by Paul Grover
Sam Clark came over the com-link and confirmed they were clear to leave. Alex drummed his fingers on the console while he waited for the doors to open. Once his panel showed green Alex dropped the ship into space and increased their relative velocity.
“Hold on Doc, I want to play with her before we head for the jump zone. Let’s find out what she has.”
Alex’s weight increased as he burned hard, the sublights pushed the ship forward at an incredible rate of acceleration. As he increased the burn, his breath was forced from his chest and his ribcage became intimate with his spine. He backed off, feeling the acceleration gravity fall away as the inertia control systems caught up.
He turned to Monica, unable to hide a grin.
“She’s got balls all right.”
Monica’s face was ashen. She gathered her breath. “Alex Kite, never do that again.”
A guilty smile crossed his face; he had forgotten Monica was not trained for high G.
A shudder ran through the hull. Emerald was as flighty as she was fast.
Alex prepped the ship and uploaded Sam’s course. He checked the Emerald’s status a final time and transitioned to FTL.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TELLERMAN Gateway was the largest non-planetary outpost on the Frontier. Unlike similar facilities the station did not orbit a star, instead it resided in the lonely void of interstellar space. Tellerman served as a staging post for colony start-ups and a trading point for goods from the Frontier. It was a place where humans lived, loved and died without ever feeling the warmth of a star on their skins.
The station had been built by Kurosawa Mercantile 200 years ago; it had moved three times during its lifetime. The giant rotating cylinder of steel and plexiglass was home to five million people. A further two million souls passed through her docking bays and hotels every week. Five hundred vessels could occupy her cavernous central hangar, with space for many more on a network of piers extending from the hub.
Tellerman's current owners, Brandt Intersolar Investments billed the station as the Gateway to the Frontier. They aimed to attract an affluent class of traveller with high end boutiques and 24-hour entertainment. The station hid its inherent social problems beneath a veneer of respectability, a gloss of luxury hiding poverty, crime and violence.
Early shift in Tellerman’s Federal Security office was often chaotic but today was an exception. Either way Joel Barnard hated his job, especially when it came dealing with bounty hunters.
Today the hunters must be busy. Aside from processing a minor league thief he was catching up on his paperwork.
Joel came to Tellerman after serving with the Navy. A knee injury prevented him from taking an active service role, so he found work as a jailer and bookkeeper for the station’s transient population of bounty hunters.
The security buzzer on the door sounded. Joel glanced up from his terminal. A hunter stood behind the tinted glass; a bound and hooded figure stood in front of him. The hunter was a relative newcomer; he had brought in several outstanding warrants in his first week. The guy was old but more prolific than his younger counterparts.
Joel hit the door release and the old man entered. He shoved his charge toward the counter. The security cameras on the bulkhead swivelled toward the hunter and his captive.
“Think you can process this thing for me?” he said, pulling his captive’s hood off.
“Kenny Chang, the Federal Court will be pleased to see you.”
Joel typed up the docket.
“Quite a payday. You want cash or bank deposit?”
The old hunter gave him a credit disk; no one ever wanted a bank deposit. With the transaction complete, Joel escorted Chang to a cell and locked him in. When he returned to the processing area, the hunter was reading through the standard stock of low-level warrants.
“Got anything new? I’ve cleaned up most of your backlog; so give me some A-listers.”
“Here.” Joel gave him a datapad. He watched in silence as the old man flicked through the new additions.
He paused.
“This one,” he said, pushing the datapad back at Joel.
“Ah a terrorist; I figured there would be a lot of interest in her. Shame about the scars; she would be kinda hot.”
The bounty hunter snorted.
“I want to go exclusive.”
Joel checked the details of the contract. The Frontier Company had posted it within the hour; he guessed he was not the only one who thought the woman was hot.
“I can do a six-week exclusive contract, but you’ll be knocking your rate down by 45%.”
“No matter, it’ll be an easy job; figure I could do with a break.”
Joel typed up the permit and marked the file as exclusive. It would not be offered to other hunters until the period had elapsed.
“Sorry man, I’ve not got your name.”
“Rybov, Victor.”
“Okay, Mr Rybov. You are now the owner of an exclusive contract to hunt Fugitive 320249 - Mira Alice Thorn.”
Rybov made a face Joel approximated as a smile. He turned to leave.
“Hey Victor, if you’re keen on terrorists; I have got another one for you. It’s an EarthGov bounty, six figure. No exclusive options; they’ve declared open season on this guy. You wanted an A-lister, it doesn't get much bigger than this one.”
Rybov paused and turned.
“Who?” he asked, without a trace of emotion.
Joel tapped the datapad and sent Rybov the information.
“Anders Richter?”
“One of Von Hagen’s lieutenants. Word is he got off Mars and is heading for the Frontier. The guy has a target on his back so big you’ll see it from the outer rim. Everyone else is looking for him, so I thought you wouldn’t want to miss out.”
“I’ll find him,” Rybov said.
The hunter’s tone left no doubt in Joel’s mind he would. When he did, it would be a big payday for both.
