Calypso (Part One)

Bad Wolf Alert

Report to HQ for immediate briefing

Rosiak jerked out of uneasy sleep. Seeing the alert on her scanner, she cursed and scrambled out of her cot. She hurriedly threw on a flight jacket over her tank top and slipped into her shorts. Her blaster tapped against her side as she ran down the metal corridors, ignoring the cries of the deck droids she passed.

Admiral Mathieu was waiting for her, his blocklike face pinched with worry. Seeing Rosiak, he nodded sharply. "Lieutenant." Rosiak clipped her heels together and saluted.

"Admiral." Mathieu pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a metal lighter. Purple smoke wafted up to the ceiling, smelling like fear and ashes. Rosiak knew better than to comment on the antiqued version of stress-relief, and instead waited quietly.

A moment later and a man with tousled hair and a flight jacket that matched Rosiak's burst in, half running, half stumbling. The Admiral's scowl deepened as the man gave him an awkward salute.

"Sir."

"Michaelson." The Admiral sat down behind his work station and puffed on his cigar. After a moment, he spoke.

"I apologize for the late night interruption, but this being a Bad Wolf, I had no other choice." More smoke curled  to the ceiling. "As you know, a BWA means one thing; an enemy has arisen that is a serious threat to the Empire's safety and is highly sensitive to any counter movements.”  Which was a very nice way of saying ‘we’ve been betrayed. “You have been specifically chosen for the task of rooting out the enemy and neutralizing him before the threats become all too real. Any information given to you here on out is of the utmost secrecy and for your ears only. Is that understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" was the immediate response.

"Here are two data packs containing all of the information required to complete your mission," Mathieu said sliding two closed packets across to them. While Rosiak and Michaelson slit them open, Mathieu lit another cigar to replace the first.

The packets contained three flashcards. The first was of a group of men and women, wearing black cloaks with red masks tied around their eyes. At the center was a man holding a cane. His hood alone was down, revealing stark blond hair and hard blue eyes. The second flashcard was of a planet - Mandos IV, Rosiak recalled. The surface was a murky brown, full of swirling masses that hid the land masses below. The final was a mugshot of a man with ruffled brown hair and flashing green eyes. He was smirking at the camera, as if they had just shared a joke.

“A secret anarchist group known as Dux Electus has arisen on Mandos IV. They have been attacking planets and trade routes as far in as New Delhi, and have killed over ten thousand people to date." Rosiak let out a slight breath despite herself. How could a group of fifteen men and women kill ten thousand people?

"That's impossible," said Michaelson, voicing Rosiak's thoughts. "Any weapon capable of that kind of damage would instantly be traced back to its source, and-" here Michaelson shared a look with Rosiak, "we would have known about them. But I have neither heard of this Dux Electus until today."

"Nor have I," added Rosiak.

"That's because Dux Electus has developed a bioelectrical weapon. It is designed to kill its targets quickly and quietly, as simply as if they had just shut off. It is used in the form of a bomb, and kills up to 200 people at the same time. We first became aware of the group when we caught one of their agents on the United Arabs Alliance in the Fola system. The agent was resilient to all means of persuasion, save one. The Probe."

Both Rosiak and Michaelson shivered at this. The Probe was a monstrous device derived from the genre of science fiction horror that violated a human's last sanctuary; his mind. It had proven to be so controversial that all use of it was banned except for in the cases of the highest forms of treason and threatening actions. A board consisting of three representatives from every planet of the United Galactic Confederacy had to approve it unanimously. It was the last resort and the worst fear.

"The Probe revealed a mind bordering that of an animal - albeit one so cunning and ruthless that there is little that could stump it. The members of the group have only one weakness; they all seem to depend on their leader, who is only known as Prime. We have learned of a planned attack on Pamedial Delta, where the ambassadors of thirty Confederate and Imperial worlds will be holding a celebratory ball for the coronation of Queen Camilla. You will go to the ball disguised as Imperial ambassadors and stop the anarchists before it is too late."

Mathieu sighed suddenly and ground out his now pitiful stump of a cigar. "There is a slight complication, I'm afraid. The government has officially signed a peace treaty saying that it will not partake in any operations on Pamedial Delta outside of the Confederacy's knowledge. Normally, that would not be an issue, but since we would rather avoid any outside knowledge of your actions, you will have to work officieusement." Which meant, in simpler terms, that Rosiak and Michaelson would be on their own. No weapons, no tech, no backup. Nothing.

