The legionnaire shrugged. “I answer to the Legion, not the marines.”
The general clucked his tongue and shook his head knowingly. Almost tiredly. He looked back at his two staff officers.
The three had a conversation with their eyes, not speaking a word. One that said to Rechs that certain games could be played.
“Well,” the general said, returning his focus to Rechs. “I think I can pull some strings and lay down a little administrative black magic to cover what can be covered and confuse the issues. Hell, I might have even told this leej here to do whatever it takes. And he just… well, he just ran with the ball. Give him a medal and it kinda makes it legal. Know what I mean? Did that once to a squad leader I had when I was a shavetail. My first platoon sergeant told me it was the right thing to do. So… I guess I can do it again. One last trick before they show me the door.”
“Thank you, General.”
The medical team was bringing the unconscious Lopez out. Both parties cleared a path.
Puncher hitched a thumb to point back into the Crow. “Gotta get my dog… uh, Mr. Rechs. Mind?”
The bounty hunter nodded. “Go ahead.”
Then he stepped over to the marine. Sergeant Almond. A med bot was trying to get her to lie down on a gurney for transport to sick bay. She wasn’t having it. “I’ll walk there on my own,” she said.
“Hang on a sec,” Rechs said. “Need to do something first.”
The med bot protested, but the marine pushed herself away and moved to the bounty hunter.
“C’mon,” Rechs said as he led her back aboard.
She followed him, still covered in the gray dust of the collapsed building. Thin and barely there like some ghost fading forever from this waking world. Rechs led her to his weapons shop, removed his bucket, and dropped it on a bench cluttered with blaster parts.
Sergeant Almond looked around in amazement. Rechs watched her take in all his weapons. Some hadn’t been seen in the galaxy for years. Others weren’t even known. Rechs saw the fatigue in her face writ large. The hollow sunken eyes. The fading ghost just asking for a darkness to disappear into.
Yeah, they would try to blame her for everything. Rechs had seen that before. Careers had to be saved. And a marine sergeant was expendable—to certain people. The general would fight for her as best he could, but the media would never take up her cause. Not most of them.
They were for Syl whatever-her-name-was. They were for the people who needed to burn down the Republic, and the galaxy, in order to remake it in their image.
He rummaged around in his tools. Opened a small drawer he hadn’t opened in years. Finally found what he was looking for.
He turned back to her.
“You did the right thing, Sergeant. You saved one of my legionnaires’ lives with complete disregard for your own. I want you to know… I’m grateful for that.”
She listened, feeling as though she was listening to a man who didn’t speak much, or often. Wondering what he meant by “my legionnaires.”
Tyrus Rechs cut into all that. “You’re gonna doubt yourself,” he continued. “Everyone does. Especially the heroes, in my experience. But right now, from me, I want you to know for the rest of your life that when others hesitated… you didn’t. You ran toward the fire. You helped when someone needed it badly.”
Silence.
He could see she was already thinking all those things. The things about how the politicians and careerists would crucify her.
“They’re gonna end me,” she said softly. “I know that. And… it’s okay. Commendations and anything else… they don’t matter. I just…”
She stopped.
He could see something inside her trying to break. But honestly there wasn’t anything else left. She’d given everything to protect that legionnaire from one minute to the next.
“I just wish… I could have got them all. Y’know? That’s all. But I’m no hero. I’m somethin’… somethin’… that watches over real heroes. But I ain’t one. Okay?”
Rechs studied her for a long moment. Saw she was all out of tears. That she was empty. That she’d given everything to save someone she hadn’t known before it all went down. Only because the person she was trying to save, served. Just like she did.
That was the only reason she’d gone in.
“Wrong,” said Tyrus. And then he opened the old awards case he’d been given so many years ago he’d stopped counting.
He held it out to her.
The Legion’s Order of the Centurion.
The highest award given by the Legion. The end-all that any legionnaire, or service member serving alongside the Legion, can receive. The gratitude of the entire Legion. More dead than living had received it.
He held it out to her.
“You saved my legionnaires,” Rechs repeated. “This is yours now. You earned it.”
Her mouth opened. She reached out when it was clear he would never take it back. And then she held it, studying it.
Tyrus Rechs stepped back and executed a smart salute. The tired, ruined old bounty hunter suddenly became the general of the Legion he’d been so long ago. Always was.
And he held that salute until—cautiously, unbelievingly—the tiny little marine sergeant, dust-covered, bloody, beaten, and hollow, saluted back.
“You didn’t forget nothin’,” said Tyrus Rechs.
* * *
Rechs found the legionnaire Puncher in the Crow’s lounge, kneeling in front of his dog. Rubbing the dog’s furry chest.
“Gotta go now, Leej,” said Rechs from the darkness. Studying the legionnaire’s fine latest-gen armor. Remembering those he’d known who’d worn it. For a moment he could feel something, like old ghosts coming to stand around him.
Puncher stood and turned.
“Yeah, well, we got a problem, Mr. Rechs.”
“Just Rechs,” said Tyrus. “What’s the problem?”
