(So, here we go, kiddoes. I’m reposting this to start my project for fall this year. Let’s see where it takes us!)
Hawk is a supreme martial artist, having belts in every major form including several non-human ones. He acquired his expertise at the Galactic Martial Arts Dojo on Betelgeuse IV under Master Sensei Erok Velatnin and was one of the top students of his class. (Several of his competitors for top honors we’ll meet later—some are cool, some aren’t.)
Hawk thinks of himself as a “natural” man having no “super” powers or cybernetic augments. While he likes stealth and edged weapons, he’s proficient with a wide range of projectile and energy weapons up to and including the gargantuan Masur planetary defense cannons. He’s had many adventures throughout the known systems and finally, after meeting the SuperSoldiers during a little affair on a moon of Deneb III, decided to settle down with a group of peeps (sic) he could trust to watch his back.
Hawk makes his way about the star systems in his state-of-the-art, super-hardened Mercedes “Cigarette” Fighter—almost all engines and guns. A beautiful ship, the sleek and graceful lines of its design belie its deadly nature. Polymorphic wings can be extended or retracted, in various configurations depending on circumstances, for flight in gas or liquid, even plasma. The burnished plastanium skin of the vehicle can be programmed to reflect or absorb energies: light, electromagnetics, sound, J and T waves, and even quantum fractionals. This allows Hawk to be very stealthy indeed.
The Artificial Intelligence that controls all navigation, tactical, weapons, jump, and maintenance functions is named “Talon”. A self-programming intellect eventually develops a personality and Talon’s developed as counterpoint to Hawk’s over the years, settling into the distaff side of things. Though Talon is sometimes stubborn and willful she has pulled Hawk’s bacon out of the fire many times.
Hawk has a direct neural connection with Talon and, when they’re in a scrap, the Mercedes, with it’s dual triple tap fusion drives, is a match for any vessel in the galaxy—more than a match—to which his sad and sorry opponents would attest if they were still around to do any attesting!
Hawk is dedicated to the SuperSoldiers because of their code of honor and duty. He especially likes their slogan, taken from the Old Earth marines—Always Faithful!
GATHERING CLOUDS
Starc is getting the old group together! It’s been a while—on Proxima, no less. He’s not terribly popular there, especially after that Pigel affair. I wondered how he got out of that “contract” he was forced into with Interstellar Mines.
He shouldn’t have blown up that ship. IM forbade him to scuttle the crippled transport even though it was headed for a densely populated area on the surface. All he had to do was walk away but that’s not Starc. Legally responsible for the destruction of their transport, IM had Starc, lock, stock, and barrel for at least 20 years.
Once the mining corporations get their hooks into you, it’s real hard to get them out. They charge you for everything you consume, food, lodging, water—even the air you breathe, and you’re not released from service until all accounts are paid in full. Didn’t think I’d ever see Starc again but there was the hardcopy fractional space communication, plain as day.
Starc never ceases to amaze me. I punched up my comm account and found I still had a few credits. I keyed in Dexter’s number. “Dex?” I asked. The screen flashed a little then coalesced into the pug faced, sleepy image of my current employer.
“What do you want?” he snapped, “don’t you know what time it is here?”
“I’m dropping your case, something’s come up,” I said evenly.
Inside I was smiling, glad to be disturbing the pompous SOB. Dexter was so like most of my other clients, rich, lazy, selfish and paranoid, living off the sweat of the masses they shove around at their petty whims. They had the credits, however, and a guy’s gotta make ends meet somehow.
“Hawk,” he said, his face starting to redden, “we got a contract—you’re mine.”
“Yeah, well I’m breaking it as of now. Any half-witted PI can find out who that floozy’s been shackin’ up with.”
Dexter’s eyes opened wide, I couldn’t resist an inner chuckle as my barb hit home. “What!?” he nearly screamed. “You know that for a fact?”
“Don’t have any physical evidence, Dex,” I said, “but why do you think she keeps going to Mars on those ‘shopping’ trips, eh? And why does she take those painfully slow cruise liners? She could use the gates and be there and back in a heartbeat. You don’t really think she’s afraid to use them, do you?”
Dexter was quiet, you could see the wheels turning. “I want proof!” he suddenly shouted.
“You’ll have to get some other flatfoot to get the vids, I’m sorry.”
“But what about our contract?” he spluttered.
