by Ian Cannon
“We have word,” he called. His words stopped her, grabbed her by the heart. “Your husband has been assigned for relocation. Sector four.” His face told her bad news was coming. He muttered, “Anchora Sublatis, I’m afraid.”
She stepped toward him, looking severe. “What does that mean?”
“The highest security. It seems he stirred a riot.”
Her shoulders fell, eyes closed in deflation. “Benji …” she whispered. Looking back up, “So now what?”
“They’ll have him on the move very soon. There’s a transport train that—”
“I gotta go.” She started away, but …
“Mrs. Dash.”
She turned back. Cillious took a single stride toward her and said, “You have never asked why I am doing this.”
She squinted at him. His words suggested an ulterior motive. He was more than a defense councilor. He was on a mission. She took a step back from him and said, “Benji and I don’t take sides, Cillious.”
His lips turned up in a secretive grin, and he said, “Neither do we.” He pulled his sleeve up and showed her his palm. There was a tattoo that glowed with thin iridescence.
A square.
Three dots.
A nonlinear pattern.
She knew this symbol and looked into his eyes, a new knowledge burning.
The Faction.
She said, “You people tried to kill us once before.”
He straightened the sleeve, said, “That was never our intention.”
She stepped forward in challenge, looking up at him. “Coulda fooled me, pal.” The look he returned showed no animosity, no malice. She calmed. “Look, we don’t want any part of this. Not from them. Not from you. None of it.”
He said, “Given your escapades back on the Mortus moon, I believe you. That is why I am not here to recruit you, and I am not here to force you.”
“Good, because you’re not going to do either one.”
He nodded his head, resigned to her words. “Very well. I have made my appearance on the Faction’s behalf. You know we are out there. You know we are here to help. My job is done. Considering your current situation, might I offer a suggestion?”
She gave him a mistrusting look and said, “What?”
“Get your husband while you can … and run.”
Three
Outer Commerce Routes
The Planet Speculus
Non-partisan space region
Tub’Num’s job was never done. For such an underground social hub, Guilder’s Mix was the most popular spot on Station Oficium. And as Tub’Num had observed through his multiple decades as a contract security adviser, it was one of the most tempestuous, if not unruly places in the twin system. But that’s why he was here. He was the best.
First, he check-listed his personnel. From Tyra’noum’s team at the front door, to L’gub’s command who oversaw the upper echelon in their state rooms at the top level, his people were shipshape, top-notch guardsmen always hiding in the shadows ready to spring when action called. And that was often. That’s why Tub’Num only hired his fellow Tremusians. Tough, stout and rugged, he understood them, spoke their language, knew their temperament, respected them as his own.
Second, he checked all security systems. The Guilder club’s local ethernet stream, conflict and resolution systems and behavioral suppression auto-measures were functioning.
Thirdly, he checked all patron protection protocols. Personal adjudication measures had been taken and the interpersonal notification comms were performing optimaly. He nodded satisfied and stepped into the cantina to stand front and center over the lower floor. This was his routine. With his right hand rested on his blaster and his left hand on his hip, he sharked his gaze across the entire area to gather the ambiance, read the commotion, absorb the evening’s nuances.
The place was buzzing as usual, but as he hawked his gaze from side-to-side, his highly tuned senses detected nothing out of the ordinary … yet. Oh sure, there was the usual rowdiness with that Omicron gambler over there showing early signs of gambler’s remorse, a pair of Zyndo-Lexim sisters to the back who were sure to gain unwanted eyeballs from some drunk Zyndo-Paxi male, and that outbound Hydras atmo platformer blue-collar heckling people for a fight to the left, but all-in-all, this was shaping up to be just another night at Guilder’s Mix.
He took his first steps down the broad stairway onto the cocktail floor taking mental note of a dark loner leaning against the near wall with his thumbs hooked into his utility belt. Drinkers and revelers were everywhere with Guilder waitering bots zinging carefully through the tables shuffling drinks and eats on their glowing levitation cushions. The bar-in-the-round separated the restaurant floor from the dance area which sat toward the back. The disc jockey stood above the undulating crowd of dancers on his tall dais shuffling pre-programmed light shows and big thumping tunes from his perch. Tub’Num took note of him as well. He wore a blue helmet with dark visor. It was a trendy look, a crowd pleaser. But Tubs found it a bit bothersome. He preferred being able to see the landscape before him, to read the eyes of his charge. Helmets tended to get in the way.
