Chapter 2
Bespin Spire was already showing its age, despite being one of the newer trading posts in the sector. The mix of human, Altarian, and Vezcan technologies didn’t always play nice together, and it was my job to make them cooperate. I was elbow deep in a particularly stubborn atmospheric processor when my communicator buzzed.
“Bartowski, report to Administrator Graham’s office. Now.”
The channel closed before I could respond.
Graham’s secretary had all the warmth of deep space and twice the personality. I wiped the worst of the grease from my hands and made my way to the administrative sector, wondering what fresh hell awaited me. Had someone finally reported the creative liberties I’d taken with the waste recycling system? Or maybe the gravity generator “improvements” that occasionally made Deck 12 feel like a bounce house?
Graham’s office was exactly what you’d expect from a career bureaucrat who’d climbed the ladder by stepping on fingers: stark, efficient, and about as welcoming as an airlock malfunction. The man himself sat behind a desk that probably cost more than my annual salary. He was tall, bald, and broad shouldered, his dark skin gleaming under the sterile office lights. His presence filled the room even before he spoke.
“Sit,” he commanded, without looking up from his displays.
I sat. “Do you know why you’re here, Bartowski?”
“My winning personality finally earned me that promotion?”
He looked up then, gray eyes as warm as asteroid ice. “You had an encounter with an Ardani warrior today.”
“Encounter is a strong word. I’d call it more of a collision. With words. Mostly mine.”
“She filed a complaint.”
My stomach dropped. “She what?”
Graham turned one of his displays toward me. The official seal of the Ardani diplomatic corps glowed at the top of a document written in their angular script. My name appeared several times, which couldn’t be good since I didn’t read Ardani and had no idea what horrible things were being said about me.
“She claims you showed…” Graham squinted at the translation. “…unprecedented disrespect to a warrior of the Walker Blade and demonstrated a dangerous lack of self preservation instincts that could pose a liability to station security.”
“That seems harsh. I just made a few jokes.”
“You mocked one of the deadliest beings in known space while she was transporting a war criminal.” Graham rubbed his temples. “Do you have any idea the paperwork involved if she had killed you? The insurance forms alone would take me weeks.”
“Sorry for the potential inconvenience of my murder.”
“Don’t be smart with me, Bartowski. The Ardani take these matters seriously. She’s demanding…” He checked the document again. “…cultural remediation.”
“Which means?”
“Which means you’re going to participate in the cooperation initiative. Congratulations. You’ve just volunteered to be part of the staff of the Ardani delegation.”
I blinked. “There’s an Ardani delegation on the station?”
“Arriving tomorrow. Some diplomatic mission involving protection of trade routes through the Kessel Nebula. And thanks to your mouth, you get to be their liaison for engineering matters.”
“Can’t I just apologize? Send a fruit basket?”
Graham’s glare sharpened. “They don’t eat, Bartowski. Ardani physiology doesn’t process food the way we do. They feed from specialized nutrient infusions—engineered meals tailored to their bio augmented systems. Every ration is designed to match their metabolic needs, combat readiness, and neural integration. Fruit baskets would be about as useful to them as handing a plasma rifle a sandwich.”
I blinked. “So… they basically drink protein shakes designed by mad scientists? Great. I’ll just send them a coupon for the station cafeteria and call it cultural exchange.”
Graham pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bartowski, if you try to joke your way through this, you’ll end up as a cautionary tale in the next Ardani training manual.”
His glare could have stripped paint. “Report to Docking Bay Three tomorrow at 0800. Wear something that doesn’t smell like coolant and try not to start an interstellar incident.”
“Any other impossible requests?”
“Yes. Survive. The paperwork for replacing you would be even worse than the murder forms.”
I left his office with the distinct feeling that my life had just become significantly more complicated. The Ardani weren’t known for their sense of humor or their patience with other species. Their entire culture revolved around warfare, honor, and a complex social hierarchy that made ancient samurai look laid back.
That night, I did what any sensible person would do: research. The station’s database had limited information on Ardani culture. Most of it focused on how not to die, rather than how to make friends. Apparently, they valued strength, directness, and something called the warrior’s burden, which seemed to involve taking responsibility for every fight you’d ever been in—or might potentially be in someday.
The entry on Sarah of the Walker Blade was particularly illuminating. And by illuminating, I mean terrifying. Confirmed kills in the triple digits. Specialist in close quarters combat and infiltration. Held the record for fastest neutralization of a pirate base: three minutes, forty seven seconds from entry to last hostile down.
The photo showed her standing over what looked like a small mountain of incapacitated enemies, expression as casual as someone waiting for coffee.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Chuck,” I muttered, closing the files.
Sleep came eventually, filled with dreams of amber eyes and the sound of claws on metal decking. I woke up several times, each time checking to make sure my door was locked. Not that locks would stop an Ardani warrior if she really wanted in.
Morning arrived too soon, heralded by my alarm and a sense of impending doom. I put on my least stained uniform, grabbed a coffee that tasted like recycled despair, and made my way to Docking Bay Three.
