by Nick Cole
Jacobson stared at Rechs—wide-eyed but looking inward. “No. Not now. I thought that at first, back when I pulled every string to get attached to this expedition. Thought I could somehow change the course of events. But not after what he did to that city down there. No. I don’t think I can rescue him. But you… you can. If anyone can… it’s probably you. You’re his only hope.”
She paused.
“General—Rechs—I’m pretty sure that super-destroyer has a crustbuster planet-killer on board. And if they find the Dragon, they’re gonna crack whatever planet he’s on from orbit. Just to be sure.”
22
Rechs and Captain Jacobson made their way out into the Taijing afternoon. From the top of the docking levels, high up alongside the mountains that overlooked the port, they could see an almost perfect circle of black—the blast radius where the Samurai mech had detonated.
Much of the Legion base had been wrecked, as had the bridge leading to it. Luckily—amazingly—the city of ten thousand lily pads was still mostly intact, except for the large new pools where several had been damaged and sunk. And already those spaces were swiftly under reconstruction. Life on Taijing didn’t seem to have much room to spare. One person’s tragedy was someone else’s opportunity.
Republic dropships crisscrossed the skies, ferrying legionnaires, supplies, and wounded to and fro within the city. The super-destroyer had moved down out of orbit and now hung over the city like an ominous cloud.
Jacobson’s brow furrowed under the shadow of the massive warship. She turned to Rechs. “According to our intel, there’s a Sinasian freighter pilot on Taijing who may know a route to Shangri-La. A smuggler’s run. If he wasn’t killed, maybe he can get us there, for a price.”
That didn’t seem like much of a starting point. “I wasn’t aware there was a smuggler’s run. And seems like anyone who knows it would already be rich enough to scoff at your price.”
“The very few smugglers who know the way are understandably tight-lipped about it. And Nether Ops has more ways to convince people to do what we want than credits… if that’s what it comes down to.”
They started down the escalator to the first tram level. Rechs indicated with a silent flick of his eyes a legionnaire patrol stationed at the platform they were headed toward. Glass that had once formed the roof of the terminal had been blown out by the mech’s blast.
“They’re looking for the Dragon,” observed Jacobson.
“Yeah.”
They passed the squad without incident and took another tram down to the base of the mountain.
“Transfer here,” Captain Jacobson said, and they stepped on yet another mover, which carried them along the bay to an old fishing village along the outer coast.
Here, away from the city, the locals seemed rougher and more suspicious, watching the outsiders with wary eyes and little chatter. The coastal sea had turned rough from an offshore depression, and rain came down in brief spasms.
Jacobson led Rechs into an old waterfront bar decorated in neon and fishing tackle. The bar area was half-crowded by obvious out-of-town types, whereas the locals dominated a terrace that hung out over the water. Evidently this was where they’d find the smuggler. They took a seat, and a Sinasian girl with painted eyes and a smoldering glare came over to take their order.
“You drinking?” she practically barked.
“Two beers,” said Rechs.
“I don’t like beer,” Jacobson said once the waitress had gone.
“You’ll learn,” said Rechs.
He felt that to order anything fancier would only draw more unwanted attention, given how the server had been eyeing them.
A twin-hulled freighter, rust-red and white, roared off and out to sea, rattling the establishment’s roof as it went. Two Lancers were escorting it away. For a moment the howling wake of the freighter and the fighters washed over the bar. Someone turned up the local pop, a whiny keening kind of dance beat, to full blast.
“They’re verifying all freight traffic and escorting every ship leaving here,” Jacobson whispered as the roar of the starships faded. “That’ll be hard for your ship to get through.”
Rechs said nothing.
“Beer,” said the returning server, slamming two bottles down sloppily. She also threw down a greasy basket of hot and salty fried pork chips and a local hot sauce before departing, yelling something in Sinasian through a kitchen reach-through.
