Citizen Pariah (Unreal Universe Book 3)

by Lee

  “You were surprisingly easy to find on the ‘LINKs.” Herrig continued. “Your ‘LINK-site was effectively vague, though. There was no real mention of what you reclaim.”

  It didn’t feel like an op. Candall narrowed his eyes at the short, fat man. Could a BCU mutant make itself short like this man was? Anything was possible, especially after last night. Hundred foot tall soldiers. What a world they lived in. “Anything. We reclaim anything.”

  Herrig exhaled through his nose. Every site he’d happened across during his search for people able to do what he needed doing made similar claims. Landmark was the only ones to get past a prote-interview; all the others had failed when he’d described an item matching the description given to him by Sa Ute. “Even something as large and cumbersome as what I described to you?”

  Candall took a step forward. “Anything means anything, sa. Landmark has been in operation for over sixty years. We reclaim bodies and buildings and everything in between.”

  Herrig closed his eyes for a moment. “If you don’t mind me asking, then, sa, how is it you stay in operation? A six decade long stint as a group who –if you’ll pardon the euphemism- are basically criminals is quite impressive.”

  Candall barked an order and Vasseler, who’d pulled his rifle, stood down just in time to avoid putting a bullet through the fat man’s head. The fat man, mysteriously enough, didn’t even blink. In fact, Candall noticed with shock, the fat old man looked at the rifle as if it was a mild annoyance.

  Was this a Regime operation after all? Was Doans hiring non-Latelian spies? That didn’t seem likely.

  Candall spoke earnestly. “We are cautious, sa. We take few jobs. That is why our fees are so high. Oftentimes our jobs require us to create distractions elsewhere on the planet so the main objective is missed until the operation is over. From time to time, we find it necessary to move to another planet. Price is relative to risk and relocation.”

  Herrig tapped on his prote. A few of his sis and sas had gone on a spending spree, but that was to be expected. He issued a warning for them to stop buying frivolous items and to get on with the necessities. He looked up at Candall and his men. “Are you operatives for the Latelian Regime? Do any of you have relatives engaged in or seeking employment with any of the Ministries, Bureaus or Agencies currently sponsored by the Latelian Regime? Have you or any of your men had any kind of contact with the Latelian Regime, its representatives, family members or employees? Are any of you connected in any way, shape or form with anyone from the Army? Do you have any plans to do so?”

  “What’s with the questions, sa? We should be asking you.” Candall took another step forward. His men did the same. “This doesn’t feel like a Regime installation, which makes me worry it is.” Beside him, Vasseler raised his weapon. The others took Suit and did the same.

  Herrig ran a hand through his balding hair. Two months and a bit ago, burly, criminal men pointing guns at him would’ve had him screaming and weeping in fear. Now, now, he was too bloody busy to care. “Sa, the object I am asking you to reclaim for my employer is not something that will be easily missed. In fact, it is incredibly likely that the people it belongs to will notice its absence almost immediately and take –shall we say- exception to its disappearance. I would be remiss in pointing this out, just as I would be remiss in failing to say that they have the wherewithal to administer a grievous amount of punishment to the ‘reclaimers’ involved.

  When I ask these questions, it is out of safety. The item my employer requires is, in the parlance of the underworld, a ‘heat score’. Undoubtedly, there are other organizations across Hospitalis that are also currently entertaining the idea of putting their hands on what we seek and so I must ensure that –in all things- my employer’s hands are, er, clean. I lack the facilities and connections now to verify your claims, and as I said, your ‘LINK-site is woefully designed. There aren’t even any customer praises. How am I to trust you unless you answer my questions? I am a good judge of character, Sa Candall. I will know if you are lying. You would be surprised how often people lie to bankers, and to lawyers.”

  Candall found himself squinting again. This whole thing felt wrong to him, but the alluded-to amount of money was an incredible incentive to work through the insanity of the moment. “Are you asking us to reclaim items from the Army or something?”

  “Am I?” Herrig asked, eyes twinkling.

