Rail Gun

by Jonathan Moeller

  RAIL GUN

  Jonathan Moeller

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Author’s Note

  Rail Gun

  Other books by the author

  About the Author

  Description

  The galaxy is at war, but wars are won and lost in the shadows.

  Sent to Mercator Station to stop a flow of weapons to a terrorist group, Jack March must keep all his wits about him.

  Because if he's not careful, he'll be the terrorists' next victim...

  Rail Gun

  Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright © Solarseven | Dreamstime & © Algol | Dreamstime.com - Spaceship With Blue Engine Glow Photo.

  Gunrunner Font used by license from Daniel Zadorozny.

  Ebook edition published December 2017.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Author’s Note

  This short story takes place several years before the events depicted in the novel SILENT ORDER: IRON HAND.

  Rail Gun

  “Now this,” said Constantine Bishop, “is not how a space station should be run.”

  Jack March grunted. “Think so?”

  They walked through one of the commercial concourses of Mercator Station, the largest and busiest space station in the Mercator system. The place was a triumph of large-scale deep space engineering. A domed ceiling of transparent metal arched high overhead, showing views of the stars, passing freighters, and the planet of Mercator itself. The concourse had been covered in brushed aluminum, smooth and polished. Three levels of balconies rose overhead, holding shops and restaurants. Fountains stood on the main level, with clever lighting and holographic trickery creating the illusion of splashing water. Visitors to Mercator Station went about their business, and frequently March saw station security in their white uniforms.

  The white uniforms made a marked contrast to the enormous black plasma pistols and sleek black neural stunners at the officers’ belts.

  “It’s too orderly,” said Bishop, making a sweeping gesture at the neat shops and the polished walls. He was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, which sometimes made space travel a bit cramped for him. His blond hair was close-cropped, and recently Bishop had begun affecting a trimmed beard. He wore a ship crewer’s jumpsuit, but for some reason over that he had donned a formal black Calaskaran coat that hung to his knees.

  “Orderly?” said March. “Given how often we’ve been shot at, I wouldn’t object to orderly.”

  Bishop shook his head. “It’s too neat, too precise. Not a lot of room to operate in the cracks and the gaps.” He grinned. “That’s where people like us do our best work.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that.

  “Suppose that’s just the way the Mercatorians think,” said March. “They like order.”

  “There’s an understatement,” said Bishop.

  He wasn’t wrong about that, either.

  Among the human interstellar and spacefaring nations, Mercator was famously neutral and would do business with anyone. Mercator’s banks had developed an unbreakable encryption protocol and money transfer system, and that technology was used as the foundation of financial transactions throughout human space. Because of that, Mercator’s banks were wealthy, powerful, and ill-regarded – they would do business with absolutely anyone, save the Machinists of the Final Consciousness.

  Mercator’s government was also rigid in its neutrality. About fifteen years ago, a group of refugee ships had arrived from one of the colony worlds devastated by the Falcon Republic, claiming the right of sanctuary on Mercator. The Mercatorian government had welcomed them, fed them, and loaded them all on a freighter promising to settled them on one of Mercator’s continents. Instead, the freighter had taken the refugees to an uninhabited moon in unclaimed space and dumped them there. Many of the refugees had starved to death, and the rest had been captured and sold by Kezredite slave traders.

  The official in charge of the plan had received a medal and a promotion.

  The Mercatorians were reliable business partners, but not people to cross.

  “See, when I get tired of flying around the galaxy, I think I’ll open a restaurant on a space station,” said Bishop. “But not a place like this. Too tidy. I’d prefer a place where you can do business under the table.” He grinned. “A place where I can pick up all kinds of interesting secrets for our employer.”

  “I’ve heard worse plans,” said March.

  “And speaking of restaurants,” said Bishop, “I think this is our meeting point.”

  He pointed at a bar on the lowest level of the commercial concourse. By the standards of Mercator Station, it was practically a dive, which meant it would have been luxurious nearly anywhere else. Through the doors March saw a massive chrome bar stretching along the back wall, manned by female bartenders in tight, short red dresses and high-heeled boots. Booths lined the walls, and March saw waitresses in similar uniforms bringing out trays of food and drink.

  “There’s our boy,” said Bishop. “Wearing a blue scarf, just as he promised. How do you want to play this?”

  “You do most of the talking,” said March. “You’re better at it.”

  “You can scowl threateningly if necessary,” said Bishop. “You’re better at being threatening than I am.” He frowned. “Which if baffling, since you’re five inches shorter.”

  March shrugged. “It’s a mystery.” He knew the reason why, though. He had much more experience of killing than Bishop did.

  Bishop grinned. “Perhaps it is because I am so much more charming.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Bishop led the way into the bar and made his way to the back. A lone man sat at a table by the far wall, with the slightly overfed look of someone who spent too much time at a desk and not enough time exercising and eating properly. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his balding forehead. He wore civilian clothes – trousers and a button-down shirt and a jacket. A blue scarf was knotted around his neck.