Rechs took a long pull on the ice-cold beer, then used his fingertip to push the wet ring of condensation it left on the table into dents and grooves along its surface. The beer tasted good. Maybe it was the sweltering heat. The rain. The smell of fish frying. Or of the pungent salty dipping sauce the locals liked with it. But that icy first swallow cleared the dust from his throat.
“You’re Tyrus Rechs!” screamed a big Drusic from the shadows of the bar, its chair and table skidding across the room as it abruptly stood.
The bar got real quiet. Only the sound of frying fish and that annoying whiny pop playing on some device with a blown speaker. Everyone had heard the Drusic shout the bounty hunter’s name, and everyone froze.
Rechs had been in situations like this more than once. But usually when he was in his armor. This one might be a bit trickier. Either way, he knew what to do next: say nothing and move his weapon hand as close to the blaster strapped on his thigh as he could get it. Because shooting was about to become the only option.
Someone thought they’d just hit the lottery.
Someone who wanted to get rich and didn’t realize they were about to die trying.
“I know you from Noonidaar,” the Drusic said, taking heavy footsteps toward Rechs. “There was a big fight there. You brought in Suba da-Tai. Nasty gangster who killed for Ozmodi and his boys? You were hit in your helmet and took it off right before you shot down Suba. Yeah, I know your face real well, Tyrus Rechs.”
Rechs’s fingertips brushed against his blaster. He glanced up at the speaker, giving the big Drusic a dismissive once-over, then lowered his eyes. His ears would tell him if the big alien moved in the least. Especially if he decided to pull.
“You got a problem with that?” asked Rechs. Except it didn’t sound like a question. More like a statement. Or an accusation that was going to get someone in a lot of trouble.
Rechs had seen plenty of people back down when he put it that way.
The Drusic chose to stand. He had two blasters over his wide simian chest. No armor because there just wasn’t any made to fit a species that size—unless it had the money for a custom job. Rechs had once seen a Drusic rip a man in half with his bare hands.
And they were fast. Fast enough that Rechs didn’t chance a pull. Not yet.
Because they could be reckless.
Because everyone inside the cantina was in the way. Someone was going to get hit if blaster bolts started flying.
And, more than anything else, because that was going to draw the Legion. Rechs didn’t need for them to become aware of the fact that Tyrus Rechs was planetside.
So he held off on settling accounts.
“Yeah, I have a problem!” roared the big ape, fangs bared. “Suba was my bounty. Worked on it for weeks, then you come in and kill everyone. You stole my contract!”
There was a longer story, one that the Drusic might have appreciated. But Rechs didn’t think this was the time or place. Or that the big ape was a listener.
At that moment, the door to the bar swung open and in walked a human in a grease-stained tropical shirt, a leather coat, olive green cargo pants, and sports shoes.
“That’s our pilot,” Jacobson whispered, and for some reason Rechs would yell at himself about later, he took his eyes off the ape who was about to kill him and checked the newcomer.
What he saw was the clueless pilot now stopped dead in his tracks. Without prompting, the pilot raised hi
s hands over his head. When Rechs looked back at the Drusic, he understood why.
Both of the alien’s blasters were pointed right at Rechs’s chest.
“Now I’m gonna shoot down the famous Tyrus Rechs and collect a nice big bounty.”
Everyone in the bar was real interested now. Rechs watched as several hands went to several blasters. Everyone seemed to be feeling very lucky. Or at least… they thought they were.
“Get the pilot out of the bar when it starts,” Rechs whispered to Jacobson.
“When what—” She stopped herself. She must have figured it out. He saw her nod through his periphery.
“What you say?” roared the Drusic to Jacobson.
The little exchange seemed to enrage the simianoid even more.
“Easy,” Rechs soothed. He muttered to Jacobson out of the side of his mouth, “Get ready.”
There was electricity in the air. Like a thunderstorm in summer. To his credit, the pilot merely stood there, apparently convinced that immobility was his best and only defense with so many blaster selector switches being gently flipped from secure to make-your-play.
