A mindless rock tune looped through Jinx's thoughts as she stepped into Dock 12's airlock. A distraction as necessary as air. Fatigue and nerves continued to screw with her recall. A disjointed movie threatened to run behind her eyes: old war documentary footage liberally sprinkled with scenes from horror movies and her recent dreams.
All of it was bloody.
It made her regret the alcohol she'd imbibed the night before, queasiness joining the throb in her skull. Letting Dem talk her into another shift had probably been a mistake. Sleep deprived and distracted, she wasn't in the best shape to handle a high-priority inspection. But that damn dream she'd woken from had left her edgy and needing to move.
Shrieking alarms, fire.
Remembered panic tightened her throat.
Shaking it off, she glanced back to the crowd milling outside the airlock. Maybe she should hand the job off to another CI. Or maybe not. Even with a head full of junk, she was still a better choice for this inspection than many of her colleagues. For a start, she wasn't armed and under the influence of an illegal substance, standard operating procedure in the 'mine pops' of StarSec Four. A human territory for two hundred years prior to the Coalition's formation and home to humanity's origin planet, Earth, the sector was still mainly populated by brainless apes.
Eyeing the battered plex of the airlock's sealed external door, she slumped a shoulder against one wall. Fatigue and unwanted recall were just the start of the issues she had with this assignment. Following standard protocols with a foreign military vessel was as good as pointless. The aliens weren't smugglers, drug runners, or even taxpayers.
And thanks to storm delays and malfunctioning satellite tech, a ship full of roaches would only be the start of the day's pain.
She pressed fingers to the ache between her eyes. She should have told Dem where to 'file' this job assignment first thing, maybe even her job in general.
Not a new idea.
Closing her eyes, she blocked another rush of disturbing images and thought of everywhere else she'd rather be. The itch to move on had been building for a while. Finding a new backworld hole to fall into seemed like a good idea. Tirus 7 had only ever been a stopping off point. There was nothing she couldn't walk away from—not her job, this inspection, her friends...
It would be better if she left now. The way things were going...
Bad dreams would soon be the least of her problems.
The clomping of boots behind her stopped that unsettling line of thought. Opening her eyes, she looked over her shoulder.
Her escorts, Olsen and Rolli, strode into the chamber, face shields down, rifles propped against their shoulders. A jab of an impatient finger—Olsen's—sealed the officers in with her. With a shrill beep, the airlock started its atmospheric analysis cycle.
Jinx focused on the ceiling, actively ignored her company.
Unfortunately—predictably—a wall of beige armour inserted itself in front of her.
Olsen.
Looking up through a few wayward strands of hair, she found dirt-brown eyes on her; hostile gleams within a scarred helmet.
"You weren't supposed to be working today, freak." The big officer bared metal-capped teeth and leaned in, bringing perspiration-soured armour way too close. "This ain't your shift, and this sure as shit ain't no job for a runt pu'ta."
Jinx suppressed her first response. Olsen, like most on Tirus, was a product of a mine-corp workers' hostel. To geniuses like him, anyone with an IQ over one hundred was a freak and all weaker beings were whores, bitches—or pu'ta. As for the "runt" comment, she couldn't argue with it. Sickly kids didn't grow in communities that prioritised recreational stimulants over food and healthcare. The officer wasn't the only one who'd been raised in a backworld mongrel pit.
Being all too familiar with his breed—and personal fondness for getting in her face—she didn't give him the satisfaction of annoying her. "Dem hates me. He called me in."
"Course he did." Olsen flashed teeth and let his junkyard-dog gaze go roaming. "You're the Big Man's pet. But that uniform don't belong on you, pu'ta. With that slick mouth and bony body, you belong down in the E-district, serving tourists narcs off your—"
Jinx shoved him back. She was no one's happy fantasy, and unenhanced tits were the least of the reasons why. "You want to give career advice? Go check on your zork-snorting buddy. See if the idiot is up for this. In the meantime, I'm going to do my job—with my clothes on and my brain engaged. How inconceivable." She pushed off the wall and headed for the external door's controls.
Instead of checking on his subordinate, Olsen, true to form, stuck to her heels like a mannerless mutt. "How do you know he's high, freak? You run an illegal scan on him or something? Or did you smell it on him like some alterant bitch?"
