by Paul Grover
Anders Richter shivered into full waking. He was tied to a chair in a steel shed, a workshop of some sort. The walls were grey and streaked with rust. He was stripped to the waist and cold water ran from his body.
An old man with a red cybernetic eye stood in front of him. He held an empty metal bucket. The kid sat on a pallet behind the old guy. She was wrapped in a silver mylar blanket, drinking from a paper cup. Richer could smell hot chocolate. The girl swung her legs and glared at him with utter contempt. Anger churned in his brain, nausea and confusion crashed in with it.
“Anders Richter, you are a terrible man.”
“Bloody Core Systems pervert,” the kid said.
“Who are you… her pimp? I was going to pay you, man. I was going pay you…” He stopped when realised the man had used his real name.
“How do you know who I am?”
The man moved in close, his wrecked face a few centimetres away.
“Because, Anders, I am your worst fucking nightmare. I know who you are, where you come from. I know the things you have done in the name of freedom and in the name of your own sick gratification. I know you as well as you do. Maybe better because I don’t hide in delusion. My name is Victor Rybov and this tired old face might be the last thing you ever see.”
“I…”
“Shut up. Today is your day of reckoning. You will talk and if you lie, I will kill you. If I think you are lying, I will kill you. To be honest Anders, you are going to have to be on your best behaviour to stay alive.”
The man backed off and turned to the kid.
“Sofi, go wait in the office out back, okay?”
“Can’t I watch?”
“Trust me kid, you don’t want to see this. My friend will be here soon. I need you to let him in. He likes coffee, so fix him up.”
“Okay, Vic.”
When she was out of sight Rybov lunged at Richter.
“She is a sweet little girl. She lives in a tough place and is doing her best to get by. You were prepared to destroy that…”
Richter studied the man. He had met his sort before. They never afforded him the respect he deserved. Men like this were easy to play. All you had to do was say the right words.
“Your plan nearly didn’t come off did it? She was meant to bring me here… You lost her. You could have killed her… Vic.”
The old man flushed. Richter knew if he could anger him, push him off guard he might stand a chance.
“You think you have the moral high ground here? Ask yourself Vic, who is worse? You or me? You were prepared to risk her life to get me for you own financial gain.” He forced a laugh. “You might not like what I am but I am at peace with it. I’m not the one hiding behind fake morality.”
Rybov leant close to him, his single eye boring into Richter’s soul.
“I have a use for you Mr Richter. That is all that is keeping you alive.”
Rybov turned his back and activated a camera drone. It hovered in the air some distance from Richter; its bright light made him squint.
“So tell me about Mars.”
Rybov was an idiot. A confession under torture was worthless.
“Sure, I’ll tell you.”
Richter told him everything, from the moment he shut down the power to his escape from the governor’s residence. He described events with minute detail, even to the point he slit Jonny’s throat.
“So Conway supplied you with the hardware and the operational details?”
Richter nodded.
“You have proof of that?”
“No…” Richter’s world exploded into red pain as Rybov drove his cybernetic hand into his face. His eyes streamed. He heard a pop as his nose broke.
“What the fuck man? Fuck! Conway was too careful…”
“You must have something, otherwise how would you buy your freedom on the Frontier?”
Richter sniffed and coughed as blood ran down his throat.
“Torture me all you like. I can’t give you what I have not got.”
Rybov put his cybernetic hand to his chin as if in thought.
“Now that is a good idea.”
Rybov lunged and pain flared in Richter’s leg. A long thin knife protruded from his thigh. He gasped for breath. His gasps gave way to screams as Rybov twisted the blade.
Vic Rybov rocked back on his heels. Richter slumped in front him, his face bloodied. He gurgled as he breathed. Rybov cleaned his knife and wiped his knuckles. On the far side of the warehouse a door opened and Campbell walked in carrying a synth-leather shoulder bag in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Sofi trailed behind him.