"Sir, with all due respect, I doubt a mission like this will be successful without government backing-"

Mathieu held up a forefinger.

"Let me finish, sergeant. We have found you one asset. A criminal mastermind known as Dexter has agreed to help us and will be your contacts once you reach Pemedial's sister planet, Minerva. Once you reach Minerva, you will no longer be under our protection." Mathieu’s eyes glinted. “So for God’s sake, be careful and good luck.”

Recognizing this as their dismissal, Rosiak and Michaelson stood. They pressed a button on the flash cards and headed out the door. The door slid shut just as the cards vanished in a flare of fire and smoke, incinerated in a matter of seconds.

Dexter shuffled the deck of cards and glanced nonchalantly up at the man in front of him. “Can I help you, Altan?” The big man held out his hand. He had scars crisscrossing his body and was easily taller than a horse. The scowl on his face did nothing to help his looks, making him seem like a child’s clay mold.

“Laudo wants his payment, Dexter. You’ve put him off long enough.” Dexter set the cards down and leaned back, placing his feet up on the table.

“I told you, Altan, that was a favor not a payment deal. I only broke that spinster because I was saving your employer’s sorry ass.” Altan snatched a fistfull of Dexter’s black T-shirt and shoved him up against the sandcrete above his booth.

“I could break you as if you were a twig, kátharma, so I suggest you hold your pointed tongue and give me the credits.”

Dexter sighed and reached into his pocket. Before Atlan could stop him, Dexter kicked his arm just under the elbow hard enough for there to be a large a snapping sound. Atlan grunted with pain and dropped Dexter onto the booth, who swiftly used the palm of his to snap Atlan’s head back then delivered another devastating kick to his ribs so that the giant fell backwards onto the table. Dexter straightened his shirt and picked up his jacket from a nearby hook. He stepped over the groaning Atlan and out onto the busy street.

Minerva was a luxury planet designed to lavish the wealthy and heavily tax the poor. There were casinos on every block, hotels every two, and any number of restaurants and bars in between. Right now, Dexter was in the area known as the Thieve’s District, which was run by three or four rival gangs. It was in the lowest of the low sections of the planet, and any law enforcement, whether it be police man or tax collector, was instantly killed. If he wanted to meet his next clients, however, Dexter would have to travel up to the more user-friendly Jupiter District at the very top of the planet.

Making sure that no one was in sight, Dexter zipped up his jacket and slipped on a Artilion helmet, which was styled after an old Earth motorcycle helmet. Dexter climbed up onto the roof of the bar he had just exited and crouched down. On the count of three, he took off running to the edge of the building. He jumped, and his rocket boosters kicked in, pushing him into the sky. Underneath his helmet, Dexter allowed himself a grin. He was living humanity’s oldest dream; to fly.

Dexter landed on one of the balconies that served as a walkway outside a plush casino-hotel. The gold and teal sign read Calypso -yet another marketing idea inspired by the planet's Old Earth name. A line of fancily dressed partygoers waited out front, a mix of humans, Cardonians, Martilisans, and other alien species. Dexter pressed a button on the side of his helmet and it receded back into an earpiece, a gag inspired by one of Dexter's favorite Old Earth holovids. Dexter activated his Chameleon Suit next, and his battered leather jacket and torn space pants faded into a more fitting suit and tie. He also added sunglasses, despite the fact that Minerva's red dwarf sun had long since sank behind the buildings. He walked up to the front of the line, shamelessly butting past two Dar-Jous. One of the aliens, her pink fur flaring, tapped Dexter on the shoulder and made an obscene gesture at him towards the back of the line. Dexter raised up his hands in the Dar-Joun meaning Sorry.

"Sorry, minista, but I'm not here for the Armenian cocktails." A rougher hand spun Dexter around and he found himself looking up into the face of a very large - and very angry - Martilisan usher. The usher crossed his five of his arms and held up the sixth one.

"ID," he said in very guttural Universal. Dexter placed a white card in the usher's massive hand and waited calmly as he looked it over. The usher's one eye widened slightly, and he bowed low to the ground.

"My apologizes, ambassador, please, go on inside." Dexter nodded and took the card back from the usher. He walked away, ignoring the strange looks he was getting from the others. He sat down at a booth, kicked his feet up on the table, and waited for his client.