"Right." Jinx spared him a blade-thin glance as she reached the interface. "'Cause only someone altered with dog DNA would be able to figure out Rolli's a frigging zombie right now."
Hearing his name, the young officer stirred, resettling his weapon on his shoulder. "I'm good—fine. Just needed to take the edge off."
With a low curse, Olsen rolled his eyes to the deckhead. "Shut it, you gormshite. CIs bust dumbarses like you for a living. Remember?"
Rolli blinked his dark, tattooed eyelids a few times as if trying to jumpstart his brain. "Er, right." He frowned and turned bleary eyes on Jinx. "We good, Koel?"
"Why would I care that you're more impaired than normal just prior to boarding a ship full of potentially hostile life forms?" Jinx stared at the officer a full three seconds—after which, she could see her point still hadn't sunk in. "Shit, Rolli."
"Reprimand the scab picker later." Olsen removed her from the controls with a short push and planted his hulk in front of her again. "What do you know about these aliens?"
She resisted her instinct to shove him back again, to demand why he was asking her, a scrawny pu'ta. She knew why; it was the same reason he and his chemically lobotomised friends called her "freak". She had a reputation when it came to information. One rumour circulating the port suggested she had a synthetic brain, like she was some kind of damn cyborg.
The truth was infinitely less interesting. She was no alterant—wasn't biologically or technologically enhanced—and was no kind of academic. Her eclectic knowledge came from a good memory and the time she spent trolling the data net looking for diversions. Anything to escape the dusty, hot grind of her life.
And, recently, any excuse to avoid sleep.
Ignoring the jolt of her pulse—recalled screams—she dragged her mind back to reality; the ugly one right in front of her: Olsen, a zoning Rolli, and a ship full of Xykeree. "Didn't management brief you?"
Olsen grunted. "Usual shite: follow standard protocol, don't shoot unless fired upon. These aren't void rats, pu'ta. They're fucking insects."
Jinx winced at that summary. According to xenobiologists, the Xykeree were the result of a cybernetic experiment conducted over two hundred Earth-standard years ago. An entire sentient species had been weaponised for someone's war. "Insects" didn't quite cut it. "Their biology's insectoid, but their tech isn't. Electrolasers, plasma weaponry, weird robotic exoskeletons—some arachnoid in design. You must have seen footage of the big infantry models. Scorpion- and spider-like exskels?"
"Scorps and huntsmen. I've seen them." Rolli pulled himself from his daze, the idea of massive, deadly roaches lighting some kind of spark. "Hatchet Hatchlings and Day of the Deathlopods—freaking classic movies, man. Those bugs blew shit up and ate people. This one scene, a chick got her brains sucked out through a straw."
Olsen brought his rifle down from his shoulder. "Fuck that."
"This isn't the movies, dumbarses." Jinx pushed Olsen aside to review the safety report for the environment they were about to enter. "Nothing is going to suck your brains out. For a start, Xykeree externally digest paralysed prey in hive larders—it's a whole-body bioshake. More importantly, the roaches signed the Arterus Treaty. They attack any member of the co-signed species and unfortunate things happen. And we are not worth starting a war over."
"Legal crap," Olsen summarised. "What's likely to be waiting for us?"
"No idea." Jinx watched him grind teeth a second before relenting. "Relax, buttercup. I'd be surprised if a scorp greeted us at the door. They're heavily armoured and the size of tanks."
The mention of 'tanks' negated all reassurances if Olsen's expression was anything to go by. "This is total shite."
"Yup." Jinx returned to the airlock controls, well over the subject as well. "But we're going in, and we're going to be diplomatic. That means keeping your fat finger off the trigger—no matter what."
"Don't worry, pu'ta." Olsen's smile was grim. "One of them mechanical spiders comes for you, it can have your bony arse."
"Good, because the Xykeree aren't the only ones who have to honour the treaty. We screw this up, all hell could rain down on this planet and a lot of others."
That silenced the man. And made Jinx hear her quick heartbeat. That second, a lack of sleep and another crappy day of work didn't seem so much of a problem.
After an uncomfortable moment, the sneer returned to Olsen's face. "Heard you could shrivel a man's balls with that mouth of yours, Koel. You let me buy you a drink, I'll show you better uses for—"
"Don't make me throw myself at the nearest roach." She punched the airlock release.