sculpted from the station’s white hull material, the facade scored to resemble brickwork. It had a colorful awning, and the windows that overlooked the street were packed with mannequins that were modeling clothes. It looked like some kind of department store.

Lorza took him roughly by the hand, steering him through a startled crowd of pedestrians, then through a large door that seemed designed to accommodate aliens. They emerged into a room that was packed with aisles full of clothing. It reminded Boyd of a store that one might find on Earth or one of the more developed colonies, albeit smaller, as the station had a very limited living area. Many of the furnishings inside were scaled up to Borealan proportions, despite the limited floor space, making everything feel stretched. The mirrors on the walls, the height of the shelves, it was all proportioned for someone of around eight feet.

“What the hell are we doing in here?” he asked, Lorza finally releasing her hold on him.

“Malish, do you know how hard it is for me to find clothes that fit?” she asked, her eyes scanning the shelves in awe. She looked like a kid in a candy store, pausing to run her padded fingers over a nearby loom of fabric. There was a fat joke in there somewhere, but Boyd held his tongue.

“What is this, a store for aliens?” he asked as he began to look around. There were clothes in Borealan sizes and styles, from the flowing, gossamer fabric favored by the Elysians to the leather jackets of the Rask. One wall was completely covered in hanging ponchos of the variety worn by the Krell, while another was stacked with underwear in Borealan sizes. There were bras that looked like they could have been used as playground swings, and even revealing, lacy lingerie that would fit the felines. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised. There was a demand for supersized clothing on the station, as it had a large population of aliens, so it was only natural that someone would eventually fill that niche. Still, the concept of a Polar wearing a frilly brassiere was a new one...

Lorza saw what had caught his attention, giving him a nudge with her furry elbow.

“See something that you like, malish?”

“No, I was just imagining using a pair of those panties to parasail.”

“Uhuh,” the Polar replied skeptically. “Come, help me choose some clothes.”

“We’re going shopping?” he asked incredulously. “Really? We’re here on an assignment, what are you going to do, carry the bags around with you while we investigate the assassination?”

“I’m sure that I can have them delivered to our suite,” she replied, her eyes focused on a large woolen sweater that was hanging from a nearby rack. “If you think that I will pass up this opportunity, you are even more boneheaded than I gave you credit for. Who knows when we will be posted on a station or a colony with such accommodations again?”

“Alright,” Boyd sighed, trailing after her as she began to peruse the shelves.

“What about this?” she asked, holding up a gown in the Elysian style. It was made from flowing, translucent fabric in a shade of lime green, so light that it almost floated on the air.

“Isn’t that for hot weather?” Boyd asked.

“This ‘is’ hot weather, kotenok,” she replied. “Humans always set the thermostat too high.”

“I dunno, it’s kind of a revealing getup for a spy,” he muttered as she sized it up.

“You of all people should be able to appreciate the value of seduction and distraction,” she purred, smiling as she watched his cheeks redden beneath his visor. “Come, help me try it on.”

She took him by the hand again, guiding him along one of the aisles towards a row of changing rooms at the back of the store. The cashier watched them pass, Boyd giving her an awkward smile as the Polar manhandled him into one of the booths. She slipped in after him and locked the door, her bulk occupying most of the space, forcing him up against the far wall.

Calling her voluptuous would be an understatement. Her hips were almost as wide as three men standing shoulder to shoulder, giving her an hourglass figure despite her girth. The subtle paunch of her belly was visible where it protruded from beneath her tight-fitting, grey jumpsuit, but he knew from experience that it concealed the core strength of a powerlifter. It was so tight that he could even make out the creases that were formed by the fat on her waist through the fabric. Her thighs were as thick around as his torso, as stout as a pair of tree trunks, the layer of cushiony blubber belying the muscle that was required to move her mammoth body around in the high gravity of her home planet. Her butt was large enough that if he were to wrap his arms around it, they would stand no chance of meeting on the other side. The clinging garment that she wore visibly strained to encompass her chest, each of her breasts so voluminous that it could have filled an average-sized shuttle seat. The fat that he so often teased her about was distributed to all of the right places, giving her the appearance of a fertility Goddess, her every movement sending a ripple through it.

“Now help me out of my suit,” she insisted, turning to face him and almost clocking him in the head with her swinging bosom.

“You really want to do this here?” he whispered. Boyd knew her well enough to recognize one of her ploys, he was intimately familiar with her Polar wiles. It was unprofessional, to the say the least. They worked well together, and he still couldn’t be sure if that was because of their ongoing relationship, or in spite of it. His superiors had to be aware of their entanglement, he worked for an intelligence organization, after all. But if they saw any conflict of interest, then they hadn’t expressed any concerns to either of them. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by Lorza, not exactly, but she had this uncanny way of melting through his cool persona. She was one of the only people in the Galaxy who could make him flustered, throw him off-kilter, and she reveled in the power that she had over him. Nobody knew him quite as well as she did, he had never allowed anyone to get so close to him before her, and her charms were both a source of discomfort and admiration to him.

“Come on,” she cooed, reaching up and dragging her zipper down just enough that the weight of her ample chest began to part the garment. It spread open, threatening the burst at the seams, exposing her snowy fur and a hint of her deep cleavage. “If we take longer than fifteen minutes, the cashier may become suspicious.”