Dark Sky (Keiko)

by Mike Brooks

  He couldn’t really blame them.

  They climbed a stairway wide enough for ten people to walk abreast, passed through a hallway and came out into what looked like a waiting area, judging by the luxuriously upholstered seats positioned around the edge. Kuai looked instinctively around for the security attendant such a room surely needed, but once more there was no one else to be seen. There were simply the seats, a holoscreen that was forbiddingly blank – he could understand why the governor might not want current affairs playing, given that the revolution had presumably now taken over all broadcasts – and a set of large, dark wooden double doors on the far side.

  ‘Tell the others to wait here,’ Drugov instructed Muradov, who turned to rest of them.

  ‘Everyone please take a seat,’ the security chief said in English, ‘the governor wishes to speak to me alone for now.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Drift said with a shrug, slumping into a chair. Kuai looked at him in surprise – he’d have expected the Captain to want to be at the heart of any discussions – but Drift simply nodded at one of the other seats. Kuai sat down and the rest of their motley group followed suit, with varying degrees of ease: Jia threw one leg over the arm of her seat, while Goldberg sat perched on the edge of hers as though she expected it to swallow her.

  No sooner had the double doors clicked shut behind the two Uragan officials than Drift sprang up from his chair and beckoned Kuai over to it. ‘Keyhole,’ the Captain muttered, pointing.

  Kuai nodded and squatted down, putting his ear to the small hole in the wood. Archaic designs like this were all well and good, and might look rich and imposing and cultured and whatever else, but when it came to security they rather depended on having an actual person on hand to make sure that nobody was listening in …

  ‘Alim,’ Drugov’s voice came to him, muffled but audible, ‘why have you brought this group of probable criminals here?’ The governor’s voice was stern, sharper even than it had been outside.

  ‘Sir,’ Muradov replied, sounding uncertain of himself, ‘as I said, the pilot Jia Chang should be able to—’

  ‘I don’t need a pilot!’ There was a bang as something hard and heavy was slammed or thrown down onto another hard surface: probably a desk. It appeared that Drugov was a man who expressed displeasure physically. ‘What idiocy is this? Yes, the eye of the storm is above us now, but look out there, Alim! Look at it! Does that look to you like something any person could fly through?!’

  He’s got windows looking out over the surface? Kuai frowned. I knew we were on the top level, but I didn’t realise we’d come that high. No wonder he’s so grumpy, with that sort of view every day.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Muradov replied, ‘I’m fairly certain that the pilot for a freelance trader—’

  ‘I’d bet money that the man’s a damn smuggler, Alim, and you should know that too!’

  ‘So what if he is?’ the security chief snapped, then seemed to recover himself a little. ‘Sir, I know the circumstances and the company are far from ideal, but I know first-hand how tight shipping controls are on many planets, not just ours, and I also know that smugglers get around those controls! It follows that a smuggling pilot needs to be a damned good pilot, sir, able to get through conditions most people would consider impassable!’

  ‘I am not leaving Uragan!’ Drugov bit out. Kuai could hear footsteps on a hard floor: presumably the man was pacing. ‘I don’t care if that bitch—’

  Kuai clenched his fist. No one talked about his sister that way! Well, except him.

  ‘—is the best damned pilot in the galaxy, it’s irrelevant! Do you know what would happen if I left here and went to New Samara, or wherever you’re suggesting? I’d be arrested, for starters. Dereliction of duty! Cowardice! Collaborating with rebels!’

  ‘Sir,’ Muradov began again, then changed his mind. ‘Abram. No one could blame you for leaving a planet when the capital had been taken! We don’t know if the other cities will be any safer, and in any case it would make most sense for you to go to the system governor and make your report in per—’

  ‘Don’t tell me my job, Security Chief!’ Drugov thundered. Kuai could picture his face, eyes wide and spittle flying: he had features that seemed designed to be angry. ‘The capital has not been taken yet, despite the apparent inability or unwillingness of your officers to perform their roles. We still have the fail-safe.’

  There was a momentary pause, which Kuai could not imagine boded well. Nothing which followed the word fail-safe being used ever boded well, come to that.

  ‘You’re joking.’ Muradov’s voice was flat, but Kuai was sure he wasn’t imagining the edge of desperation to it.

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

  No, Kuai thought, I bet you don’t.

  ‘Sir,’ Muradov replied, his tone clipped, ‘that would involve the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. Possibly most of our population! It was supposed to be a last resort against, against foreign invasion, not—’

  ‘Not what? An “uprising of this magnitude”?’ Drugov’s tone dripped with scorn. ‘Your officers are dead or have turned against the state, Alim. The vast majority of our population has aligned with this rebellion, or they wouldn’t have been able to succeed. Invaders don’t have to be speaking English or Swahili for them to be our enemies, the enemies of our government, the authority that appointed you and I to our jobs in the first place!’