“Those guys are the ones you should be worried about,” said Rechs as he indicated with his eyes the locals on the terrace. It was funny how these things worked out. At first, Rechs had been intent on saving them some trouble. Now that they’d gone to their blasters to show their true colors, Rechs would use them all up.
The beast spun and unloaded with both barrels, sending a furious blaster barrage at the customers along the terrace. Not all Drusics are so easy to manipulate, but Rechs could tell that this one was amped up on a cocktail of adrenaline and testosterone from its many gonads.
Those on the terrace who had foolishly drawn their weapons—blasters they did not make a living with; weapons they liked to wave around for show or were somehow comforted by—were taken down with an economy of shots that was stunning given the rage with which the Drusic bellowed while firing. The simian’s blaster bolts tore into the patrons’ chests regardless of whether they tried to fire back, drop for cover, or even dive over the terrace rail into the cobalt-blue waters out here along the coast.
Rechs used this opportunity to shoot the Drusic in the back of the head, trusting only his hand cannon for the job. Best to be sure when it came to Drusics. The shot exploded the thing’s skull, and the big monster went down.
Its blasters were still firing. The bitter waitress was grazed. Fishing gear caught fire. One shot smashed something in the kitchen that knocked the frying oil over onto open flame.
So much for avoiding the kind of scene that would draw the attention of the Legion. Or worse… a Nether Ops kill team.
23
“Captain Hess.”
The comm interrupted the badly scarred, one-eyed officer whose career had once been destined for the heights of the House of Reason.
He was leading his men in a physical training run down the length of the ship, part of a grueling session that had started on the hangar deck with a hundred burpees, then cleans with interceptor tow bars the Navy chiefs had laughingly provided until they saw what they assumed to be a squad of Dark Ops leejes actually repping them out. That was followed by a duck-walk with their N-4s over their heads the length of the flight deck, which was down for maintenance rotation.
This brisk run down the massive ship—and not the direct route down the central spine transportation corridor, but a route with as many stairs, ladders, and tubes as possible—was intended to be the cooldown.
His Nether Ops squad didn’t call him Hardcore Hess merely because he’d taken to beating the crud out of everyone in weekly hand-to-hand sessions. They called him that because of the way he was always at the front of torturous sessions like this one. They called him that and other, less polite names, because he was a driven man. Fanatically determined to cleanse some unit weakness that only he could see. As if through pain, drilling, and training he would purify them all so they could purify the galaxy.
“Go for Hess,” the captain responded, activating a sweat-soaked comm.
“Sir, we have a possible sighting on your tango by a local on the payroll. A bar in Dom Kay. Little fishing village along the coast outside the main lagoon. Prepping your dropship now.”
Hess swore. They were way down-spine. Even taking a speedlift, it would be ten minutes before they could gear up, another five to make the ship, and fifteen to reach the target.
Hess called a halt and told them what needed to happen.
“On my mark, you sprint your sorry asses back to the ready room and gear up. Board the drop. First man in the bird gets a promotion and thirty days leave.”
Hess had barely finished before the first man in the column just turned and ran off. He hadn’t even dismissed them. The others caught on and followed, pouring it on and clubbing the front-runners to get ahead of them.
Hess liked that kind of motivation and initiative. With such men he could conquer the galaxy.
By the time the bird lifted off the pad, the men were bruised and cruising on adrenaline, but locked and loaded.
Thirteen minutes.
The dropship cleared the portside hangar deck of the super-destroyer Vigilant to begin the drop for the landing zone.
And Tyrus Rechs.
***
Greasy flames raced across the weathered, dry wood of the bar. Crawling like greedy hands, they caught the nets, burned blue from the spilt booze, and generally roared inside the kitchen where they had gotten their start.
