Rangers Over Regulus

Chapter 1: Ranger at the Gate Liberty lay flat on his belly, unmoving, with all of his concentration centered on the distant target nestled comfortably in the crosshairs of his scope. From his vantage point across the compound, lying prone on the dark metal top of an empty building, he could see everything going on below. There were five people lounging around outside of the pub where Jane’s rivals had taken up occupancy, but Libs was after only one of them. Libs shifted minutely so the crosshairs rested over his target’s head, partially obscured by a patchy cowboy hat. From this distance, an ordinary sniper would be aiming for the man’s chest to be certain of a kill shot. Not Liberty. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, and not even his heart pulsed to throw off his aim even a miniscule amount. Most snipers didn’t have this advantage and had to regularly keep up such mundane tasks as breathing, having to regulate it in order to get a clean shot. Liberty wasn’t most snipers. He squeezed the trigger, like a caress. He stroked it back by millimeters, and as it clicked into place, the bullet cartridge rocketed down the barrel. In his scope, he watched his target’s head snap back, a spray of scarlet painting the area red with the evidence of his success. The people around him shot to their feet, drawing weapons and searching the area in a frenzy of disbelief. Libs drew in a breath in order to snort sardonically at their antics. Clearly, he was too far away, if they’d only stop a moment to think, and perhaps to get under cover in case he wanted to further diminish their ranks. Luckily for them, his order had been to take out their leader and no one else. Jane wanted them to come crawling back to her so she could hold their desertion above their heads for the rest of their lives. Eventually, watching the deserter’s panic grew less amusing, and Libs pulled away from the scope of the high-powered sniper rifle and started carefully taking it apart. His equipment was his livelihood, and he needed to take good care of it. Truthfully, he didn’t really need his rifle to do the job, but this rifle was one of the few attachments he had over the long years of his unnatural life. If he really wanted, he could have gone straight up to the man and broken his neck, quicker than the eye could track. It would have taken moments, and no one would have been able to stop him. In spite of this, for every single time he was called in to take out a target for Jane, he spent hours scouting out the place, his target, and all the possible locations he could lie in wait. Sometimes he would wait ages on a rooftop, searching for the perfect shot. It was finesse. His reputation as the best sniper in this end of the quadrant was well acknowledged. There was an art to it, lining up his shot and placing a bullet in the exact spot that he was aiming. Not many people knew his actual name, not here and not anywhere. Mostly, they called him “Jane’s gunman.” It was as close to the truth as anything on Leonis Alpha 305, and only fools pushed their luck in this area of space. Having packed up his equipment, Liberty left the cold rooftop and disappeared into the shadowy corners that abandonment threw up all over the derelict space station. This place housed the refuse of society: the abandoned, the outcast, the exiled. No one asked how Libs had ended up here, on the outermost edge of the Legacy starfield. In a way, they already knew. He got back to the Core, the central hub of activity on Leonis Alpha, which was where the headquarters for Jane’s crew had set up operations. She had taken over a building complex, and surrounding that complex was the market and the places where those less fortunate made their homes. It was one of the only areas in the whole station that was lit with the dull glow of old lanterns, relics from a time past. At some point, there had been enough power to keep the overhead lights operational, but that time was long gone. The amount of light mattered little, though. Those that lived here were used to living in darkness. No matter where they were, there were always obscured faces hidden behind hoods and scarves, or with the shadows of a hat brim tugged down low. They wrapped themselves in cloaks and long coats, then strapped on gun belts and holsters over all of that. Liberty was no different. He strode towards the warm yellow glow of a small pub near the edge of the Core, although most referred to it as a saloon. In fact, nowadays, people simply called it “the Saloon,” as if it was the only one in existence. Libs had insisted that if it were to be called that, at the very least it had to have the double swinging doors, just like the old West saloons back when there were real cowboys and gunslingers. Libs pushed open the swinging doors, hand lingering on the worn wood, and they flapped behind him as he passed through. The bar was scratched, and the stool onto which he swung himself creaked alarmingly as he settled his weight. “Whiskey,” he demanded, taking a worn, brown hat off his head and placing it on the counter. As the bartender poured his order, Lib scratched a rough hand through the tangles of black hair that tumbled over his forehead. His body was incapable of being tired, no matter what he put it through. There was something about living here that wore on the mind, whittling away until all he could do was sit in the Saloon and drink whiskey. Whiskey itself did nothing for him except taste sharp and burn its way down his throat. He liked the feeling; it reminded him that he was still here. He hadn’t been at the bar for long, sipping his whiskey and savouring the razor edge of the liquor on his tongue, when the doors flapped closed again in the wake of a fellow disreputable soul. Lib lifted his chipped and cloudy glass in a salute, and she pulled up the stool next to him. A red bandana pulled the fiercely curly black hair off her dark face, clearly displaying a set of