  Candall grit his teeth. “No, sa, none of us have ever had anything to do with any of the people or things or whatever it was you asked of us. Every man and woman in my employ grew up on other worlds under the tight and cruel fist of the Regime. None of us has ever held a legitimate job except for me, and that was a weed-picking job for a senator on Falas. He grabbed my ass one day and I stabbed him to death with a weed tool. Satisfied?”

  Herrig nodded, and then flashed information on to the Screens arrayed for the Landmark operatives to look at. “I am indeed, sa. The object I am asking you to recover does –alas- belong to the Latelian Army. It is, in effect, a very big bullet. Luckily for you, it is not on their property and with Martial Law being in effect in short time, it is highly unlikely it will be, ah, picked up any time soon.”

  “A Goddie on every fucking corner.” Candall muttered. That was one of the reasons why they’d even agreed to meet with this short fat man. The payoff for a job like this would see them through. He hoped. He’d been through a few others on a few worlds, and they always seemed to last longer than expected. Longer and bloodier with each passing day, the pampered fools of Hospitalis might stretch the peace longer than usual, but in the end, they’d blow.

  It would be much, much worse than anyone imagined.

  “Indeed.” Herrig illuminated a screenshot grabbed by the very same satellite he’d purchased for Garth. “Estimated weight is one hundred fifteen tons of solid duronium. Fired from the Old Gun earlier this morning. My employer has authorized me to request that you and your men acquire this … duronium bullet … as soon as possible.”

  Vasseler eyed the readout thoughtfully. “That’s fucking heavy, Can, and big.”

  “We can do this.” Candall snapped. It was going to take every flier they owned and some serious add-on work to the frames. “All five flyers, with support structures added. Slow going, though. Dangerous.”

  “Not to mention the flyers will be useless for any other fucking job, Can.” Vasseler pointed out. He didn’t like the contract. It was one thing to steal from the police or from a Bureau, but this was the Army’s property. They’d come looking for it. If they couldn’t find who had it, they’d find who’d taken it. “And also, it looks like this thing fell on someone’s property. Care to bet that the owner will complain?”

  “As to that.” Herrig interrupted. “My employer has asked that we first attempt to purchase it –however illegally- from the owner of the property where it currently resides.”

  Candall shook his head and rubbed an eye. Weird contract. Still, it’d been done before. It violated all of his principles as a mercenary thief, but whatever. They were being paid, and well. “The cap?”

  “Ten million dollars, paid in full and immediately upon agreement.”

  “And if they refuse? If they want more?” Candall asked. There was a way to make more money here, if they played it right. This contract had more money floating around it than they’d seen in thirty years. All they had to do was say that the property owner wanted, say, two times the amount and wait for the money to be processed. Then they'd force the owner to give them the payoff.

  “Obviously, the best outcome for this is to be as low-profile as possible, Sa Candall.” Herrig gave the man a casual smile. His life as a banker and a lawyer had introduced him to some of the most interesting people, had given him a special insight into how a person thought. Candall had some of the worst tells a man in his line of work should ever possess. “So naturally, you would contact me and we, the property owner and I, would work to come to a mutually beneficial agreement. If –and only if- t
he negotiations fall through, then you proceed with the, er, reclaiming.”

  “And our fee stays the same, no matter what?”

  “Indeed, sa. Fifteen million dollars to be present at what may be nothing more than a simple agreement between gentlemen.”

  Candall nodded and stuck out his hand. “We have a deal, sa.”

  Herrig rose and took Candall’s hand in his own. It was rough, calloused, layered in scars. Herrig’s skin crawled, but he didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, and the mercenary’s eyes widened in surprise at this shocking turn of events.

  Herring stared Candall in the eye. “Let me be clear, Sa Candall, so we can all rest easy tonight. My employer is Garth Nickels. He is not a … not a peaceful man. I am certain thugs and thieves such as you have seen him on News4You and on the ‘LINKs. While his necessity for obtaining the duronium bullet is of all-consuming importance to him, of equal and possibly greater significance is an adherence to … honesty. He has no problem using elements such as you to achieve this goal. Indeed, he himself has told me on a number of occasions that he has a larcenous heart. Something to do with his time in Special Services. I can tell by the look on your face you wonder what I’m going on about. Allow me to explain.