Tubs moved around the bar area spying several Guilder regulars. They were all members. As such, these were his people. He knew them, shared conversations with them, had meals and drinks off hours. He found some easier to befriend than others, but at the end of each day they all shared the Guild in common. Usually, they were here to relax between jobs but often procured contracts from the liaisons upstairs.
Vekter Ramm was no exception. The Golothan-born independent sat at one of the cocktail tables leaning forward on one elbow, the other hand resting on his lap in a show of slick, alpha mammalian confidence. Vekter was a showman, always. Whether he was thundering through the solar twin system in his sun colored Y-10 Hells Charger Star-Runner or relaxing at Guilder’s Mix, his temperament, patience and cool-handedness always displayed a man well aware of his positive space. He was, among the rest, a well of charm and good looks. Perhaps the black velvet patch he wore across his left eye and the scar that stipled down his right cheek spoke of the occasional trouble he’d stirred up as well. To Vekter, however, they were accouterments he wore like badges, additions to his rugged good looks. The man had a style all his own, and he wore it extremely well. Plus, he was a man of many types of action. The scantily-clad Orbini, Sarconan and Zet women sitting closely and listening intently to his stories was evidence. They were mesmerized, the Orbini’s big, beautifully golden eyes glistening under the club lights.
Tub’Num continued scoping the bar. People of alienkind from across the twin system ordered drinks—the smaller-boned Stathosians, the blue-hued Maltaurians with their characteristic cranium tentacles draping across their shoulders, even the occasional lunar warlord drinking from their growlers and scoping the place with dangerous eyes.
Tub’Num’s careful scoping paused as one of the bargoers caught his eye. If there was ever a chink in Vekter Ramm’s reputation as a debonair playboy, she was ordering a drink right now. Tub’Num watched her as a grin broadened across his big, square face. She was half Zyndo-Lexi and half Golothan, a wonderfully compatible paring that combined the platinum skin and delicate features of one with the technically capable mind of the other. This was Sindra Klaire, cat thief and contract phantom—a fellow Guilder with a rare beauty and an even rarer talent. She was a hacker with seasoning. Her roster of successfully penetrated computer systems ranged from the secured prisoner lock-downs of the Omicron moons to the big, multi-layered mainframes of Imperium strongholds. Added to that, she and Vekter had worked together on several jobs, Sindra turning Vekter’s advances away at every turn … but with a charmed, reserved sort of grin. Whatever the attraction was between the two, it was mutual.
Tub’Num watched Sindra in her curve-fitting thieve’s garb strut with that regal woman’s charm, floating a Golothan martini glass in her hand, moving across the floor well within eyeshot of Vekter Ramm and catching his gaze. He follow
ed her with his eye before politely dismissing himself from his female audience, then got up to follow. Sindra faded off into the club with Vekter in hot pursuit, before Tub’Num’s attention shifted left.
Big Oonta Goomba sat in his usual spot—because it was the only booth in the club designed to hold the one-ton frame of an eight-foot Prax-Noossian. With his arms splayed across the top of the booth as big as tree trunks serving as a lounge sofa for his female entourage, he scoped back and forth, swinging his blunted mandible tusks slowly from side to side, grumbling in his bottomless Noossian warble. Oonta found Tub’Num with his deep set, marble-like eyes and offered a mutual nod. Tubs did the same knowing the bottom level of Guilder’s Mix was in safe hands from trouble makers and punch-drunk stoners.
Now, for the second floor.
Tubs looked over to see Toggin standing by the staircase in his usual Guilder civvies. He bore the ebony skin of a typical Denubrian with sharp features, silver eyes, a bundle of dreadlocked hair wound into loops atop his head with the loose body protection of a black-market iron ore welder—a scarred, blast resistant alloy chest plate over a heavy tabard bound by a belt. Both arms were bare showing dark, packed muscle, save the utilitarian vambrace and laborer’s gauntlets of each hand. As a former atmosphere welder and all-around laborer, his weapon of choice seemed appropriate, but because there was no house rule against weaponry at Guilder’s Mix, Tubs allowed him his flame throwers—a pair of pump-activated tubes running from a compressed methane/oxygen tank strapped to his back, down the length of each arm, and to his gauntleted hands where an instant release valve and snap-activated arc light controlled the flames. Though Tubs had never seen the device in action, he understood its lethality. Toggin could literally throw columns of fire from the palms of his hands. But the Denubrian seemed to use them sparingly, only in the event of self-defense. Or to threaten an enemy. Or to boast … or to impress. Nevertheless, he had never blasted flame across the Guilder’s Mix gambling floor so Tubs allowed him to wear the damned thing.