“I told you to stay out back.”
The kid grinned.
Rybov turned to Campbell. “Did you find anything?”
“Yah, right where you said it would be. We have a data card, vids the lot. No encryption, no ice walls. For a tech expert he is lax.” He dropped out of his faux Frontier accent mid-sentence.
“Arrogant piece of shit thought no one would catch up with him,” Rybov said.
“Tell me about it. I’ve had to put up with him for the past two days.” He took a sip from his mug.
“Damn fine coffee, kid.”
Campbell tossed Rybov the bag. He caught it and rummaged around inside, removing a datapad. Rybov reached for the bucket and threw water into Richter’s face. He stepped back.
Richter blinked and shivered himself conscious.
Rybov waited until he had finished coughing.
“Campbell?” he said. “You need to get me…” His voice faltered when he saw Rybov.
“Sorry Anders; me and Vic are old buddies.”
Rybov played an audio file. Max Von Hagen’s voice echoed around the warehouse.
“… I don’t recognise your government, so out here you are just plain Mister Conway…” Rybov shut the recording off and replaced the datapad. He tossed the bag to Campbell.
Rybov grinned.
“Got your confession on tape. Got the evidence to back it up. Question is what to do with you?” Rybov walked around him.
“I can’t let a piece of shit like you wander the galaxy, yet I’m not keen to give you a clean death… I’m in a transitional state right now.”
He glanced in Campbell’s direction.
“Campbell will you take this thing to my ship and secure it in the brig?” He turned his attention back to Richter. “Before you leave, Anders, one last thing I want to talk about.”
Rybov knelt next Richter. The man slumped in the chair. The fight had left his eyes.
“Tell me what you know about Karl Manson.”
Richter did and when he was done Rybov knocked him unconscious and loaded him into Campbell’s ground car.
Rybov rapped on the door of Madame Marie’s. She opened up and smiled as Sofi skipped past.
“I can’t say I wasn’t worried,” Marie said. “Sofi… well… she’s family; she won’t ever work in a place like this.”
“Apart from a minor hitch, we sorted it. The girl is fine. She did well.” He gave her a credit disk. “Your fee.”
“What about the girl?”
“I’ll pay it into a secure account…”
“No, I want to change the deal. I want you to get her off this hellhole.”
Rybov shrugged.
“I can’t take a kid on.”
“Just take her somewhere civilised. Somewhere she can do well.”
Rybov stood for a moment. There was something in Marie’s eyes that made him pause, something in her manner.
He weighed the idea in silence for several seconds. The silence became uncomfortable.
“Okay. I’ll take her as far as Mizarma, after that she is on her own. I'm leaving in three hours. Have her pack, say her goodbyes and bring her over to the spaceport.” He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. He flipped her a credit disk.
“What's this?” she asked, catching the small silver disk.
“Bonus, it's cold outside and getting colder. I th
ought a little extra might make the Long Night a little easier for you and your people.”
“Thank you, I never caught your name.”
“Vic. Vic Rybov.”
She put out her hand. “Marie Brennan. You’re always welcome here, Vic Rybov.”
He shook her hand before stepping out into the cold twilight. Tiny snowflakes danced in the air as he trudged back to the warmth of the Revenge.
Three days later Vic Rybov led his charge into the custody office. The usual security officer was on duty. A throng of bounty hunters and their prisoners mobbed the counter and the man struggled to deal with a single prisoner let alone all.
It was noisy, chaotic and could kick off at any second.
Rybov pushed his way to the front and turned to crowd.
“Clear the office now!” he said. A chorus of cheers and jeers came back at him.
“I need 10 minutes.” He pulled his prisoner’s hood off. Anders Richter blinked under the harsh lights. A gasp went up from the crowd.
“I’m sure you all would agree, this one will need some careful handling. Nova Vision operates three other bounty offices on this station, so if you can’t wait, I suggest find one and use it. I’m sure Joel won’t mind.”
