by J. N. Chaney
Embarrassed and hot from the argument, Mackie gave me a look. “You got something to say?”
I said nothing but moved up one stool and sat down again.
Eddie came forward and tapped me on the shoulder. “You think you’re better than us, huh? Can’t even face my brother when he asks you a question?”
I stood up again and stood on the balls of my feet, ready to act if this continued to degenerate.
It did.
Mackie shoved Eddie from behind and I moved swiftly to my right as he careened over the stool. Kevin charged into Mackie from behind and sent him forward. Narrowly avoiding getting run over, I sidestepped and let Mackie stumble into the booth and fall to the floor near his brother.
Eddie was on his feet again with balled fists. “You asshole! Gonna make yas pay for that!” He charged forward.
Time seemed to slow as I took in every aspect of Eddie flying at me. The inebriation made his eyes glassy and unfocused, giving me an advantage. I predicted from the way he leaned to the right that it was his strong side and the fist he’d swing with.
As predicted, he cocked back and punched out wildly with his right fist. Not bothering to take a full step out of the way, I simply twisted to the side and slapped his hand away. Eddie crashed into Kevin, who huffed and pushed him off with a grunt.
We’d been taught close quarters combat at the Red Tower, but in an unnamed style that was designed to be covert. That meant relying on physical cues to exploit and defensive maneuvers as a first resort. Brains over brawn, as it were. Of course, we had been trained in traditional disciplines as well, but I preferred the former.
Kevin slapped his chest, and I saw the overt rage in his eyes and expression. Mixed with the alcohol, this was a volatile situation. His hand went to a bump in his jumpsuit and I knew immediately that a weapon was about to come into play.
Before I could react, Mort strode up to him and brought a brown bottle over his head hard enough to shatter the thick glass. Kevin stumbled back, clutching his bleeding skull, then fell hard on his backside.
“You idiots have had this same fight every night for a week. Get out! I don’t want to see you in here again until it's settled.”
The three stood up in various states of defeat and shame and staggered, mumbling incoherently, to the door.
Dorian walked in as they left and watched them go with a suspicious look that he turned on me. “Anything I should know about?”
I sat down and picked up my tea nonchalantly. “I’m learning about spacer life. It’s got its ups and downs.”
6
We emerged from Percy’s a little while later, after Dorian had bought himself a drink and we’d ordered a bite to eat. Foot traffic hadn’t eased up any, but then it was still the middle of day on Taurus, so that wasn’t unusual.
Dorian led the way, sweeping through the crowd with a bluntness that drew attention to him. I followed in his wake, employing the tactics I’d been practicing for moving fluidly through throngs of people like this. I couldn’t help but be pleased that I kept up with my counterpart easily.
His method of obstacle negotiation was rather different from the last person I’d followed through crowds. I wondered if that was rooted somewhere in their military specialties or their personalities. Dorian’s lumbering bull charge seemed the less effective of the two, but I found it interesting that people moved out of the way for him. It reminded me of a lesson about exuding a presence when going undercover. To make those around you believe what you’re projecting.
Dorian certainly knew how to do that. I’d never thought of him as intimidating, but he looked it now. Patrons gave him a wide berth and opened a path in the direction he wanted to go. The only thing more noticeable than the deliberate gait he used was the sway of his coat as he did so. It was almost as if his stride was meant to throw his coat behind him with each step. I realized, suddenly, that was exactly the case. With each stride, his coat swept behind his hip and showed his gun. It was an unveiled threat. Between the presence of the gun and the way he refused to move, he told everyone around us that he was dangerous without saying a word.
He came to an abrupt halt in front of a simple storefront. The sign read Trinidad’s Trinkets. Despite myself, the old thrill came back. It felt good to be doing something important and vital to the mission.
Dorian paused before opening the door. “Remember, you’re young, naïve, and a little wide eyed. Just, you know, be you.” He smirked and gestured at the length of me.
