And then they’ll come for you because there’s probably about forty thousand of them running amok playing Resistance Fighter: the RPG in the city right now. And then back at Command you’ll have to explain why you shot all those civvies down.
You know that, Manda! You’ll have to explain.
Well, sir, she almost says aloud. They deserved it.
And that’s a pretty darn funny conversation, and she has to suppress a laugh, which reminds her that someone either busted a rib when they beat her or gave it a pretty good bruising.
So, don’t do that, Manda. Just get out. Get back.
That’s all you gotta do, Manda Panda. Get yourself out. Get yourself back.
She can stick a guard easy. None of the “stone-cold killers” she’s seen with this bunch strike her as a problem. Observation and planning will get her clear.
Play it cool. That’s all you gotta do, Manda.
She feels good about this. Very good, in fact.
They take her into a pitifully contrived “jail cell” that’s little more than some wire mesh over an alcove at the back of the basement. Easy stuff to get through.
Ninety percent of her plan is formed as they switch on a light and she sees the two legionnaires, both beaten and messed up, lying inside the cage. They pull back the wire mesh and force her through. Then someone throws a medical bag taken from some marine, most likely the downed bird, onto the dirty floor.
She just stands there. Clenching the knife between arm and chest.
She hears boots stepping through the crowd. They’re clearly military. They have that dull hollow thump of issue boots on concrete.
She turns to see a man. Older, gray hair. Cruel eyes. Shining black diamonds in the dim of the basement gloom.
“They need attention, girl. Use the kit. And, to be clear: we took out anything you could use as a weapon, Sergeant, so make do without the laser scalpel, shears, and needles. Get to work, Marine. Your little combat lifesaver skills you learned to make corporal is all them leejes have going for them. Keep ’em alive. Legionnaires are valuable. Marines, not so much. If they die… I guess you do too.”
Then he turns and walks away, and she listens to the thump of his boots fade down the hall. The resister kids in their costumes all watch him go and then they pull shut the mesh wire fence that she could get through. They place guards that literally turn their backs on her and start looking at their datapads.
It would be so easy to pull a silent takedown on them. All the kids guarding her, backs turned, minds elsewhere. She could probably saw away on their throats and no one would notice for a few hours.
All of that. They do all the secure things wrong and leave her as if daring her to try and make the easy escape.
She feels the knife.
Knows she won’t be using it.
Bending down, she takes a closer look at the legionnaire lying on the ground next to her. It’s the same one she helped stand. Removed his bucket so he could breathe. His skin is shiny and sweating.
He’s hurt pretty bad, she thinks as she assesses his wounds.
He mumbles something, and she bends close to his ear, pulling the marine medical bag close. She needs to examine him in order to see what she can do for him.
Maybe there’s nothing that can be done.
Maybe that’s how you don’t get out of here, Manda.
She moves the knife to her boot.
Get out now. Get back.
He’s mumbling. Looking over to the other legionnaire on the floor of the cell.
“Beers. He’s hurt bad. Back. Shot there,” the Legion sergeant tells her.
And then the lights go out. The guards don’t seem to mind. They remain illuminated by the soft glow of their datapads, held a couple of feet from their stooped faces.
It all feels like a temptation. As though they want to make it as easy as possible for her when the time comes.
“Okay,” she whispers to the Legion NCO. “I’ll help him first. Are you in pain?”
She feels stupid asking this. Of course the man’s in pain. He’s been shot in the thigh. And it looks bad. Two in the chest too. His breathing is shallow. But no bloody foam in his mouth. So, there’s that. No chest puncture.
“Nah,” he laughs weakly. “Ain’t nothin’…”
He pauses for a long moment, grimacing in pain. Trying to breathe.
“… but a… thang.”
Then…
“Help… Beers. He’s… just a kid.”
Okay, she thinks to herself. Feels the knife in her boot. And knows she’s not leaving them.
You’ll die here, Manda. They’ll die here. Y’know that, right, girl?
She begins to treat their wounds because that’s all you can do sometimes. Treat the wounds. Ironic. That isn’t her job in the marines. In fact, her job is the opposite. She makes wounds. Big ones that never have a chance to be treated.
But she did make it to sergeant. And the guy with the cruel eyes had that part right. You don’t make buck without knowing how to save a life along the way.
The kit is incomplete. It has some medicine, something to stop the bleeding. Skinpacks. But it doesn’t have enough.
She gets them stabilized, but they need more. Much more.
In the dark of the basement she sits back and knows she’s not leaving them. She’ll stay.
I know, she tells the voice. And then tells it to shut up. I know.
Dumb, Amanda. Real dumb.
13
Tyrus Rechs slipped through the cracked blast doors of the docking bay, re-sealing them as he left. According to local protocols, what was now on the other side of those doors would be sealed under quarantine. A status that could be lifted in three days after the proper medical report had been transmitted to the dockmaster—assuming the ship was equipped with a qualified autodoc or med bot to give the okay. Until then, everyone with a brain would stay well clear of the “plague-riddled” dock sixty-five.
