An Attack on the Hadrian-Astro Peace Talks

As ASF Chief Marietta Martelli steps out from the ASFS Scudo della Divisa onto the dock, she can’t help but wonder why they are here. The Freeport Station, Portus Valentium. Not that she has any problem with Portus Valentium in particular. No, rather, the concept of using Freeports for these talks in general. Because Freeports might be more secure, and more easily managed, than any other meeting site, but Freeport residents have their own agendas. The bosses tend to forget that.

Junior Vice President of Intercorporate Relations Adone Sanna follows her out of the ship, keeping in stride. “You’re in thought, Marietta. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing important. Not yet, in any case. And, Mister Sanna, shouldn’t you be a tad more professional?” Marietta presses.

Adone lets out a chuckle. “Most meetings, certainly. But not with Hadrian. They don’t really do the whole professional thing.”

“Good to know, Mister Sanna,” the security chief says, absentmindedly. They’re walking through the dock to the convention center. Something is off. She can’t quite put her finger on it. Like a tension in the air.

“Remember, keep an eye out,” Adone begins to try to explain her job to Marietta.

She cuts him off. “You focus on figuring out exactly how we can get back the mining rights on the disputed systems, and let me do my job,” she counters.

He shakes his head. “I get it. I think I’m just nervous.”

Marietta sighs. “I understand. But I don’t think we have much to worry about from the Hadrian Delegation. They seem to have brought only a light craft. I doubt they’re planning on attacking the Port with what could only be a squad of five or six and a pilot. But I’ll keep an eye out.” They make it to the convention center’s entry hall. That’s it, she realizes, as they talk about troops. The dockworkers were all wrong. Built and dressed more practically for chasing someone down than for refuel-and-refits. Lux involvement, perhaps? Would make some sense. Beyond our on-again, off-again war with Hadrian, there has been some tension on the Luxanian front of late. With their focus Serviceward, she had assumed they would not interfere, but if that’s changed of late, well…

As the pair get in the elevator, Miss Martelli leans in and whispers, in case they are in the security feeds for the center, “Any news I might have missed on the Lux-Service front?”

“Rumor has it they had a meeting, little less than a month ago,” Mister Sanna whispers back, “But that might not be more than whispers, because their buildups haven’t slowed.”

Concerning. If it is more than a rumor, then that buildup might be for a different enemy. And we have the distinction of being the most likely target for the Service. “And how sure are you that Profeta’s deal with the service is going to hold?” I ask.

Adone sighs. “As much as I wish for my career’s sake that it falls apart, the Provosts of the Service really do respect her. I doubt they’d break it without ample compensation. Why?”

“Dockworkers weren’t dressed right. Looked more merc than spy. Means Lux is here.”

“Or, hear me out,” Adone counters logically, “Portus Valentium, whom we are contracting to provide protection, is paying someone to provide protection.” He’s right, but it doesn’t feel that way. They didn’t seem to be the protecting type.

The elevator doors open onto the conference floor, and the pair from Astro Incorporato walk past some Freeport guards, to the room. These are dressed like she’d expect from Freeport hirees. Little baggy for her liking, though she suspects that’s to conceal precisely where and how they’re armed. So as to make her job harder, assuming her job was to fuck up the meeting and kill them all. The Hadrian representatives were, as expected, slightly late. Adone had warned her. They’d claim shipboard issues caused the delays, but it is really merely a negotiating tactic. Making themselves feel rushed and vulnerable. Adone sits at the table and looks over at Marietta. She shakes her head and looks out the window. The view of the Port is spectacular. Portus Valentium is built on the inside of a sphere. Specifically designed so that, if she were standing on the roof of the building, she could see the whole of the city. Even this view from the conference center window is spectacular, building after building up the wall and out of sight.

After a few minutes, The elevators open once more. Out walks another pair of people. Both impeccably dressed, especially for what she’d heard about Hadrian’s whole vibe. A tall, older gentleman, probably mid-to-late sixties. The other, an almost equally tall, young woman, couldn’t have been older than her late thirties. If she hadn’t done her personnel research, she might assume that the young woman was working security for the old man. Fortunately, she does her research and doesn’t need to risk that.

The woman speaks first. “We’re sorry we’ve run so late, there was a slight issue with our sheathe, so when we turned in deep space, we had to do a full reset.”

“It was no problem,” Adone replies, “Thank you for making the trip in spite of your difficulties. I’m Astro Incorporato’s Junior Vice President of Intercorporate Relations Adone Sanna, this is my assigned Security Forces Ground Officer, Chief Marietta Martelli. Please, join us.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Sanna,” The woman replies politely, “I’m Hadrian Systems External Affairs Project Manager Eliza Clark. My protection officer is the inimitable Internal Security Managing Assessor Alistair Bellamy.”

“Please, call me Adone,” Adone says with a pleasant, almost friendly smile.

Manager Clark nods and smiles right back. “Certainly, Adone. And feel free to call me Eliza.”

The pair of diplomats begin their friendly threats. It’s always fascinating to watch that dance. Evidently, Mister Bellemy does not see that as the case. “You seem on edge, dear Marietta,” he begins as he walks over beside me, “Is this your first time assigned to this sort of detail?”

She can be polite, pleasant even, when she wants to be. But that isn’t her job here. “It’s Chief Martelli,” she informs the older gentleman, “And no.”

“Sorry, you just seem quite focused on the conversation. Like you’re watching the odd mating rituals of diplomats for the first time.”

The Security Forces Ground Chief looks up at the Managing Assessor. “Nothing so banal,” she explains, “The first time I was assigned as security to one of our intercorporate liaisons, the person she was meeting was an assassin. So I’ve learned to take a heightened interest in body language.” The body of Eliza Clark is saying a lot, but mostly either inappropriate things or things that diplomatic body language normally intimates.