  While Garth Nickels is wild and reckless and will willingly and enthusiastically steal anything that isn’t welded to the floor, he abhors dishonesty. I know, I know, it is a strange thing. Nevertheless, there we have it.­ Any man –however temporarily- in Sa Nickels’ employ that fails to follow a strict –if bizarre- code of conduct will definitely find himself at odds with him. If someone were to, say, insist that the land owner ask for more money and then force that man or woman to transfer that ‘legal’ payment to their own bank accounts, Garth will react with considerable disappointment. He is quite fond of blowing things up, and as we have all seen on the ‘LINKs, is also very, very talented in beating the living daylights out of men a great deal stronger and more skilled in hand-to-hand combat than any man or woman in your employ. So even though it might seem like a … how did Garth describe it … a ‘no-brainer’, I would urge against it. Or any other scenario beyond you and Landmark being paid fifteen million dollars that might pop into your head. Break Garth’s trust, Sa Candall, and my employer will certainly break you. He will break you, your men, Landmark, and anything else in his line of sight until there is nothing left but dust and memories. Be … be noble. Are we clear?”

  Sa Candall nodded. Vasseler nodded as well. There wasn’t much to go on where Garth Nickels was involved, but they knew more than most. There were whispers in the underground that he’d somehow been involved in the death and murders of very nearly all of the Portside Boys and the Devil’s Nutz. They were rumors, gossip, and assumptions, but it was enough.

  “Wonderful.” Herrig let Candall’s hand loose and he sat back down. “Wonderful. I shall flash you the address on your way out. Time is of the essence, gentlemen.”

  I Spy With My Little Eye

  “Where in the hell would they put a gi-frickin’-gantic hunk of metal?” Garth made popping noises with his mouth while Ute leaned against the van, pecking away at his proteus. Garth desperately wanted a prote. Like, really seriously desperately. He’d only been on the planet for a few damned months, and two weeks of that had been wasted in a hospital, but he’d gotten used to having one on his arm in about a minute.

  Sheets didn’t cut it.

  “I am trying to find out, sa.” Ute said from behind him. “I have lost more friends than I’ve made since working at the Palazzo. Few of my old comrades were capable of trusting someone like the man I’ve become. Of those that remain in positions where this information might be easy to obtain, even fewer would be willing to divulge what they know.”

  Garth wrinkled his nose and kicked at a chunk of broken Museum. It’d been a good idea; the last place anyone on the planet had seen that massive chunk of metal had been right here, where The Museum had once stood. It was weird, being at the spot where so much incalculable drama and personally terrifying moments had happened. The gap where the Museum had been was jarring. The nice, even flow of Central was shattered like a missing tooth. The ex-Specter was glad he’d missed the bit with the Gunboys. There was some shit you just didn’t want to deal with.

  “Dude,” he said unhappily, “We totally need this metal. Like, super quick.”

  Ute ignored the comment. All he had to do was stop for a moment and images of the pile burst into his head; what’d happened to that building and those men could happen to the entire planet at any second. There was no defense against that save them being as quick and efficient as possible at stealing something weighing several hundred tons.

  A several hundred-ton object that was also assuredly under paramount protection. And there was only the two of them. A theft like theirs would attract a lot of attention, and Ute had yet to hear any suggestions on how they were going to evade capture once they’d found and stolen the bloody thing.

  Garth hadn’t even explained how they were going to move the plate yet.

  Most distressingly, he hadn’t even hinted at how they were going to use the metal to cap the pile. Everything else was theoretically doable, and in the time frame allowed. With the bulk of the Army’s forces deployed around the Cities to enforce the Chairwoman’s curfew, it wasn’t unthinkable that they could get away with the theft.

  It was the last bit that worried Ute. Garth had displayed an ability to manipulate objects that was both terrifying and exhilarating, but at the end of the day, what he’d done in the Palazzo, realistically, had been nothing more than moving a few pounds of wiring around. Ute sincerely hoped that whatever object Garth had asked his soon-to-be purchased robots to create for him was a technological wonder unlike anything ever created anywhere. Anything less wasn’t going to cut it, not in this instance.