  Bishop sat at the man’s table, and March followed suit.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man, stuttering in nervousness. His eyes darted back and forth. “I’m…I’m…saving this table for someone, and…”

  “Adrian Bavier?” said Bishop.

  The man hesitated and then nodded.

  “My name’s Bishop,” said Bishop. “This is my associate March. I think there is something you want to say to us.”

  Bavier took a deep breath. “The delivery comes at 09:13 station time.”

  Bishop nodded and answered with the second half of the code counterphrase. “Be sure to double-check the cargo manifest.”

  “Oh, thank God,” said Bavier. “Oh, thank God.” He all but wilted into his seat with relief. “I…I didn’t know what else to do. You two…you’re really Silent Order?”

  “So they tell us,” said Bishop.

  “I’m taking a huge risk talking to you,” said Bavier. “On Mercator, working with a foreign intelligence agency carries a huge fine and a prison term. And if they catch you two, they’ll probably shoot you.”

  “Probably,” said Bishop. “Well, they can try, anyway. But you’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t you, Mr. Bavier? So much trouble that asking for our help is preferable to the alternative, isn�
�t it?”

  Bavier swallowed. “Yes.”

  A waitress came over. Bishop ordered a beer for himself and for Bavier. March ordered a cup of coffee. He was amused to see Bishop flirting with the waitress, and even more amused to see that it was working. March envied his friend’s easy manner with women. It wasn’t that March was shy. For that matter, it wasn’t as if he had trouble attracting women.

  It was explaining his scars, the massive, unmistakable scars on his torso and back and left shoulder, that gave him problems. It was explaining his cybernetic left arm. He did not like for anyone to see his scars, and he did not like recounting what the Machinists had done to him when they had transformed him into one of their Iron Hands. He disliked it so much that he had not been with a woman in…three years? No, four years.

  He pushed aside the thoughts. Right now, he needed to focus on the mission at hand.

  The waitress sashayed off to collect the drinks.

  “Now,” said Bishop, “why don’t you tell us what has you so frightened, Mr. Bavier? What has you so scared you’ll risk talking to a foreign intelligence agency?”

  “Because I’ll go to prison anyway,” said Bavier, “if I don’t do something.”

  “Please, explain,” said Bishop.

  Bavier took a deep, shaking breath. “Have you heard of a terrorist organization called the Antioch Liberation Front?”

  March and Bishop shared a look. Bishop kept his face calm, but March saw the glint of triumph in his eyes. Their mission had been to track down the flow of powerful weapons to the ALF insurgents on Antioch, and it seemed like they had struck pay dirt.

  “We have,” said Bishop.

  “Do you…know anything about them?” said Bavier.

  The waitress returned with two beers and a cup of coffee, and Bavier fell silent. Bishop paid the waitress, tipped her, and flirted some more. She let out a wicked laugh, her cheeks coloring a little, and then glided off.

  “Now,” said Bishop. “Where were we?”

  “ALF,” said Bavier.

  “Antioch Liberation Front,” said March, who had dealt with them on missions for the Silent Order a few times before. “They’re a terrorist group that operates out of the Antioch system in the Kingdom of Calaskar. They claim they want Antioch to secede from the Kingdom of Calaskar, but they’re a front group for the Final Consciousness. The Machinists provide most of their funding and equipment. What they really want is for the Final Consciousness to conquer Antioch, and if they can get Antioch to break away from the Kingdom of Calaskar, the Machinists will find it easier to take the planet.”

  His voice was harder than he intended. March had seen the Final Consciousness firsthand, had seen the labor camps and the cruelties and the factories where the dead were recycled into protein slurry to feed to the living. He had nothing but contempt for those who thought the tyrannical, brutal Final Consciousness was the next step in human evolution.

  “You…sound as if you do not approve of them, sir,” said Bavier.

  “I don’t,” said March. Well, Bishop had wanted him to play the role of the hard fist to his velvet glove. “They’re useful idiots for the Machinists, and if ALF gets what they want, they’ll go to the labor camps along with everyone else.”

  “So, what do you have to do with the Antioch Liberation Front?” said Bishop. “If you’ll forgive the observation, Mr. Bavier, you don’t seem like the sort to get involved with a terrorist group.”

  “I’m not,” said Bavier. “I’m a technician at Mercator Foundry Yards. I supervise the installation of weapons systems in small and mid-sized craft.” March nodded. Mercator Foundry Yards made the best small freighters in human space. His own ship, the Tiger, was a Mercator Foundry Yard Class Nine light freighter. “Lately, there have been some…discrepancies in the weapons inventory.”

  “Things do occasionally go missing,” said Bishop, taking a swallow of his beer.

  “Not like this,” said Bavier. “We have been losing anti-fighter missiles, laser turrets, and even some smaller capital starship-grade railguns.”

  “That’s a lot of firepower to go missing,” said Bishop. “You could almost fight a large-scale insurgency with that kind of weaponry. Kind of like what ALF wants to do on Antioch.”

