Queen Bee pt.2

Joren Kade investigates the disappearance of a scientist

S

huttle-12 thudded onto asteroid Ci-19’s landing pad, a scarred slab of metal trembling under the impact. Electromagnetic plates snapped on, a silent pulse locking the craft to the rock’s surface. Joren Kade stepped out, mag-boots clamping with a dull thud, the gangplank a skeletal frame swaying in the void’s grip. Overhead, a net extended and stretched taut, its patched fibers glinting under a flickering beacon. He gazed at it a moment, contemplating how fragile the life-saving apparatus appeared, hoping the power didn’t give out on the magnetics holding his feet down.

The invisible Belt loomed out beyond the patchwork fibers, an endless black swallowing the horizon, Ci-19's landing site a mute, jagged mouth open to the void. No sound, no atmosphere—just the vibration of the plates through his suit, the hiss of his own breath in his helm. Lights from his ship caused Joren’s shadow to cut across the rock, a gray streak on a dull surface. At twenty-nine, a year of chasing shadows and ghosts had carved similar gray streaks into him.

Back when Joren was a Public Safety grunt, he’d knocked on Melissa Tarren’s door for a wellness check. Her shift supervisor had flagged her missing three days running. He’d expected a body, like most calls in those frantic months after the Arvad cracked open on Adalia Prime. Instead, he found a room so clean it felt unlived in: bunks made, clothes folded, nearly everything in its place. He’d flagged it, written the report, and tried to move on. But the body never appeared. Only more questions.

He’d recently made T3, volunteering to lead Security Investigations, which brought him to this rock now. The Prime Council papers stashed in his pack were worthless out here unless he played it right. This wasn’t Adalia Prime. This was a rock that could kill him for blinking too slow.

A worn viewscreen jutted from the landing pad’s edge, scratched and flickering, a call button pulsing red beside it. No operators, or welcome committee just a dead eye in the vacuum. Joren edged closer, boots thudding, the cavern mouth gaping beyond, sealed with slapped-together panels, airlock lights winking faintly. Shuttle 12 hulked distant behind him.

He tapped the button, voice steady through his comm. “Joren Kade.”

Static fizzed back, the screen blank. He waited, visor reflecting the beacon’s stutter, then leaned in again.

“Here to trade.”

The silence stretched, the plates’ pulse a faint thrum under his boots. No response. He shifted his weight, eyeing the net’s taut cables, and keyed the comm once more.

“Got a crate of high-tensile steel sheets and some platinum. Looking to swap for whatever you’ve got.”

The airlock lights continued to pulse red. The plates shivered and he felt a flicker of loosening tension in his feet before they were gripped firmly again by the magnetic plating. A long pause clawed at the vacuum. Then the viewscreen flared to life, a voice cutting off the static abruptly with a calm, warm greeting before her face flickered on.

“Joren Kade. Welcome to Hive-19.” Melissa Tarren’s tone was even, factual, and ever so slightly inviting. “What business does the Colonial Council have, sending a man of your rank so far from home?”

It was her. After a year searching for a ghost, she was now a voice crackling through the speaker. His throat caught, hands gripping the flimsy viewer tightly as he stared, unable to speak, at the face smirking back at him. He caught a reflection of movement in the corner of the screen. His eyes darted up, and a cold hand gripped him deep inside. The net was gone, cables retracted into the dark as the void stared back.

“My safety net is a bit finicky these days. Some things she’d rather let fly by than get trapped in her web,” the ghost of a woman continued. “Perhaps you should start talking before the power on the mag-plates flickers again?”

Taking a deep breath, Joren focused on the viewscreen and tried to push the fear from his mind long enough to explain himself.
“No Council games, Ms. Tarren. I’m here on my own, just trying to tie up loose ends regarding your… departure from AP.”

Her smirk faded, eyes narrowing on the screen. “Loose ends? Is that your purpose here? I didn’t fit their scrap box, so they sent you to poke and prod?” Her voice stayed calm, but a sharp edge crept in, her jaw tightening. “They tried to strip my purpose away. Years of it, because the Council is too short-sighted to see what we can really do in this shattered world.”

Joren’s breath hitched a moment and he coughed. She wasn’t the first to use that phrase, but it had spread like wildfire among the enterprising and ruthless who’d sprung at the chance to colonize the belt of asteroids that had once been planets.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m not here to poke. I don’t care about the Council’s plans. I just came for answers.” He paused, visor fogging slightly. “Please, don’t make me a ghost out here.”

A beat passed, her eyes piercing through the screen. Calculating. Then her expression shifted. She softened, just a flicker, like she’d finally seen the fear behind his visor. She exhaled, a faint crackle in the comm, and straightened. “Fine. Stand by,” she said, half-turned, making some clipped statements to someone off-screen that he couldn’t see.

The airlock lights blinked green, panels grinding open with a hiss that echoed in his helm. “You said you have steel and platinum. We can figure out some use for that. You can have twenty-four hours to trade and talk. As I said, welcome to Hive-19.”

Joren’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as he moved forward, the void’s stare retreating as the open airlock yawned before him.