“My dog, this here is Baldur…” The leej stepped aside and Rechs could now see the Malinois who’d leapt through the dust and saved his life in the middle of the firefight. Twice.
Baldur looked at Rechs. Head straight on. Dark eyes staring into the old general. Rechs could almost feel the dog’s mind reaching out and trying to touch his. He knew of the telepathy program from his Legion days.
He’d known other dogs like this one.
“Problem is,” continued Puncher. “He says he has to go… with you, now.”
Rechs shook his head.
“I don’t…”
“He’s been pretty stubborn, sir, this one has,” Puncher said. “Since I started working with him. Yeah. He’s a stubborn one.”
“Okay. So make him go.”
“Won’t take, Rechs. And… believe me, I’m gonna catch hell for losing him. I dunno if you know anything about the breed, but, well… there’s a lot more to them than people think. They believe they got this greater purpose in the galaxy. They’re just working with us because we have common cause. Straight out of the dog’s mind and any handler will tell you the same. I know… weird. But he’s pretty serious.”
“How so?” asked Rechs. Studying the dog who seemed to be studying him back just as intently.
“He says…” Puncher took a deep breath. “He says you’re looking for somebody. Somebody important. Or dangerous. Or both. He’s a little vague on that. Just says ‘real bad.’ He says he’s got to help you find this person. It’s his… uh… his purpose. And I don’t like it. I like him. A lot. Best dog I ever worked with. Not the easiest, but the best. Like me. Know what I mean?”
Rechs did.
“Hell, I can go AWOL, I’ve done it before, and go off lookin’ with the both of you. But… he ain’t goin’ back with me. Says he’s found you. Says… you need him.”
Rechs stared at the dog.
“That t
rue?” asked Puncher after a moment. “You lookin’ for somebody that fits his weird idea?”
Rechs nodded. “I am.”
Puncher lowered his head.
“Thought so. Damn dog is always right.” His voice had gone low and raspy. Like he was fighting back some ocean of inevitability. Losing a best friend forever.
That’s the sound, Rechs thought to himself, of saying goodbye… when you don’t want to.
He knew it well.
The legionnaire’s voice was quiet. Sad. “I’ll… just get a new dog then,” he said, turning to Baldur. Trying to be angry. “One that ain’t crazy.”
The Malinois cocked his head to the side, looking up at the sad legionnaire. Puncher seemed to hear something Rechs didn’t.
“Okay,” murmured Puncher. “Maybe when I get out… I’ll… I’ll find you both. Okay? Help look for this important-dangerous person.”
The legionnaire got down on one knee, rubbed the dog’s chest, ears… all the places Baldur loved.
“You sure?” he whispered to the dog one last time.
And then, after a moment, Puncher stood, gave the dog and Tyrus Rechs one last look, and left the ship.
Rechs heard the strike of an armored glove smashing into a bulkhead on the way out.
Shortly thereafter, the Obsidian Crow lifted off the hangar deck of the Castle and vanished into hyperspace.
EPILOGUE
Palm fronds shake in the predawn dark across the estate. Here on Pthalo it will be another perfect day, as all days on the renowned pleasure world are. Storms are rare. Unpleasantnesses, like cast-aside mistresses, and those whose credit has run out, are also rare. And always easily handled by crack teams of professional security protecting every estate across the world.
Some have suggested that Pthalo itself is the most heavily militarized planet in the galaxy. When you really think about it. Add up all those personal security details and off the books it has the largest standing army in the galaxy. All the muscular boys and girls with real-world skills wearing the latest in dress and athleisure, strapping sophisticated weapons packages. Ready and willing to protect the elite who must be protected. Maintain the walls that must be maintained. Invisible and real. If only to keep the hordes out.
Here in the predawn dark, before another perfect day of walks through tropical gardens, along private white sand beaches, or aboard the yachts that lazily cross the crystal-clear aquamarine seas between parties, events, and other secret meetings, tropical palms shake as the sun warms the water beyond the planet’s terminus and sends a gentle jasmine scent, hinting of salt, across the quiet estate. The secret untaxed enclave of some nameless high financier who controls several galactic multi-corps and doesn’t happen to be on hand at the moment.
The estate is being used by someone else in the meantime. A guest.
Still, full security is in effect. A VIP is currently hiding in residence.
The assassin crossed into the protected zone of the property via the sea and onto the small beach. Coming in from the deep water where a ship dropped him off. He swam slowly through the darkness for hours to reach the beach. Protected and covered by a state-of-the-art synthprene wetsuit with nano-scramblers that block sensor detection on several levels, including IR.
For a long while the assassin watched the sands. Drifting out in the waves offshore, floating, before he finally came in with the surf. Waiting for the patrol detail to pass one last time along the beach before the next rotation came on for the day.
And when they did, the assassin watched them go. Knowing that before leaving they would check in their equipment. Steiger high-powered assault blasters with Mercurio close-engagement sights. The best money can buy. Both guards would leave the estate and avail themselves of the pleasures of Pthalo. Sun. Swimming. Drinks and gourmet food in one of the tiny pleasure villages. Then an afternoon nap.