It was time to assess the situation on the ground. Everything that came out of the galactic media was suspect. Had been for years. The agenda they were throwing behind the side they wanted to win had scotched any ounce of reliability.
Rechs moved along the Docks’ fading Grand Concourse. Getting through the terminal—under the alias Kurt Weil from New Baden—wasn’t a problem. His long years as a bounty hunter had given him access to some of the best ident slicers in the galaxy. And as long as he was moving about in cargo pants, work boots, a clean T-shirt, and a flight jacket, he looked like every other freighter jockey looking to make some easy credits off a bad situation.
The Grand Concourse was kilometers long, encircling the entire massif the city of Detron lay upon, but many sections of the once-fabled boarding and entertainment area for the galaxy’s flyboys and girls were now off-limits, and others were accessible only by subway. The massive freight docks and direct berthing for some of the larger starships were among the latter—officially still in use, but unofficially abandoned. Such ships did not call often in the days of Detron’s long slide into a planetary backwater.
The Repub had pulled the destroyer Castle out of the sky, but it was still easy to spot up there in low orbit. Another move by the powers that be within the House, in their efforts to de-escalate the deteriorating situation. But the Soshies considered the sight of a military vessel to be an act of emotional battery against their persons, tantamount to the actual shooting that had claimed some of their lives. Many news personalities agreed that while they supported the military, armed forces were still an inherent danger to the galaxy.
“Typical,” muttered Rechs through gritted teeth as he passed a screen with one tater-headed journalist practically foaming at the mouth in a high-pitched squealing rant about the need for non-lethal legionnaires.
Rechs continued along the main curving concourse, a once-
fantastic walkway where the high-end stores had operated duty-free, occupying fantastic malls and pavilions. Now such luxury shops were gone, and a dozen variations of low-rent, barely legal nomadic kiosks had sprung up in their place. Lotus, secure communications, pawn shops—all variations on the theme of bottom-feeding commerce. And every store seemed to reappear every two hundred meters, never mind that there were three in the last concourse bubble, along with the inevitable bar, a travel hotel that had seen better days, and food carts that filled the concourse with savory if not overwhelming smells.
Hardworking aliens smiled at Rechs as he passed, assuring him that their chava, musami, or lotus rice preparations were the best. Rechs declined the silent offers and instead hit a bar, an old corporate outpost from the “David Sanford’s Frontier Lodge” chain that had once dominated every star port in the galaxy. The chain made a good hot dog, and Rechs hadn’t had one in years.
He sat down at the end of the bar where he could keep an eye on the concourse. No one knew he was here, but it paid to be careful. There were always hopefuls seeking to collect on the ludicrous bounty Nether Ops had issued on behalf of the House of Reason—though none of that could ever be proved—and accrue the easy fame that would come with shooting down the notorious Tyrus Rechs. Win-win for a thousand dreamers hoping for a shot at stardom.
He had his snub-nosed Python in a shoulder holster under the flight jacket. Three knives and a few of his other usual tricks rounded out his concealed carry kit. But with such a heavy Repub marine presence all over the Docks, this was probably one of the safer places in the galaxy right about now.
The hot dog was just as Rechs remembered. He put mustard on it and decided on a cold draft to go with it. Spur of the moment. Some things reminded him of better days gone by. The past. Things that probably weren’t ever coming back around in this lifetime no matter how long it lasted.
This hot dog was that.
The constant news cycle was bleating on the big prism screen that dominated the bar, and that politician that Gabriella had been bent out of shape over was being interviewed.
She’s pretty enough, thought Rechs as he took a bite of his mustard-laden dog.
She’d had all the right work done. Obviously, there had been a heavy-duty effort by a PR team who’d managed to nail just the right note of go-getter-young-person-but-coulda-been-a-fashion model. She had a smile she’d learned, but she wasn’t quite able to connect it with her eyes if you studied her hard enough.
The eyes were the window to the soul. Rechs had learned that long ago, even though it had sounded weird and witchy when the woman he’d known told it to him. And these eyes told you this about the woman playing big-time politician on the screen: everything she was saying she didn’t believe, no matter how much she tried to make points with tone and emphatic hand gestures. The eyes didn’t connect with what the brain was making her mouth say, and maybe that was for the best, because either there was nothing in there, or nothing but darkness.
But substance wasn’t the point. No one cared for it anyway. And she’d learned to make her eyes go wide and throw people off the trail while her mouth moved and made nice words some people wanted to hear. Like she was talking to children who’d believe just about anything.
Rechs didn’t want to believe that anybody would fall for that act. People needed to be smarter than simple children being told a fairy tale at story time. But they weren’t. He remembered a thousand moments in his long life when he’d seen the collective mass of the galaxy choose to fall for some sweet seduction from that year’s shining star soon to become next year’s tyrant rounding up the bad thinkers and taking away the blasters. Always for the greater good.
Savage thinking. Every time.
Several people in the bar started to laugh as the politician blathered on and on about the much-needed change she demanded take place. But the laughter from the locals was bitter, and Rechs perceived she was not well-liked here on the Docks. And that made the last of his hot dog taste better. Especially with the cold draft beer.