The Ardani ship was already docked when I arrived. It looked like someone had taken a predator drone and given it a warp drive—sharp angles, weapon ports, and a hull that seemed to shift color as you watched it. Active camouflage, probably, though why you’d need it while docked was anyone’s guess.
A small group of station personnel waited near the umbilical, including Administrator Graham, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Security Chief Casey stood nearby, hand resting on his sidearm in what he probably thought was a casual manner. Dr. Woodcomb from medical had brought what appeared to be an entire trauma kit.
“Expecting trouble?” I asked.
“First rule of Ardani interaction,” he replied. “Always expect trouble.”
The airlock cycled, and they emerged. Five Ardani warriors in full ceremonial armor, moving in perfect synchronization. Their footfalls made no sound despite the heavy plating—a demonstration of control that was somehow more intimidating than stomping would have been. Each carried weapons that looked organic, as if they’d grown them rather than built them.
And at their head—because the universe had a sense of humor—walked Sarah.
She spotted me immediately, those blue eyes locking onto mine with laser precision. A smile played at the corners of her mouth—the kind of smile predators give prey just before pouncing.
“Mr. Bartowski,” Graham said, voice strained. “May I introduce the Ardani delegation. You’ll be showing them our engineering facilities and ensuring their technical needs are met during their stay.”
“Delighted,” I managed, trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
Sarah approached, stopping just outside what humans would consider personal space. This close, I could see faint scars decorating her face—lines so subtle they were invisible at a distance, only revealed when proximity stripped away the illusion of flawless skin. Whether ritual scarification or the marks of countless battles, they were precise, deliberate, and unsettling.
“Engineer Bartowski,” she said, voice carrying that same lethal calm from yesterday. “I look forward to your education in proper respect.”
“Looking forward to learning,” I replied, proud that my voice didn’t crack.
The introductions were barely finished when the station’s lights flickered. A low, ominous hum reverberated through the docking bay, followed by the shriek of alarms. Red warning glyphs scrolled across the overhead displays:
ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE FAILURE – DOCKING BAY THREE
The air thinned in jagged bursts, each whistle sharper than the last. A loose panel rattled, workers stumbled, and the docking bay seemed to inhale — hungry for vacuum. Personnel scrambled, shouting into comms, while the Ardani delegation pivoted in perfect formation, weapons drawn as if preparing for battle against the station itself.
Graham went pale. “Not now…”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as she scanned the chaos. “Containment breach. If the field collapses, your docking bay will vent into vacuum.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I muttered, already sprinting toward the nearest access panel. My toolkit clattered at my side as I dropped to my knees, pried open the panel, and stared at the mess of conduits and regulators inside.
“Bartowski!” Graham barked. “What are you doing?”
“Saving your bureaucratic hide,” I snapped, though my fingers trembled as they flew across the manual overrides. The console resisted, sluggish, as if mocking me. “Seal integrity regulators are fried. If I reroute the secondary plasma feed through the emergency dampeners, I can stabilize the field long enough for the auto repair drones to kick in.”
Sarah appeared beside me, silent and predatory. “That requires precision timing,” Sarah said, crouching beside me. Her voice was calm, but her eyes glowed brighter — a predator watching prey fumble. “One misstep, and we all vent into the void.”
“Good thing I’m bad at math but great at improvisation.”
I yanked a hydrospanner from my kit, twisted two conduits into alignment, and slammed the override. Sparks spat across my hands, burning skin. The hum rose, deafening, drowning out thought. For a heartbeat, the field buckled — a rush of air tore at my uniform — and I thought I’d failed. Then, with a final wrench of the hydrospanner, the system snapped back. The alarms stuttered, then died.The air normalized, the displays shifted from red to green, and the bay’s pressure stabilized.
Silence fell, heavy and unnatural. Dock workers stared wide-eyed, hands still clutching rails. Graham sagged against the wall, looking ten years older. Even the Ardani warriors — bred for war — shifted uneasily, as if acknowledging that survival had hinged on a single human’s gamble.
The Ardani delegation, warriors bred for war and precision, stood dumbfounded. Even Sarah’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second, her flawless face betraying the faintest flicker of surprise.
I exhaled, leaning back against the panel. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you fix a catastrophic atmospheric failure with nothing but a hydrospanner, caffeine, and crippling anxiety.”
Sarah’s eyes locked onto mine again, but this time there was something different—something almost… respectful.
Sarah studied me for a long moment, her armor’s glow steadying. “You are reckless,” she said at last, voice low, “but… effective.” The pause carried weight — as if the word had been dragged from her against instinct.
“Story of my life,” I replied, brushing soot from my uniform. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a coffee that doesn’t taste like recycled despair before the next crisis hits.”
The Ardani delegation remained silent, their perfect synchronization broken by the simple fact that a human engineer had just saved them all in less than a minute.
And that’s how I ended up not only as the babysitter for the deadliest diplomatic delegation in known space, but also the idiot who’d just impressed them by keeping the station from venting us into the void.
She leaned in slightly, whispering so only I could hear. “No matter what you did you will be under my claws by the end of this, little engineer—one way or another.”
And that’s how I ended up forced to be around the warrior who’d promised to teach me manners through what I could only assume would be violence.