“I shouldn’t have to read the articles to you, boss,” I said. “You know an investigative contract isn’t valid until ten days after the first payment.” I had him cold there. He hadn’t paid me anything yet. “You’re into me for 300 credits already.”
“If we don’t have a valid contract,” he said, a twisted, leering sneer squirming onto his face, “you don’t have a valid paycheck, chump. Apply that to that killer loan you’ve got on that overpriced Mercedes Tac-Fighter you’re so proud of.”
That hurt. But I could live with it. I knew Starc, if he was up to his old tricks I’d be able to buy a couple brand new Mercedes with plenty left over. “You owe me, Dex, and you know it,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “hold your breath and I’ll send it right over.” The screen flickered and the Frac-Net charges screen came up—transmission terminated.
“Choke on this you slinky hoopa!” I muttered as I bashed the screen with my fist. The transparent plexi-steel was unperturbed but it made me feel better anyway. I was hoping to get the C300 as my finances were less than robust. Another payment on Talon was coming up. I’d have to settle up with Dex later. “Talon, break surveillance on the Mars liner,” I said as I sat at my workstation in the cabin behind the cockpit, “set a new course for the Proxima gate.”
Talon’s sultry voice filled the cockpit, “shall I maintain surreptitious transit?”
“Won’t be necessary, sweetheart.” A brief tingling feeling washed over me as the sleek silver long range tactical fighter became visible on all energy spectrums.
“Full visibility,” Talon reported. “Course set for Proxima gate at Mars hub, ETA in fifteen Terran minutes.” Talon’s high velocity fractional plasma drives kicked in and for an instant the G force pushed me back into my seat before the inertial cancelers compensated. The drives pushed Talon through the quantum fractional turn that put it into a grey sub-reality that would allow a jump to Proxima almost instantly. Most of the travel time was spent jockeying in traffic.
Once under weigh I thought about the old group. Man, we’d had some times. I wondered what they’d been up to these last couple of years. Did Yorgie get sober? He was always the toughest in a scrap, not many slinky hoopas could say they fought him and won. ‘Cause I don’t think any who did fight him actually lived to tell about it.
Is Moon still as enigmatic? There wasn’t any piece of tech he couldn’t figure out. And did Dobie ever get that ship he was always talking about? He always dreamed of a ship that could traverse the galactic circumference in two weeks.
Where’s the Ghost now? He’s the only one who really scared me. And don’t forget the babe—oh yeah, the babe! Thinking about her made my leather pants a little tighter. They always underestimated her, such a sweet, cute little doll. She was extremely fast, saved the team more than once because, in spite of her tiny form, she could be more vicious than the rest of us put together when she put her mind to it.
They called us mercenaries but we had a real sense of justice and never took jobs that didn’t seem ‘right.’ There were bounties on all of our heads in more than one backwoods pirate hole. Proxima was such a place but if Starc was there it must be worth the risk.
Proxima, a mudhole spaceport if there ever was one, was near Zngin space. Zngin. We wrecked ’em a couple years ago. Seems like eons.
A particularly cruel race, the “Zingers,” as we affectionately called them, had conquered several of their neighboring systems. The despotic tyrants then bled their hapless subjects dry. Mass executions, slavery and starvation were but a few of the unspeakable crimes perpetrated by this rapacious and barbaric race.
That is until delegates from the Delphi system hired us to protect them. There’s a new ring around the Zngin homeworld now—used to be their moon, their main military industrial base. Along with some major blackened spots on the planet’s surface the evidence of the Zngin empire’s collapse is blatantly obvious. We knocked ’em halfway back to the stone age.
The victory didn’t come cheap however. We paid for it with blood. Renate and Sim both bought it on that mission. It was tough on us all but the Babe hurt the worst, she was in love with Sim. I kinda’ liked Renate but she was always a little too distant for anyone to get too close. Needless to say, the liberated systems were extremely grateful. We all had enough credits to never have to work again and, sad to say, we drifted apart.
Hey, I lived pretty good for a while, high on the hog, as they say. But I never was too good with money, I managed to blow the whole wad in a few short years. I hope the others were smarter than me. Heh, to tell the truth, I doubt it. We lived hard, fought hard and played hard.
So it goes . . . I can’t wait to see them again. Talon was approaching the gate. “Gimme a cheeseburger,” I said as I put my feet up on the dash. Might as well get comfortable while I can, I thought, probably going to be a bumpy ride . . .