“Funny,” I said, making a face.
He walked inside with me close on his heels. The shop was vacant save for a small counter, a holo projector, and a door leading further in marked Staff. Glass display cases stood unguarded and it surprised me that no one was watching the wares. I took a step forward and studied one of the little figurines that sat out, realizing at once why. While well put together in the shape of a common flower, the thing was made from cheap odds and ends. I had a sneaking suspicion that the material had been pulled from some trash receptacle or another and almost laughed out loud at the price tag.
“We’re not here to shop, Al. With me.”
We walked around the counter and Dorian raised a fist to knock on the door. The sound of shuffling feet could be heard beyond and an oily voice rang out. “One second, I’ll be right there!” The door swung open and a jovial man with crooked teeth appeared. “Apologies, Mr. Tribal. I was crafting a new work of art for a later sale.”
Thinking it would fit my persona quite well, I spoke up. “You mean people buy these things?” I drawled with tactless teenage rudeness.
Dorian glared at me, then slanted a glance at Oliver Trinidad and jerked a thumb back at me. “Sorry about the kid. He’s the family member I told you about. Still has to learn manners.”
Oliver waved away the apology. “Don’t worry about it. He’s right, anyway.” The man winked at me with laughing eyes. “It’s all mostly junk. Tourists will buy anything as a souvenir and I’m happy to sell these to them.”
My partner chuckled and gestured me forward. “Mr. Trinidad, this is my kin, Alphonse Malloy.”
The man offered me a stubby-fingered hand. “Just call me Ollie. That’s what my real friends call me.”
Dorian shook his head. “You’ll call him Oliver because you don’t want to be a real friend to this sad sack. We’re business associates, all above board. You make more money and stay out of brigs that way.”
Oliver frowned. “You wound me, Dorian. I’m nothing but friendly and I run a legitimate business.”
Dorian shook his head again. “That isn’t how I pronounce what you do. Alphonse, join us, will you?” He walked back through the door and I followed the pair.
The backroom was much larger than the store front. The first thing I saw was the two-man security cage on the other side of the door. With three of us, especially with the size of Oliver, it was a tight fit.
Oliver pressed a button on his sleeve and the cage opened, allowing us out and into the warehouse. Crates and cylinders lined the walls and piled four high to the ceiling. The air was heavy with burnt ozone and flashes of burnt aluminum. There was a layer of grease flowing from two crates, one industrial and one food related. The resulting gunk looked like it would make an effective, if ill-smelling, adhesive. In an alcove off to the side sat a worktable with bright lights, various materials, and a magnifying lens on an adjustable arm attached. A work bag full of tools sat to the side and a tiny figure, half finished, sat on the workspace.
Dorian and Oliver headed left from the cage to a small office. Inside, I was offered a couch to sit on. Oliver sat at his desk, while Dorian took up a position leaning against the door, ready for further acts of aggression.
I sat down.
“Dorian. Alphonse. What brings one of my best customers and suppliers here today? You said in the message it was important and you were calling in some favors. Maybe next time, leave out the favors and I won’t have to think you’re here for a bounty.”
Dor
ian leaned forward intently. “I got a line about a big deal going down. I want in.”
Oliver straightened his vest and turned on his console. “You are calling in favors, aren’t you? Means you want information or gear. Maybe both? Just tell me what you need.”
Dorian gestured to me. “What do you think of ol’ Oliver? Think he has what we need?”
I replayed the objects in the warehouse. “Oliver is a smuggler’s friend. I think they used to call that a Fence. I assume he also works in chopping and retrofitting. Then he resells for higher and turns a nice profit.”
Dorian nodded. “That sound like what you do, Oliver?”
Oliver smiled. “Always nice to see an old hand like you bringing up the next generation, though something seems different about this one. He’s special, I gather.”
“Gotta keep you in business, eh?” replied my partner.