As for the other one, she was more of a mystery. Joel wondered what had made Thorn destroy her ship. She was a combat vet and sometimes they pulled crazy shit.
Such a shame about the scars. She might be fun to have in custody for a while.
He shrugged. He’d paid for worse. A smile crossed his face as he wondered how long it would be before the old boy brought her in.
Vic Rybov made his way through the station. It was a rabbit warren of corridors overflowing with humanity of every colour and creed. The crowd parted for him as he walked. Even at his age he was an imposing figure, more so in his matte black body armour. His single organic eye stared down anyone who let their gaze rest upon him for too long.
Rybov wondered why he had taken the Thorn bounty; the woman meant nothing to him… yet something about the injustice of the contract rankled his rediscovered moral compass. As Rybov saw it there were two groups of people in the universe, the bad and the less bad. Thorn appeared to be one of the latter group and he thought himself a reasonable judge of character.
No, that wasn’t it. She was like him; building a future from a past best forgotten. Her sins may not be as wicked as his, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was running from something but only a few ever made it. Rybov had a feeling Thorn was one. It gave him hope for his own redemption.
He had no intention of finding her. The exclusive option would buy her time to sort out her problems. Richter was his ticket out of this game. A bounty the size EarthGov offered was enough to buy a whole damn planet. Rybov figured he didn’t need that kind of space; an asteroid colony like Tarantella would be a good investment.
He pushed his way through the crowd and into Dino’s Bar; the doorman stepped aside to allow him access to the steps leading into the members only section. No one asked him for proof of membership; they ushered him through like a long absent son.
Dino’s was no different to any other Frontier drinking hole. The hosts were discrete; they served hard drink with zero questions to the smugglers, pirates, hustlers and whores who frequented the
dimly lit dive. Rybov found a booth in the corner and sat, resting his leg on the opposite bench.
A waitress glided to his table, boredom etched onto her young face, blonde curls fell to her shoulders.
“Whiskey, a large one. No ice,” he said.
“We only do large.”
“Give me a double measure then,” he replied. He slapped his credit disk on the table. The girl scooped it up and processed the payment. She handed it to him and he tucked it into his armour.
The waitress disappeared and returned with a glass filled to the brim with generic Frontier Standard whiskey. He took a slug and winced. FSW was rough as fuck but did what it was supposed to.
Rybov closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The air on stations had a unique smell, antiseptic overlaid with whichever fragrance the enviro system was programmed to deliver. Dino’s smelt of lavender and even the scent of volatile spirits could not quite hide it.
“It’s not like you to be drinking on your own.” A woman’s voice roused him from his booze buzz. Rybov opened his eyes.
“Evening, Talia.” Rybov gave the newcomer his best half smile.
The woman limped to the other side of the booth, her synthetic leg’s servo motors whirring.
Talia Franchetti was almost as old as Rybov. Limp blonde hair framed a face worn with worry and a lifetime of suffering. She placed her hands on the table, her face warming.
“You’re still working out of here? I thought you would be running a high-class whore house in the Core Systems by now.”
Talia shrugged.
“You know how it is, Vic. Once you are out here you stay out here. As for the other, I’m not in that game any more. I'm not what the clientele expect, except for a few freaks. There are some nice girls working here. I can hook you up.”
“Not for me.”
“You don’t have to screw. They’re good listeners, as skilled in conversation as they are the carnal arts.” She laughed, it sounded as rough as the whiskey tasted but held a warmth.
He didn’t need talk or anything else. All he needed was something to take the edge off and whiskey did that. Either way it was good to see Talia. They had history.
“Your place, now?” he asked.
“Sunk every Galactic Dollar I had into it. It’s been hard but I’m doing okay.”
Rybov studied her over the rim of his glass. Her face was thinner than he remembered, but her dark eyes still held their mischievous glint. When she smiled the years fell from her face.
“So Talia, is The Magician still in business?”
The Magician was one Vito Sanchez; a forger and document dealer who had a unique ability to make people disappear and then reappear as someone else.
“Vito? Yes. When Tarantella made friends with the Frontier Company, he had to find a new base. He’s been moving around a lot. He came here for a week and moved to Baikonur. Last I heard he set up shop on Corso.”
“Makes sense, it’s a lawless hellhole midway between the Frontier and the Core Systems, too far off the beaten track for anyone to care; except for the scumbags who need his services.”
He swilled booze around his mouth, swallowing the burning liquid and enjoying the numbness it brought to his emotions.
“So are you looking to disappear, Vic? I guess it’s understandable after Mars. Lie low and spend the reward, eh?” Talia said.
Rybov stared at her.
“Mars?”
“Yeah, I saw Manson on GNN. He has lost his implants, but it was him. I had that big sadistic face staring down on me enough times to recognise it.”
“Talia, Manson is dead. He and the rest of them died in the Vale. I have been out here picking up bounties.”
Talia called the waitress over and asked for a datapad. She typed in some commands and waited while the device searched the local UniNet node.
She passed it to him.
Max Von Hagen was being led out of an official building by Frontier Company Troops and Martian Security Operators. He had his hands on his head, his face telling the story of the failed revolution.