The bartender, an old guy with a red face, moved down the counter wiping up spilled beer and freshly popped popcorn. A classic of the once-stellar chain. Putting glasses in the sink. Filling baskets with more of the hot buttery popcorn that exploded out of the machine down the way every few minutes.
The old bartender moved in front of Rechs and turned to watch what the politician was saying. Then he too snorted at another of her increasingly ludicrous statements.
“Fifty to one odds she only makes things worse here,” the bartender said—to himself mainly, but also to Rechs. “But then again, that’s all the government really does when you think about it. Tells you they’re helping you out while they’re ruining it all, one new law at a time. They never decrease. Always increase. My whole life. How does it last? How long can it go on? I’m always wondering that.”
Rechs nodded and finished his beer. Not because he was thirsty but because he wanted the old guy to refill it and keep talking. Intel on the ground was valuable. Once it was time to make his move and collect the captured legionnaires, there wouldn’t be time for it. He’d need to know as much as he could before then.
But Rechs had never been an interrogator.
He didn’t deal in talk.
He dealt in hot lead served cold, as someone had once told him. Whether that had been an overheated play on words or a deadly serious observation, he’d never been able to tell. He wasn’t the poetic sort. But upon reflection, he’d found it to be true.
He was a listener. Always had been. You stayed alive in the galaxy by listening more than you talked. That was a maxim he’d lived by and not told anyone.
The tall draft with just the right amount of foam drooling over the rim was set down as the politician girl on the screen continued to talk about the reforms needed on Detron that would allow the situation to improve immediately. And galaxy-wide as well, of course. The galaxy was always just one more budget-busting program away from utopia. They’d even named the capital after that ideal.
If he was being honest with himself, Rechs knew that sort of thinking had begun to creep back into the Republic as soon as the Savage Wars had ended. And maybe even before that. Casper had tried to warn him about it. Had said something drastic needed to be done. Hinted about things they’d agreed must never be done. Things they didn’t even speak about.
Then Casper disappeared. Faked his own death. Rechs was sure the man wasn’t dead. And ever since, Rechs had been hanging out near the edge. Waiting, really hoping, for something not to happen that he had a pretty good idea was going to happen.
But that was another story. And it had nothing to do with the legionnaires he was here to rescue. And the marine.
“That bad?” said Rechs to the old bartender, who leaned against the bar with one hand on a bad hip, the bar rag casually wiping something down as he listened to the pretty little liar on the screen telling all the stories the media wanted everyone to hear.
“That bad, pal?” repeated the bartender as though he were some character actor summoned to give a soliloquy he’d given a thousand times before. Each time made to seem as though it were as fresh as the first.
“Lemme tell ya’, flyboy, how great Detron used to be. When I got outta the navy and got back to Detron, the streets might as well have been paved with gold the economy was so good back then. Banging on all guns as we used to say. Manufactured at least three battleships a year. Beeeauuutiful things. Not like these destroyers they make today over at Tarrago. Them big old ships was really something to behold. And they were fighters too. Designed to go toe to toe with Savage hulks and cruisers so big they blotted out the starfield. But hey, you kids have no reference point.”
Though Rechs looked far younger than the man, he’d been at Telos. He’d seen up close what those ships did. He’d led troops off those battleships that were now little more than drifting space debris. A
nd he remembered when the House of Reason declared that the need for such imposing, expensive ships was over. Because the Savage Wars were over.
He nodded politely at the bartender.
“But to be here in those days was to really be part of the future,” continued the old bartender. “Them battleships, it was like lookin’ at the future. And the future was all bright and shiny. You couldn’t wait to be a part of it!”
The man gave a melancholy smile and began to polish the old wood-grain bar once more for the thousandth uncountable time.
“Everybody was a doer… know what I mean, kid?”
Rechs nodded.
“Everybody had skin in the game. The whole city was bent on improving their own lives. Nobody was lookin’ to the government for nothin’. Fund the Legion, keep the peace out on the edge, and leave us alone. That was how we wanted it. Everybody wanted to be the best, and they were willing to work to make it happen. Make their own way. Become somethin’. Make a thing out of yourself you could be proud of. We looked up to the architects down at the shipyard like they were our sports heroes. Or like… like…”
He floundered, waving his hands around wildly like he suddenly didn’t recognize where he was for a moment. Like talking about the past had made it real. Like a time machine had suddenly snatched him up and left him in the mythical world of Better Days.
“Like they do the stream stars nowadays. It was like that back then, but about things that really mattered. Kids were all good-looking. Going places. The future was really ours. Not this one, but a way better one. But…”
There was a long pause.
“Then the contracts dried up because the House of Reason decided they wanted the smaller ships we didn’t build. Someone in the House had a brother on another planet, we all said back then. Those other worlds got the ship contracts for inferior vessels that never would have held their own in a Savage fight. Lost my job in the target acquisition mainframe installs section over at Zephyr Works. The ship we was working on, the Delphinus, she’s still out there half put together. X-class. And believe me, she was going to be a beaut.”
Madame Guillotine Page 11