Oliver smirked at me. “I have a thought I’m not going to keep to myself. You tell me what you need, and I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He turned his attention to Dorian. “Unless you think your helper here can guess that too.”
A frown formed on Dorian’s face. “I hear there is a sale going down on Din. Top-dollar goods from a seller that’s been making a name for herself out here. I have parties interested in getting to that sale. I need information and at least two invites to the table. Three if you can manage.”
Oliver started clicking through information on his console. “Big ask. I’m going to say this makes us square if I can pull it off. And seeing as I made a promise, I’ll let you in on my secret.”
Dorian didn’t react. They were speaking, not so much in code, but in the mutually understood language of a shared history. Except for the secret. This was new. Oliver was offering it as bait and Dorian wasn’t picking it up, assuming it was a trap that would lead into a rabbit hole of tit-for-tat favors.
“This secret has nothing to do with the past.” I looked at Dorian and winged up an eyebrow. “He’s not trying to tip the scales. He has something he thinks will put you in your place. There is no mistaking that kind of grin.”
Oliver looked from me to Dorian. “Your new help is shockingly perceptive.” His inflection on “shockingly” hinted at something more, but I was more interested in getting this conversation completed.
“Go ahead then. What’s this secret you’re so keen on sharing, old friend?”
Oliver’s smile widened into a crass expression of naked ambition. “Your ship is one of the worst-named vessels I’ve ever encountered. For years, I thought you were putting me on with it. But I have it on good authority that you don’t know what it means.”
Dorian looked a touch unsettled. He pushed himself off the wall and his hands moved in front of him into an unconscious defensive position. “What the hell are you on about?”
“I talked to a friend of an acquaintance of a former roommate. You know how these things go. And they let me in on the little fib that dealer in Lorangia told you about your ship’s name.”
Dorian puffed up his chest and cracked a smile. He hesitated to fall back into his nonchalant stance. “MikroTrek? You have a problem with the Quick Journey?”
I frowned. “It’s ancient language. It means ‘Little Scoot.’”
Oliver burst out laughing.
Dorian reached for his gun and struggled to contain his embarrassment and rage. “What? No! The dealer told me it was old, yes, but … what does that even mean? Fine. So tiny ship, whatever. I don’t need a big ship to get the job done.”
Oliver laughed harder.
“It’s not that kind of scoot. It’s…” I was at a loss for how to break this to him. “It’s like what an animal does when it’s got something stuck on its rear. Your ship name translates to small need to wipe one’s ass.”
Dorian punched the wall. “That son of a …”
Oliver was practically purple now with strain from laughing. “Fifteen years I’ve known you and ten with that ship. It’s just too rich.”
I raised my arms in a deep shrug. “If Oliver had barely heard of the mistranslation, I doubt many others have either. It isn’t as if many people know how to translate the language of the ancients.”
By now, Dorian had composed himself. “I think I’m going to have to travel eight systems and shoot an oddly tall man in his face.”
Oliver tried to catch his breath. “Oh, don’t worry. He told me that tidbit as a bargaining chip while some … associates were extracting information from him. I held onto it because I wanted to see if it was true. Shame. If it had sounded more plausible, I might not have let the boys finish the job.” He shrugged. “Well, live and learn. Or learn, depending.”
Dorian shrugged. “Saves me a bullet. Now what can you tell me about the location of the buy?”
Oliver swiped tears from his face. “It will take more digging to get specifics for what you’re asking. What I can tell you now is there is a big to-do going down at a casino called the Black Orchid. This is a high-end establishment, relatively speaking. Built and funded by unsavory interests to squeeze money out of the work-a-day crowds around Din’s capital city, Celtan. It serves as the center for all operations for a syndicate run by Ferris Velio.”
“Any indication of extra security or mercs hitting the planet recently?” asked Dorian, all traces of humor gone.