The Denubrian made his way powerfully up the stairs and disappeared from sight as Tubs followed him up with his stone black, widespread eyes. The security lead for Guilder’s Mix continued casting his gaze overhead taking in the entire environment from the second floor, to the third, and then the very top where Guild leadership resided. The liaisons and top VIPs were all up there mixing with the occasional space magistrate, mid-level royalty from Orbin to Sarcon and others, as well as high-rollers and top-doggers whose financial fingers reached into Guild politics.
The place was an eclectic combination of specie and personality, the total culmination of the solar twins stuffed together inside four levels of superstructure and fueled by gambling, drinks and sex. It was a wonder the place didn’t see more action on any given night than it did, but Tub’Num was perfectly happy to stay lowkey… even bored. With all his pieces set, he spied the bar area to see Neesa the bartender shuffling her multi-colored, neon drinks, taking yield and sending people away. Tub’Num moved toward her as the small, rounded dorsal fins on her forehead flexed back and forth sensing his approach. She smiled at him wiping down the bar.
“Hello, Tubsies,” she said. “Watcha drinking?”
He gave her a dutiful grin. There was no drinking on the job. He said, “Danoran searoot.” His eyes scanned the club’s entrance as he spoke. There was that loner still leaning coolly against the pillar with his thumbs hooked into his utility buckle.
“Ha!” she returned. Searoot was forbidden even here at Guilder’s Mix; something about the sale of that particular Molta-Danoran spiced rum being forbidden beyond the paradise planet. “So, what’s your prediction?” she asked, referring to tonight’s activities.
“The occasional brawl.” Tub’Num squinted at the guy. Why hadn’t he so much as moved? Was he waiting for something?
“Is that all?” she asked.
Tubs said, “Let us hope so, yes.” The music from the dance floor broke away from its previous dropnote bass rhythym and into a series of powerful glitch-style beeps, a brand of music earned from the moon of Heptis. “What is yours?” He scanned across the cocktail area and froze at what he saw.
Neesa flicked her wrist and said, “People, headaches and money,” she grumbled.
Tub’Num stared across the club at another loner. He was stuffed away in the shadows over by the holo-medias. Tubs tilted his big head on his thick neck. The music grew toward a crescendo moving through another series of power blips. Neesa continued, “When these buffoons start doing their buffoonery …”
Tubs shot a look back to the first guy. The loner subtly shifted a look across the club to the other guy. Tub’Num followed his gaze. They were communicating.
Neesa continued, “… I just roll my eyes …”
Tubs glanced around, quick. There were others. A dozen others. They blended into the crowd. But they were staged. This was by design. Tub’Num gasped.
Neesa concluded, “…and I duck for cover...”
The music changed again. It was a cue. Tubs shot a look up to the DJ—the faceless, helmeted character at the top of the dais. He had been coordinating them all along. Guilder’s Mix had been infiltrated!
“… and let you do your thing, Tubsies,” Neesa said.
“Down!” he roared reaching over the bar and shoving her to the floor.
The DJ hit a final note with a big electro drum beat that smashed like thunder, then tossed an object into the air that hovered over the dance floor. It emitted a pyramid of blue light, encompassing all the dancing revelers and blasted a shattering stun frequency. It was a paralyze bomb. Everyone over there dropped straight down, unconscious. The entire club felt its blast wave. Everyone screamed.
Tubs ducked, looked toward the front. That loner activated a mol-bot helmet that formed over his head in the blink of an eye and whipped his own weapon from his flanks. He started beaming rapid fire stunner blasts across the club. Bar goers started dropping. Tubs dove to the floor, rolled until he found a clear shot and blasted away careful not to strike the stampeding crowd. Caught off guard, the guy dropped in a hail of plasma fire. But another volley swung over from an unseen assailant, stitching the bar structure over Tub’s head. He looked over, aimed, fired ... nailed him.