A few lame cheers came back from the crowd and then some applause. Hunters were a peculiar breed. In the field it was cut throat competition; once a fugitive was claimed they were always quick celebrate another’s triumph. Like all those living on the fringes of society, be they smugglers, pirates or thieves, there was a certain camaraderie that came with life in the shadows.
The crowd mumbled and one by one dispersed.
“You got him?” Joel asked.
“Evidently,” Rybov replied.
“He looks a little… beaten up.”
“He tripped.”
Joel grinned. He made a call.
“I’ve asked Station Security to send a team down. We need to get this one off station as soon as we can.”
“Can we get this written up? I have places to be.”
Joel nodded and tapped the details into his computer. He whistled.
“Well, Mr Rybov, you have earned the biggest payout this station has ever made, 50 million galactic dollars. You, sir, are a rich son of a bitch.”
Rybov snorted and handed over two credit disks.
“30 on the first one, 20 on the second.”
Joel transferred the funds and buzzed the holding cell door open. Rybov shoved the silent Richter inside.
He snatched the credit disks off the counter.
“Any luck on the other one? Not that I guess you care much now,” Joel asked as Rybov moved toward the door.
“No… from what I hear she’s dead.”
“Well you have an exclusive on her. Take the opportunity if it comes up.”
Rybov gave a farewell nod as he stepped through the door.
He made his way through the station heading for Dino’s. Sofi sat in a booth with Talia
Rybov joined them and sat. He ordered a whiskey.
“Kid,” he said. “The man is now in jail. You made that happen.”
He pulled out a credit disk and slid it over the table to Talia.
“See Campbell gets that, less your handling charge.”
Rybov downed his drink and stood.
“Come on kid, I said I’d get you somewhere civilised. Let’s go to Mizarma.”
“Affirmative, Vic,” she replied.
Talia stood.
“Are you going to be okay with her Vic? Never had you down as the fatherly type.”
“She’s no trouble. Cleans the ship and keeps me in coffee. When we land, I’ll hand her over to welfare services and she’ll be their problem.”
Talia took his hand and squeezed.
“Take care Vic Rybov. It's a dangerous galaxy.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll make it better along the way; maybe make myself better too.”
He meant it. He said his farewells and headed for the docks. Sofi held his cybernetic hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JOEL Barnard was used to dealing with the dregs of the Frontier. Interactions with unsavoury characters were an everyday occurrence for a Fugitive Management Officer. Mostly they were just unpleasant, others like the heavyset man in front of him oozed latent violence. Joel could see a short fuse burned behind his dark eyes.
Joel kept his cool, hiding fear with a professional facade.
“So, Mr Manson, how can I help you?”
“Richter. Is the contract still open?”
Joel laughed.
“You are too late my friend. One of my regulars marched in here with him earlier today.”
The man slammed his fist on the desk; it jolted Joel’s paperwork into the air.
“Is he still here?”
“No, the Feds took him off as soon as they found out we had him. The fucker couldn’t have been in the custody suite more than an hour.”
“Did he have anything with him? Datapads, notebooks?”
Regulations prevented Joel from disclosing information to a third party, but he wanted this man out of his office right now.
“Just the clothes he came in wearing. He was apprehended on Corso, if that helps.”
“Who by?”
“Can’t give you that information…”
Manson reached across the desk and grabbed him by the back of the neck, slamming his head onto the desktop with such force he saw stars.
“Fuck man, what the fuck?” He tried to reach for the panic button, the big man grabbed his extended hand.
“Who brought him in?”
“A guy called Rybov, an old guy with…”
“A cybernetic eye?” Manson released him and pointed to his own right eye “Red, base model? Face like chopped ham?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Manson released him and he staggered to his feet, stepping away from the desk. He dabbed the side of his mouth, his shaking hand came away bloody.
“Where did he go? What’s the name of his vessel?” Manson snarled.