  “Yeah,” said Bavier. He swallowed and kept talking. “I did some audits. All the weapons are getting smuggled out of the Mercator Foundry Yards docks and shipped here. Then they’re marked as foodstuffs or medicines, and loaded onto freighters heading for the Antioch system.” He swallowed again. “And I think it’s my boss that’s doing it.”

  “Your boss?” said Bishop.

  “Anna Jardem,” said Bavier. “She’s chief of weapons installation for the Yard. She makes decent money, yeah, but her house and cars are way nicer than they should be. I did some checking, and she’s got millions of credits stashed away. She’s been selling our weapons to the ALF under the table.”

  “Why do you care?” said Bishop. “Make an anonymous call to Mercator’s security services, and she’ll go down. Problem solved.”

  “Because she’s got me set up to take the fall if she gets caught!” said Bavier, fear going over his face. “The government has been investigating, and they’re getting close. I looked at her files, and she’s got everything set up for me to take the fall.” He shook his head, more sweat sliding down his face. “I’m almost out of time. I need someone to take down Jardem. That’s why I contacted you. I figured the Silent Order doesn’t care what happens on Mercator, but you do care about someone selling weapons to terrorists on Antioch. That way you’ll take out Jardem, all the blame will land on her head, and this nightmare will be over.”

  “We might be able to help you,” said Bishop, “but we’ll need more than your word to go on.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Bavier. “I have ample proof.” He hesitated. “Let me gather it, and I will meet you are Cargo Bay 19 on Docking Ring 9 in three hours.”

  “Very well,” said Bishop.

  Bavier got to his feet and hurried away.

  “He didn’t finish his beer,” said March.

  “Just as well. Bavier was so nervous that he would have thrown up all over the table.” Bishop took a sip of his own beer. “Do you believe him?”

  “Think so,” said March. “He was scared out of his mind. Given that the Mercatorian authorities shoot anyone suspected of dealing with terrorist groups, he’s right to be afraid. Department heads at Mercator Foundry Yards get a lot of leeway and not much oversight. If Anna Jardem wanted to make a lot of money on the side selling weapons to ALF, she could do it. And if she was afraid of getting caught, it would be easy to set up a lower-level employee to take the blame.”

  “The Mercatorians really don’t like scandals,” said Bishop. “They’d make Mr. Bavier disappear, and Jardem could go on selling weapons to ALF and anyone else who wants to blow up some civilians to make a political point.”

  March grunted. “This could all be a setup.”

  “Could be,” said Bishop. “But ALF’s not sophisticated enough to pull off something this subtle.”

  “They aren’t,” said March, “but they’re just a front group for the Final Consciousness, and a Machinist cell could have set a trap for us here.”

  “Maybe,” said Bishop. “But the bald fact is that ALF has been using Mercator-built railguns and missiles to carry out attacks on Antioch. Those weapons came from somewhere, and I think we’ve found the source. It might be a trap, but I bet Jardem’s more concerned about Mercator’s internal security, not the Silent Order.”

  March shrugged and took a drink of the coffee. “Then maybe we can give Ms. Jardem a nasty surprise.”

  “And if she tries to give us a nasty surprise,” said Bishop, “we’ll shoot our way out.”

  “True,” said March. He set down the mug. “We had better get started.”

  ###

  They had three hours before their meeting with Bavier at Cargo Bay 19 on Docking Ring 9, and March and
Bishop put all those hours to use.

  Bishop went back to the Tiger to retrieve weapons. Plasma-based weapons were strictly forbidden on Mercator Station, save for the security forces, due to their potential to cause hull breaches. Traditional kinetic chemical-propellant firearms were much less strictly regulated. The Mercatorian government would prefer that visitors to the station not murder each other, but it was much harder to damage anything critical with kinetic firearms.

  So, March and Bishop could carry .45 caliber handguns with extended eighteen-round magazines in perfect legality.

  While Bishop retrieved the weapons, March investigated the meeting point. Cargo Bay 19 on Docking Ring 9 had been set up to handle cargo that did not have specific environmental or temperature needs. At the moment, the bay was empty. It was an enormous box of a room, lit dimly by arc lights mounted in the ceiling. With such a large space, it would be impossible for anyone to sneak up on them.

  March took precautions anyway, using small wads of paste to mount miniature battery-powered cameras on the corridors leading to Cargo Bay 19. The cameras transmitted to his phone, giving him a real-time view of anyone approaching the bay. Should the station authorities discover the cameras, March could wipe them remotely, removing any evidence of his involvement.

  Once that was done, he took a moment to look up the station’s public directory. Adrian Bavier lived in a small apartment on Habitat Ring 2, and March rode a lift car to the habitat ring. He slapped another camera on the ceiling outside of Bavier’s apartment, and then headed back to Cargo Bay 19 to meet Bishop.

  “How did it go?” said Bishop as March strode into the bay.

  “Well enough,” said March, glancing at his phone. The live feeds from the various cameras displayed on the screen. “The cameras will alert me if anyone approaches the bay, but Bavier’s apartment is far enough away that I’ll have to route the signal through the Tiger’s communication system. If we do that too long, station control might notice the rogue signal.”