Another day’s work complete, protecting the fantastically wealthy residents from the consequences of their lives—both real and imagined. Sometimes earned, sometimes not.
Pthalo isn’t for stars and or celebrities.
Pthalo is for lovers.
Lovers of wealth.
Pthalo is for the truly wealthy. The ones who are smart enough to remain hidden. Or to not even exist at all.
On the beach, with less than an hour before dawn, the assassin moves into the tropical gardens that surround the estate. He pulls out a pair of sensor-mags and scans the grounds surrounding the villa.
Looking for all the sensors and holocams set up to stop someone like him from entering.
He spots all the security measures and confirms his route to the target. Out of the dive bag he’s towed for two hours, he swaps the flippers for a pair of soft-soled dive shoes. He retrieves a coil of synth-rope and pulls it over his neck and chest.
That’s for later.
He pulls out the weapons case.
A gentle breeze kicks up the noise of the tropical palms, scouring the predawn dark with the hush of white noise the fronds make. Covering the pneumatic hiss as the clamshell weapons case opens softly. Masking the minute it takes the assassin to assemble the weapon.
This weapon is a Savage weapon. Something from the mythic times of those fabled boogies that once frightened, and almost conquered, the galaxy.
It fires the old nine-millimeter round. Everything about the weapon is precision. Magazine, chamber, barrel, sights, grips—everything is custom-made. The last bit before the weapon is ready to use is the silencer. Long and lethal, screwed on and sealed with a slight pneumatic hiss. Matte black fading to charcoal, the weapon is the same color as the synthprene stealth suit.
Light seems to disappear, or even flee, from the assassin. He must be invisible.
Weapon ready, the assassin proceeds toward the big villa at the center of the private estate. The Pthalo island villa. Where rooms upon rooms are filled with the latest luxuries. Legal and illegal. Stolen works of art thought long missing. Wealth on ostentatious display. Nothing fine has been neglected. A full staff always on hand, though most are asleep now in the distant servants’ quarters.
The first guard to die does so near the massive pool. Moving fast, low and slow, coming up behind, the assassin shoots the walking guard as the man enters a shadow. Before the guard can fall, the assassin gives him a slight tap and pushes him into artistically cut foliage alongside the sauna house. A nice hidden place where he can die without discovery.
The assassin put one through the man’s spine on initial contact. Now he adds one to the brain to make sure the work is done.
The man wore his hair high and tight. Was most likely former Legion. Blood pools around him, watering the palms.
The next guard dies within twenty seconds of the assassin violating the large glass doors that open into the villa’s main salon. The catering kitchen is there, and guard number two is working at a bowl of cereal as her shift ends.
The bullet smashes into the back of the guard’s skull. The woman didn’t even turn or rise up to defend herself. She didn’t hear death creep into the room with her. She goes down in the bowl of pink, cereal-dyed milk.
The assassin doesn’t pause.
He moves toward the villa’s main doors, deviating from the direct track to the target. Detouring to where the team commander and another guard spend the shift in a control room accessed off the greeting lobby that opens onto the front drive. Monitoring and filling out reports on a datapad.
A quick hack on the control room lock, using a worm far too sophisticated for even the latest in locks to withstand, works in under thirty seconds.
The assassin, moving like a swift inky blackness, enters the control room and sees the team commander working at a datapad. End-of-night reports.
The first bullet kills the commander. The other guard turns at the man’s dying gurgle. Two more shots deal with that one.
> Mag out.
Mag in.
Checking the holocams, the assassin can now see that the two perimeter guards have gone to their last post for the night. Joining up with the main security team and reaction force out at the front gate.
They’re just running out the last minutes of their shift. Nothing ever really happens on Pthalo. Especially at zero dark now. Pthalo is the safest place in the galaxy.
There are only two guards left inside the villa itself, and there is no trickery to this next bit.
Both guards watch the stairs leading up into the extensive living quarters. The assassin appears and puts bullets into both men as he closes the distance in swift and economical steps. They try to react but don’t seem able to process what’s happening. Can’t believe someone is here and killing them right now. That someone has bypassed all the road surveillance, sensors, gate guards, watch commander, and perimeter patrol, to come here and do the thing they were supposed to prevent.
The stairs were the “cush” assignment.
And now they’re dying because the assassin is a shooter. He knows people only die when you stop the pump and pipes. Even headshots need to land right in the three-point-five-centimeter sweet spot of the brain stem for what some might call an instant kill.
Blasters are a little more forgiving because of the kinetic bulk the bolt delivers. But bullets… gotta know what you’re doing there.
Both guards get it in the pump. Multiple shots to make sure. Then each in the head once they’re down.
Mag out.
Mag in.
Nothing stands between the assassin and his target now.
* * *
Syl Hamachi-Roi is sleeping when the man in the dark wakes her. She’s been sleeping a lot lately. Once her political career came apart at the seams, sleep seemed to be all that was left for her.
She suffers from depression and is on some heavy-duty meds to deal with it. Plus the anxiety of having gone from being the brightest and shiniest of political stars to being indicted for election fraud, money laundering, and association with a known war criminal.
Madame Guillotine Page 32