  Ute scrubbed his face with his hands. Nothing. No one was telling him anything and he supposed he couldn’t blame them. Friends that had fallen weren’t trustworthy and those that’d risen knew of his sudden and extreme departure from the Palazzo. They were ‘disinclined to assist’.

  “Nothing?” Garth leaned against the van, thinking of Huey in the backseat. If only.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, shit.” Garth surveyed the area again. There were no signs of the Gunboys anywhere; those fucking guys had been carted to the Museum in gigantic carry-alls the size of buildings. Now, getting them back in when they were all dead must’ve been a pain in the ass, but still. They’d had a ride. No one, not even Vasily, could’ve prepared –or even imagined- that they’d need to arrange a way to get a big old chunk of Conquistador-class armor plating out of sight. With everything and everyone devoted to cleaning up the mess and obscuring their failures, dealing with the armor would’ve been a last minute thing.

  “Any of the … unemployed … see anything?” Ute asked, spying one of the few indigents living in Central peeking out of an alley a hundred feet away.

  “Nah.” Garth spat. “After the craziness last night and the curfew coming down soon, they don’t trust anyone.” If Odin hadn’t turned itself into dust, he could hack his way into all the cameras in the area and wham! He’d know where the plate was and get to the stealing.

  That was the problem with Latelyspace. Everything was so damned hi-tech and … and … and useful that you got used to being ‘LINKed in right away. Without access, life became ridiculously difficult.

  This, Garth realized, was the point behind the OverCommander’s restrictions. Garth wrinkled his nose. Tricky bastard.

  Something was nagging him. Something he’d seen or heard was telling him the plate wasn’t too far away. The Army hadn’t had time to move it last night. Time or the space on the Gunboy trucks. They definitely hadn’t cut it into smaller chunks, least of all because it’d take forever; beyond the extreme length of time to do that, there’d be signs of the cutting splatted all over the roadways.

  The cleanup crews had to’ve done something tricky, somethi
ng underhanded.

  It hit him like a ton of bricks.

  “Hey. Hey, Ute. Call up News4You footage on your prote.”

  “Sa?”

  “Just do it. I just thought of something.”

  “Sa?” Ute started doing as he was asked, curious.

  Garth pointed to the road beneath his feet. “I spy with my little eye something that rhymes with ‘bunderground becret sassage’.”

  Ute worked the words in his head, lips moving with the effort. He chuckled. “You’re good at this.”

  “It’s a gift, sa.”

  xxx

  “I thought you said they’d all be busy barricading the streets and, like, eating innocent citizens and shit.”

  “I wasn’t the one who decided to jump down the hole left by the Museum excavation ‘to see what’s down here’.” Ute snapped, eyeing the greencoat making his way unsteadily through the rubble. The young soldier coming their way wasn’t much to worry about; he was a regular soldier, not a Goddie.

  “Yeah, well.” Garth muttered lamely. “We’re in a hurry. Hey! What’s up?” This, to the soldier as he got within earshot.

  “You sas can’t be down … here, I know you!” Corporal Eddington said, awed. “You’re that man, that … Penny? No. No. Nickels. You’re Gary Nickels.”

  “Garth. Garth Nickels. And it’s pronounced N’Chalez. You can hear the difference, right, Ute?” Garth was willing to give someone –anyone- a million dollars to hear his name pronounced properly. Just once. No fooling.

  “Admittedly, sa, I cannot.” Ute looked at Eddington, who seemed very star struck, and thus, likely to answer questions without realizing what was happening. “Why are there so many men down here, Corporal?”

  “Bombs.” Eddington shook his head and tried to snap a picture. “What’s this? ‘Authorized photos are available on the …’ what’s this word?”

  “UltraMegaDynamaTron.” Garth supplied helpfully. “It’s my business. I own it. I do a terrible job of running it, though. Yeah, sorry, no random pictures. What kind of bombs?” He knew from watching N4U footage while he and Ute had driven through Central trying to figure out what to do next that the munitions didn’t belong to the ludicrously named Chadsik al-Taryin. The FrancoBritish assassin had last been seen doing his best impression of an asteroid making planetfall, not scurrying through the warrens beneath the city, flinging bombs around like an explosives-wielding Johnny Appleseed.