Barnard tapped an enquiry into his terminal. The fight had gone out of him. The sooner Manson left the better.
“He left not long after he collected the bounty. I can’t tell you where. His ship registration is GK-53911, Eden’s Revenge.”
“Fuck me Vic, you old softie,” he muttered.
“He was working another contract - Mira Thorn… the…” Joel said.
“Thorn? Yeah that makes sense.”
Manson leaned in close. Joel trembled as Manson’s black eyes burned into his soul.
“Mr Barnard, here is what I want you to do for me,” he said, his voice heavy faux geniality. “I presume you have dropbox link for Rybov?”
“Yes...” Joel said, his voice a rough whisper.
Hunters were required to leave a link. They seldom worked, often leading to dead mailboxes or shotgunning into an unsuspecting mail account.
“You will be notified of the Thorn bounty being met, when you are make sure you tell Vic, give him my name. Tell him Karl Manson has his prize.”
He stepped back. Joel took a deep breath.
“Okay.”
Manson tossed a credit disk on the desk. “For the inconvenience. You have been very helpful, Mr Barnard.”
With that he turned and left.
Joel picked up the disk with trembling hands. He doubled up in pain and ran for the toilet. His bowels gave out before he reached it.
Mira collapsed the envelope in Baikonur Station’s arrival sector. Her short-range radar immediately picked up several hundred vessels within 50,000 kilometres.
Baikonur was half the size of Tellerman Gateway. It served as an interstellar truck stop for cargo en route to the Frontier. It was favoured by non-corporation shipping lines and independent haulers. The station provided fuel, resupply and a range of entertainments; most were legal, others less so.
“Xander had a dream of developing Tarantella to rival Baikonur,” Tish said as s
he optimised their approach vector. “We were better placed and had the facilities, but the Trade Guild always resisted; they preferred to live off local taxes and trade tariffs.”
“Do you miss it?” Mira asked.
“No. I’ve seen a bigger universe now. I miss my apartment, my books…”
She lapsed into silence. The fleeting flash of sadness in her face was barely perceptible under the running lights but still exposed her true feelings.
“There’s bound to be a flea market station side. I’ll buy you some books,” Mira said.
Tish’s smile lit the darkened deck.
Mira opened a comm channel.
“Baikonur Traffic.” She checked the registration scribbled on duct tape and stuck over the official ID plate. “GK-87632, requesting docking; a cheap berth if you please.”
There was a pause. They could afford a premium berth but freighters like the Second Chance always operated on a budget; using an internal bay would draw unwanted attention.
“Read you 632. we have you 175 clicks out, sub sector 721. Proceed to pier 54, mooring 87. Sorry you have a long walk to the station, but you get what you pay for.”
“Affirmative traffic. What’s your turnaround time?”
“That’s the rest of the bad news; turnaround for vessels of your size and budget is three days, sorry. It’s been busy since the Federation fell apart.”
A three day layover was all they needed but at least they would enjoy a break in routine.
“Read you Traffic. Look’s like we’ll be enjoying your hospitality for a while, 632 out.”
She lined the ship up with the vector and watched in silence as the station approached.
Baikonur followed the design of every other deep space station, a steel tube with docking gantries extending outward like a spiderweb. The station was in an unnamed binary star system; Pier 54 was on the “daylight” side and Mira had to lower the glare shield over the viewports to save her vision.
“What about customs?” Tish asked.
“It would be more of an issue on Tellerman. Frontier has no presence here and I’m hoping we’ll just slip through; I handed out the overalls to the Senators this morning.”
They were posing as a freighter crew. Tish had printed overalls for the passengers and spent three hours impregnating the freshly produced fabric with oil, grime and anything else she could find. The results were fragrant in the wrong way and suitably convincing. Mira had conducted enough inspections of independent haulers to know how crews looked and smelt; she had been impressed by Tish’s creativity.