“You shouldn’t worry so much. Eliza’s legit. Probably the best diplomat Hadrian has. And I am the longest tenured Assessor of our Internal Security Department. If anyone should be worried, it’s me. After all, this meeting is supposedly vital for both our companies, and yet you send your Junior Vice President.”

Marietta shakes her head. He’s honest, Eliza does seem to be an actual diplomat. Doesn’t mean there aren’t threats to assess. “Trust me, Assessor Bellamy,” she adds, “Mister Sanna is much better company to keep than Miss Profeta.” The guards in the halls seem to be moving. The Ground Chief feels that she should keep eyes on them. She begins to pace slowly, like a hunting beast on the prowl, keeping a careful watch on the Freeporters. They are acting suspect. Like they’re waiting for something. Alistair Bellamy even follows her gaze and looks at them curiously. He sends some kind of message to someone. Marietta gets on her subvocals. “Pilot, begin primary start sequence,” she says without speaking over the comms.

“Yes, Chief and Acting Captain. Is something the matter?”

“Not yet, but something seems off-”

Her statement is cut off. Her focus had been so squarely on the interior she missed the real threat. The window behind them, near where both she and Mister Bellamy had stood moments before, shattered. Barely a heartbeat later, the rocket that shattered it explodes. Throws all of them in different directions, and dazes the security chief.

Fire. Alastair Bellamy seemed to take the full brunt of the blast, though the diplomats both seem in rough condition. Burns all across the body and charred clothes for Miss Clark. Mister Sanna seemed to get peppered by the shrapnel of the exploding table. One piece seems to have hit an artery, and there is a spurting of blood regularly with his heartbeat. Marietta rushes over to him, to staunch the bleeding, firing at the onrush of Freeport guards. Only they aren’t armed like Freeporters. They seem to be Marauders in disguise. But to be so far entrenched. Something is off. Something to be worried about after they all escape. There were five guards. They are rushing in one at a time, to confirm kills. Makes it like fish in a barrel. Marietta wasn’t always a guard, after all. Holding pressure on the worst of the shrapnel wounds with one hand, she uses the other to draw her own pistol. “Calm your mind,” she says aloud, both to her dying boss and to herself. And she feels her heart rate slow. Five shots in quick succession later, the guards are down. Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel Adone’s heart slow. “Alistair, Eliza, either of you still alive?” she shouts.

In reply, all she gets is a shout of pain from the diplomat across the table. Okay, so Eliza is alive. Marietta rips her own shirt to wrap Adone’s neck wound. She looks around. Shrapnel marks heavy on the wall, embedded in what remains of the glass, inside Alistair. Something about their placement feels odd. “Can you move, Eliza?” she asks as she tries to get Adone to stand up.

“Probably,” Eliza replies, clearly in pain. Closer than Marietta expected. Looking over, she sees the tall woman has managed to crawl her way across the ground to Marietta’s side. The adrenaline finally wearing off, the Chief realizes her own leg is in pain. Looking down, she’s bleeding and heavily burned. Legs not going to be great, but will heal in time. If she’d been standing any closer to the blast, she might have had to lose it entirely. Dragging the now bandaged Adone Sanna, Marietta and Eliza make it out the door, into the windowless hallway. Eliza looks over at the Ground Chief, who is visibly doing math in her head. “How do we get out of here?” the Hadrian Systems Manager asks.

There hadn’t been a second rocket. No additional gunfire. The bomber had repositioned. No one was outside the window. They were all coming from the lobby. She looks behind them, into the broken conference room. The window was the best way out. But Adone wouldn’t make it.

Adone Sanna clearly notices the thoughts go through his friend’s face. He looks up at her. In a clearly pained voice, unable to vocalize it well because of the neck wounds and the makeshift bandage’s tightness, he forces out, “Go. Someone needs to live.” He pulls out Marietta’s rifle and, turning over to lie prone facing the elevator and stairwell, aims it.

Looking back on the room from here, Marietta realizes what had bugged her before. The explosion wasn’t just near where she and Mister Bellamy had been standing. It was where she and Mister Bellamy had been standing. And the shrapnel embedded in Mister Bellamy, its trajectory meant, had Alistair still been standing there, it would have been streaming into Miss Clark. They were all supposed to be dead. “The window is the safest way out,” she tells Eliza.

Eliza looks at her confused. “But that’s where the rocket came from,” she says.

“There wasn’t a second rocket, no other fire. There were hitters on the ground floor who are likely on their way up as we speak, means we can’t go down the stairs or elevator. Quickest way down is falling. Do you have a team on standby?”

“No, but my ship is fast and heavily shielded. You?”

“I normally don’t need one. I have my PI already starting my ship’s engines. I can get you to your ship, we head out into deep space, and then I can hop on over to my own ship out there. Sound alright to you, Project Manager?”

“Assuming you can hold up your end of the bargain and actually get me to my ship,” the Manager replies. Marietta walks with Eliza back to the window. Anchoring herself with an arresting line to the heavily scarred floor, the Ground Chief takes the diplomat into my arms and leaps out the window holding onto the taller woman. Eliza is surprised at first by the sudden jump and clings tight to the security personnel, though she does manage to stifle any screams. Quickly, their descent slows, then stops about a foot from the ground. Unhooking herself from the line, Marietta falls the remaining distance, still holding Eliza. It hurts her injured leg, but she powers through, putting the diplomat on the ground. “Now just to make it to the docks,” Chief Martelli says calmly. Exfils used to be one of her specialties, after all.