inky, piercing eyes. She had two bandoliers of ammo slung across her chest, a bolt-action rifle over one shoulder, and two pistols holstered at her wide hips. “Stella,” he said, voice low and rough. “You finish what miss ordered you?” she asked, skipping her usual greeting. “She’s been waiting for your word for over an hour now, Libs.” “Yeah, it’s done.” He knocked back the remainder of his whiskey and the bartender refilled the empty glass without question. “Good. You here to report in?” Stella and snagged his drink, taking a mouthful before returning it. She was the only person on the station that Libs would allow such an action, and she knew it. She took advantage of it whenever possible, but Libs didn’t much care. That was what people did here, they took whatever they could lay their hands on. It helped quite a lot that Stella knew everything that happened in the Core, no matter if she’d been there at the time or not. “I’ll be there soon. I don’t suppose you could take a look at my scope? The sightings not adjusting quite right.” Libs dug into his equipment bag to hand her the piece and she took it without a word. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Stella murmured, already pulling out her repair kit and fiddling with a tiny instrument that would undoubtedly return his scope to its former state of perfection. Stella knew he expected high standards from his rifle, and her repairs to his equipment were always the best. She knew her way around any piece, and it showed in the quick, dexterous flip of her long fingers over the equipment and her tools. It took less than five minutes for her to return the scope to him. He looked it over with an eye trained for detail, and nodded in satisfaction. He ordered another whiskey and pushed it across the bar to her. “Miss Jane is waiting on you, Libs. Best not keep her waiting,” Stella warned, raising an eyebrow accentuated by a shiny steel bauble. “No time for a quick bite?” he asked with a heartfelt sigh. “I’m feeling quite insatiable.” Stella sighed and shook her head. “There’s a guy round back who likely won’t be missed. Have at him.” “This will only take a moment.” “Be more careful this time. Last time you went into Jane’s covered in blood, she threw a fit!” “As if I could forget.” Libs slipped out of the Saloon and into the coolness of the night air. It wasn’t truly night; someone had turned down all the lamps and the lack of warm bodies rushing about left the area cool and still. It didn’t take Libs long to smell him, and a moment later, he could hear the hot rush of blood through veins as he approached his victim. This person he could call “a victim” and not “a target.” There was absolutely no finesse in this. The guy was drunk and leaning against the side of a long-abandoned building, and given more time, he’d have likely crawled into one of the empty apartments to pass out. He was somewhat clean, and Libs gave a silent thanks for a substantial meal. A moment later, he had the man easily held up against the side of the building, and the guy didn’t even try to struggle. Libs pushed the man’s chin up and to the side to give him access to the throbbing artery along the neck. He was so close, he could smell the heady rich scent of blood, hear it rushing through the vessels close to the surface of the skin. His mouth filled with saliva, and his fangs elongated in response to his sudden vicious thirst. He sank his teeth in deep and felt the warmth of blood well up around his gums. He clamped his mouth down hard around the wound and gulped desperately at the hot, salty, and metallic liquid as it spurted down his throat. He drank it, groaning helplessly. He sucked down the rich, velvety elixir until the man’s heart ceased to beat. Libs pulled back and licked the blood off his lips and teeth, satisfied and slightly lethargic. No one would miss this man, of that Libs was absolutely certain. The guy tasted like corruption, the darkness making his blood thick and slightly bitter. Libs was no stranger to the flavour, and a taste once acquired is hard to lose again. He walked back into the Saloon with more of a swagger in his step and a pleased tilt to his mouth. Stella rolled her eyes and stood, gesturing with one gloved hand for him to follow. Libs didn’t need the prompt, but went after her easily. “No need to ask what you’ve been up to. If you were anyone else, I’d have said you got laid,” Stella drawled, amusement colouring her voice. “Better than s*x,” Libs assured her, smirking, the edge of one fang still protruding. “Cover that,” Stella demanded instead of replying. “You know how much Jane hates it when you show teeth.” Libs grumbled but complied, as Jane in a foul mood was undesirable. Stella marched down one of the dark, lightless alleys that ran alongside Jane’s compound and knocked a pattern on one of the side doors. A peephole slid open and someone looked out. “Who’s there?” was the gruff question barked through the grate. “Stella and Liberty,” Stella answered evenly. “Jane’s expecting us.” “You’re late,” was the ominous response, and the door opened quickly, snapping shut as soon as they were through. They knew their way to Jane’s meeting chamber, and knocked twice before entering. The room was one of the best-lit places in the whole station, filled with lanterns and candles. The golden glimmer reflected off walls coloured a deep red. Jane herself was seated in a plush velvet chair that matched the rest of the room, one leg crossed over the other. The bottom of her knee-high brown leather boot was clean and dirt-free. “Hello, Libby. Good to see you again. It’s about time you reported in, don’t you think?” Libs gritted his teeth and nodded. No one else in the galaxy could get away with calling him that, and he loathed her for it. There was nothing more he would love to do than rip her head off and tear the rest of her to shreds. He meant that quite literally. She knew and thrived on it. His abhorrence was as good as adoration to her.