Behind them stood a familiar figure, his face bleached white by a spotlight. Karl Manson, looking very much alive.
“See?” Talia said.
“Yeah, I see.”
Mira Thorn was the only other person he knew who had performed a similar resurrection. Whoever or whatever had brought Thorn back from the dead had worked its dark magic on Karl Manson; maybe there was a link. Perhaps Thorn was important in ways he did not understand.
Rybov had known Manson long enough to realise he would expect payback for his disloyalty on Arethon. This was a dog eat dog galaxy and Manson had a bite to match his bark.
It made the Richter bounty more attractive. The money would not be enough to let him disappear; he would need help for that. Deliver Richter to Damien Lightfoot… now that would open possibilities.
If Manson was involved in the take down of Von Hagen, Rybov assumed he was on the trail of Richter too; if they met… so be it.
Vic sipped his whiskey and reminisced with Talia; maybe he was getting old and soft but he enjoyed her company even if it reminded him of how lonely life had become.
Rybov left Dino’s with a plan forming in his mind.
He had read Richter’s file and accessed the local UniNet node. Richter was a tech specialist, born on Mars 41 years ago. Richter’s technical expertise and exceptionally high IQ gave him a strong advantage. Smart fugitives usually stayed free.
Instead Rybov had concentrated on Richter’s weaknesses, the pressure points he could exploit to make him trip up. Richter seemed to be a man of few vices aside from an interest in underage girls. He was often described as aloof and arrogant. They were all qualities Rybov could use.
He was certain Richter was resourceful and would have an escape plan. All fugitives left a trail, but the successful ones covered their tracks well and the best way to do that was to use the services of Vito Sanchez.
As for Thorn, she was side issue. She was probably on Mizarma and his lockout would give her time to clear her name.
Everything was falling into place… Richter… Sanchez… Thorn. All roads led to Mizarma. Manson was the wild card, the joker in the pack; his former squad leader would need careful handling.
Rybov knew he could not do this alone, but he had no shortage of friends in low places. The hefty bounty would ensure they would be accommodating.
He walked into the docking bay and stopped. He let his eye rove over his ship and the surrounding space.
Eden’s Revenge started life as a small commercial freighter operated by the Lightfoot Corporation. He had up-rated the power plant, installed a comprehensive weapons suite and boosted the shield generator to military specifications. Every bounty paid for a new upgrade. On paper he was broke; the Revenge was his wealth.
He used a remote handset to lower the ramp. It locked into place and he strode into the ship. He checked the security system to ensure no one had tampered with the vessel in his absence; his enquiry came back clear.
Once he was on the flight deck he powered up the ship, preflighting her quickly and with caution. Rybov knew he was not the best pilot on the Frontier. He could hold his own but for him a ship was nothing more than a tool for getting from job to job. He called Tellerman Traffic and requested clearance to depart; it was granted by a bored traffic controller
He used the vertical lifters to raise the ship off the pad and followed his HUD pip to navigate clear of the bay. Once in open space he increased power and headed away from the rotating station.
He tapped in a course for Corso and waited until the ship was clear of the gravitational distortion of the giant structure. Rybov built an envelope and transitioned to FTL.
He unclipped his harness and headed aft, inspecting and checking all the ship’s vital systems as he went.
His thoughts turned to Karl Manson. In a big galaxy it was unlikely they would run into each other by chance; yet they mixed in similar circles, had the sa
me contacts and the same business interests.
Rybov was smart enough to realise a confrontation with Manson would result in one of them ending up dead. It made sense to avoid the fight.
The plan was simple: capture Richter, cash in the bounty and let the Manson problem take care of itself.
He stood for a moment in the crew lounge, listening to the throb of the FTL drive. Plans could fail but it made this no different any other contract. Win the prize or die trying. It was honest and honourable. If this was Vic Rybov’s last job, so be it. He turned and made his way back to the flight deck.
The first line of synthetic cocaine hit Karl Manson squarely in the face. The second followed with a near knockout blow. The girl giggled as he licked the residue off her enhanced breasts.
He rolled back onto the bed and stared through the plexiglass window in the hotel room’s ceiling. He had arrived on Luna three days ago and had been gorging on all Armstrong offered. The booze, drugs and girls were plentiful; Karl Manson had money to spend and the city had no shortages of places to spend it.
“Oh what a lovely day!” he yelled at the stars.
“You wanna go again Karl?” the girl said, grabbing his balls and working her hand up to his stiffening cock.
“Always ready… what the fuck was your name again?”
“Candice.”
“Of course it is!” He roared as the coke burned like comet in his brain.
He grabbed the girl and threw her back onto the bed. She giggled and parted her legs. He slid forward.
The doorbell chimed.
“I’m fucking busy!” he yelled, not that the caller would have heard.
“Busy fucking,” Candice said, followed by her irritating laugh.
The door chimed again.
“Fuck it.” He stood. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is. Keep yourself warmed up.”
The girl giggled.
Fuck, she has an annoying laugh, Manson thought as he wrapped himself in a robe. It was a size too small and appeared almost comedic when stretched over his giant frame.