Tubs shook his head. He hadn’t had two seconds to gain his bearing. The action was sudden and violent. There was no time to collect himself. Not one second. He looked up at that DJ still standing over the dais dropping more paralyze bombs. They flared in the dim light shedding a blinding foray of space-disco-style lightning flashes. Tubs blinked away the afterimages. He and that DJ made eye contact, both looking at each other from across the distance. Tubs growled angrily and pointed his weapon. The guy disappeared in the flash of stun explosions and blaster discharges.
Staying low, Tubs made his way around the bar as patrons scampered by in all directions. He struggled to read the attackers’ movement through the commotion. Guild patrons, not being the type to be taken off guard, began engaging their enemy. As mol-bot armor and helmets began deploying, the enemy combatants became more uniform, easier to identify. Tubs reeled in his head, momentarily.
Mol-bot uniforms. They wore vac-suits. Atmo-gear. Black shielding. Black armor. Everything was black on black. This plan was bigger than a simple attack. This team had an endgame in mind.
He looked up as a shot of terror struck him. An explosion at the very top level knocked a chunk of balcony railing into a fan. He could see it—even feel it—from a hundred feet below. Debris came raining down through the ferment of battle, along with one of his security guards. It was L’gub. The Tremusian slammed down to the club floor with a bang, unconscious. The levels above were being submerged into chaos. This attack was club-wide. They were going for the leadership suites.
The sound of a plasma scream whirred through the space from behind. Tubs knew this sound and spun around. A pare of glowing plasma strikes in the shape of a pair of V’s flittered across the arena leaving contrails of streak
ing light, slammed one of the attackers, U-turned in midair and streaked back to their user—Vekter Ramm and his boomerangs. They cleared a path for a fleeing group of patrons, including Sindra Klaire. She and Vekter dashed toward Tubs, slid across the floor and sidled next to him with Vekter grinning along the way.
“Tubs,” he greeted coolly. “I’d say this is a bit more fun than we bargained for tonight.”
Tubs growled, “Agree I would, yes.”
Sindra cried, “Who are they?”
“I do not know,” Tubs answered peeling his gaze to the top. “Get to the liaisons we must!”
They looked across the cocktail floor. Their enemy had become more apparent as the crowd thinned. There were too many of them. They unleashed plasma netting from emission wands capturing certain Guild members in glowing, sizzling energy nets, locking them to the floor in agony. A big bang shook the whole floor forcing Sindra, Vekter and Tubs to shoot a glance over. Oonta Goomba the big Prax-Noossian came thundering down, pounding into action. The combatants turned their focus on him as he roared a tremendous battle cry and thrashed a huge swath of space with his arms. Invaders went flying across the club, flipping and tumbling through the air. Tables and chairs followed.
“Looks like Oonta’s got this,” Vekter said.
Tubs cried, “The stairs!” and took off across the open club space, his short, powerful Tremusian legs carrying him quickly while Sindra followed closely, seething blaster strikes from her own weapon. Together, the trio hit the stairway and bolted toward the upper floors.
Oonta glimpsed them with a sense of satisfaction as they disappeared upstairs. He turned back, grabbed one of the attackers and body slammed him into oblivion howling a deep, “Huwapa nog!” Then he wheeled over, grabbed another one and swatted him limply against the bar with a bone-shattering thump—“Anga ungata!” An agony net flailed out across his shoulders painfully, spinning him around with a big, deep sneer of anger. He took it in his tremendous hands and pulled it apart into dangling tatters of light, and it sizzled into nothingness. He turned his tusked head slowly to eye his assailants with a sense of dangerous threat, and they took off on the run. Another group shuttled a heavy, ten-foot energy emitter across the floor, braced it, and fired. The net was heavy-duty enshrouding the beast’s fists. Oonta flexed mightily against them releasing a thunder blast as another net emitted across his chest, then his feet. The energy cords stretched and flexed under his strength, but they held, bringing him to his knees with a bang, then down to the floor … and the big Prax-Noossian was brought down with an ear-shattering roar.