Oliver tapped and swiped away at this console. “Prelim reports don’t show anything out of the ordinary. There is always some amount of merc activity out here. It will take time to determine if any of the recent arrivals are here specifically to backup Velio’s men. Even if I saw a spike, you say there is a big buy? Just as likely any extra muscle is here to guard the buyers.”
I nodded. “A lot of moving parts to consider. Tell us specifics. What is going on with the casino? The Black Orchid have a floor plan or updated schematics?”
Oliver chuckled. It was a bit raspy after his recent guffaw at Dorian. “Core world talk. Out here, things are more freewheeling. You can find a public record of the building, but I doubt it will even give you an adequate size for the perimeter, let alone the floor plans. Besides, that’s something for you to plan. I only deal in data.”
Dorian interrupted, “He’s right. Floorplans aren’t the real concern anyway. Doesn’t matter how the casino is laid out. It’s meant for public access. What keeps it secure is the staff and security tech. How many men does Velio employ, and can you get profile and histories on them?”
Oliver typed some information up then gave Dorian an appraising eye. “You’re hitting the limit of favors I owe,” he said in the oily tone. “However, if you want to get into the reverse, I can be persuaded.”
Dorian pushed himself off the wall. “Just the numbers and their histories. I’ll do my own leg work with the newbie here. Get what schematics you can. Alphonse, this is a good opportunity for you to learn some new approaches. And Oliver? The invites? Three if you can.”
I took the cue and got up from the couch. “Sorry, Dorian. I guess I have a lot to learn about work for pay out here. Not like the jobs we pulled in the core. Guess I’ll have to get my feet wet if I want useful intel. Next time you say you know an information broker, I hope you mean a professional.”
Oliver shot up from his desk, his face dark. “You don’t have an account here, kid. Normally, talk like that would put you in the red in my books. If you find any part of Dorian’s old ship seller, you can ask him how that goes.”
I met the squat man’s gaze and took a step toward his desk. In my periphery, I could see Dorian, seemingly unconcerned, watching to see which way this would go. “You can play the cozy-threat game with Dorian. I care about accurate information and people doing what they say. You don’t know me. I aim to make a living doing this and don’t plan on dying from lack of information.”
Oliver grinned but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing wrong with putting a greenie in their place. Remember that mutual respect is how professional relationships are forged. I assure you that wha
tever information I pass along will be accurate.”
A few more swipes and taps and the fence handed me a pile of low-end datapads with considerably less warmth than when he’d shook my hand. I wondered if I’d come across too brashly and alienated the man.
“There’s too much data for one pad. You’ll have to download everything from these onto something with more memory.”
“We’re done here,” said Dorian in a casual tone. “Oliver, we’ll be on-station for the cycle. Get me some more info and a way in, then we’ll see if you can get back to making money any time soon.”
Oliver didn’t say anything but dipped his chin curtly to acknowledge that he’d heard. I turned and walked out with Dorian.
He turned and grimaced at me. “You think you could have let me in on the ship name?”
I shrugged. “I really thought you knew. You should have picked up some Greek in training.”
Dorian fiddled with the cuff of his left sleeve. “Some training is more standardized than others. In the future, I’ll stick with names I know.”
7
We returned to our quarters on the ship instead of wasting credits for lodging on the station. It was interesting how little it felt like being in space from being on the docks. The gravity was still lower than a planet’s, but the sensation that I was one wall away from the darkness didn’t permeate. Lights on the dock never turned off since traffic continued at all hours, and it poured in through the viewport in my room.
I dumped the bag full of clothes that I’d bought onto the bed and got my pad out. It was secured with a channel to the Constables’ mainframe and archives, but if anyone but me or Dorian tried to access them it would just seem like a personal pad. I sat it on the small table near the window and sent the viewing signal to a holo display on the wall. It was a screen broadcasting selectable planetary scenery. I set it to a night sky and went about programming a new data pad from the pile Dorian had picked up as we left Oliver’s shop.