Captain Jacobson had tackled the pilot as he’d turned to run. Rechs had flipped a table and was now caught in a firefight with some of the other patrons. It turned out they weren’t all just gaping fools wanting to look tough. Some of them were legit hired blasters, and it seemed likely that at least one or two were low-level bounty hunters running down leads on the Dragon.
Now all of them had collectively decided to kill Tyrus Rechs.
Jacobson dragged the pilot to his feet and fled out the door, having to push the smuggler through like he was drunk. Rechs used his blaster on high cycle, burning through a charge pack just to lay down enough cover fire for the two of them to get out. He squatted back down behind his overturned table and swapped charge packs as blaster bolts slammed into his cover and the wall behind him. Three charge packs left. And a knife. He pulled the blade, reversed it over his firearm, and duck-walked for cover behind another table.
No one seemed interested in charging Rechs, even though it was the move with the best chance of succeeding. A fearsome reputation had its advantages. Instead, they seemed content to shoot the tables he used for cover to pieces.
Rechs chanced a blind shot from around a corner, hoping to burn a smoking hole in someone’s head.
“Rigo’s down!” someone shouted from that side of the bar.
“Who shot him?” someone else bellowed. And then, “Hey! Don’t shoot us until we get him!”
Now what? wondered Rechs.
He crawled on his belly for a set of stairs that led down. Maybe to a storage cellar, or maybe to the water itself—the bar hung out over the water. As blaster bolts sizzled around him, Rechs threw himself into the darkness of the stairs.
He smashed against the wall of a landing midway down, pushed off, and tumbled down the rest of the way. He could hear boots pounding on the wooden floorboards overhead like a herd of jauntas rushing at the scent of blood.
They were coming after him.
Rechs fired into the ceiling, blowing smoking holes into the hardwood. Showers of displaced dust trickled down into his eyes, causing them to water and flutter. Hopefully he’d hit someone in the foot. Or at least kept their pursuit back for a second.
At the bottom of the stairs, a supply dock bobbed in the dark water. Two boats sat beside crustacean cages, old nets, and gear. One was a thin paddle boat used for fishing. The other was a high
-powered hoverboat, no doubt used for smuggling.
Rechs jumped aboard the smuggler’s boat and tapped the power display. A passkey screen came up, and he fished out a small device from the pocket of his coat. He adhered it to the screen and aimed his pistol at the stairs.
The first guy down the steps took a bolt in the chest that sat him straight down, temporarily blocking the stairs for the rest. But his friends were set on coming. They crushed the hapless man beneath their boots just to get off a shot at Rechs. The bounty hunter sent a flurry of bolts into the stairwell, hoping his charge pack would last long enough for the device to get him past the boat’s defenses.
A small chirp indicated the lock breaker had bypassed the security key. Rechs tapped in the commands to fire up the twin turbines the slick little boat used for engines.
Attempting to swap out charge packs with one hand, Rechs had to duck as those intent on collecting his bounty burst through the stairwell. Hand on the throttle, he slammed it full forward. The craft lurched, still moored to the dock, mooring lines straining, causing a small tidal wave of water to splash up, obscuring the blaster shots of Rechs’s pursuers. A moment later the craft ripped free of the lines, rending the dock and sending the would-be bounty hunters into the water as it spat off into the ocean.
Rechs tapped his comm as he rose up to take the controls, scanning the waters around the boat. The twin turbines howled like tormented phantoms out over the waters beyond the fishing village.
“Jacobson!” he yelled over the spray of water and the ominous moan of the engines.
“Here,” came the reply over the comm he wore in his ear. “Extracting the pilot. We’re halfway down the street. Where to?”
“Give me the location of his ship. Tell him we need to depart now.”
There was a pause. Rechs checked the skies above, expecting to see shuttles or dropships from an interested Republic.
“He says he’s not sure he can make the jump with this much heat in the sky.”
“Doesn’t matter,” shouted Rechs over the engines. “His ship is jumping for Shangri-La in the next thirty minutes. And he’ll be onboard.”