  ‘I swore an oath to protect these people, not—’

  ‘You swore an oath to protect Red Star citizens!’ Drugov roared. ‘They’re not our citizens any longer, they’ve rebelled! The military’s on its way in any case and there’s a cleanse order in place. This entire damn city’s going to be exterminated and repopulated, so what does it matter whether they’re killed by a bullet or by breathing in the atmosphere?’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about bullets as though you know what it’s like to fire a gun!’ Muradov shouted, his sudden anger catching Kuai by surprise even through the keyhole. He jerked away and found Drift looking down at him, the Captain’s one natural eye registering considerable concern, with the others clustered behind him.

  ‘There’s an awful lot of raised voices in there,’ Drift said, ‘do we have a problem?’

  ‘I think Drugov killing everyone in the city is a problem,’ Kuai replied, standing up. He could still hear Muradov shouting, but now he wasn’t next to the keyhole it was too muffled for him to make out the words. ‘Something about a “fail-safe” and people breathing in atmosphere.’

  ‘Me caga en la puta!’ Drift exclaimed, a piece of Spanish profanity that Kuai had never bothered to try to translate beyond excrement being involved somewhere. ‘Must be something to do with the ventilation system,’ the Captain continued, glancing uneasily and presumably unconsciously up at the ceiling.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kuai nodded, ‘sounds like it was built in during construction. I guess that’s an easy way to gas everyone if you need to – bring in all the shit from outside, let it do the work.’

  Drift grimaced. ‘Tamara and the others are still out there. To hell with this genocidal chingadera.’ He pulled the pistol he’d appropriated from his belt and backed up a couple of steps, eyes on the door. The others retreated from him in alarm, a sentiment Kuai abruptly shared given that he knew at least one person on the other side of the door was also armed.

  ‘I, uh, don’t think it’s locked,’ he offered.

  Drift actually glared at him, and Kuai got the feeling that the Captain resented being told that piece of information. ‘Fine, we’ll do it your way.’

  He stepped up to the door, turned the handle smartly and opened it a crack. Then, with a swift grin at Kuai, he took a step back and kicked it wide open with a loud bang, entering with gun raised. Kuai ducked aside, unwilling to be in the line of fire when either of the Uragans started shooting, and noticed that the rest of their party had followed suit.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he heard Drift say, ‘we need a new plan of
action. One which doesn’t involve murdering an entire fucking city.’

  THE SHUTTLE RUN

  IT WAS STRANGE to be riding through a city in turmoil.

  Level One of Uragan City was still going through the process of the revolution taking hold, but there was an air of inevitability about the whole thing given the rest of the city had succumbed. Jenna watched it all from the windows of their stolen tram with everything taking on a slightly dreamlike, disconnected air. She was hellishly tired, and the aftermath of the adrenaline invoked by the shoot-out in the tram depot and her subsequent confrontation with the Jacare crew wasn’t helping. She sat in her seat, leaning back on the headrest behind her, and watched people waving yellow-and-black banners breaking into what looked like some sort of public building while, two streets over, neighbours gathered in worried-looking groups on the sidewalks and glanced around nervously. Another couple of streets on and two politsiya, or at least people wearing those uniforms, had joined with half a dozen youths in Free Systems colours to apparently apprehend some looters.

  They went over a road crossing – Jack was ignoring all traffic signals and just sounding the tram’s horn to tell everyone else to get out of the way – and through some railings she caught sight of a play-park with its rubberised safety surface, fake plastic trees, slides and swings and a small electronic bumper buggy pool. A boy and a girl, perhaps eight years old, were spinning round and round on a roundabout. They’d presumably snuck out of their homes while their parents’ attention was elsewhere. Assuming their parents were still alive.

  Very few people were taking much notice of the tram, which was the odd thing. Everyone was too preoccupied with whatever people felt when their entire way of life was turned upside down and the structures were ripped apart. Trams were a part of the normal background scenery of Level One, she supposed: this, at least, appeared to be something working as usual, even if it was slightly battle-scarred. No one was waiting at the stops to get on, in any case. It was only when Jack ignored the rules of the road that anyone really paid attention, and even then not for long.

  ‘We’re coming up on the spaceport now,’ said Rourke, who had appeared in the seat beside her with her usual unnerving silence. ‘I think we’re going to have to take Moutinho’s lead on this, so be ready to do whatever you need to do.’

  Jenna glanced sideways at her and was suddenly struck by how old the other woman looked. Well, it wasn’t that she looked actually old as such, but the lines on her face and the faint bags under her eyes had stripped some of the usual ageless nature from her features. ‘You look like I feel,’ she said, not unkindly.

  ‘Well, keep it to yourself,’ Rourke snapped. Jenna recoiled a little, stung by the retort, and Rourke’s expression softened slightly. Only slightly: this was Tamara Rourke, after all.

  ‘Nothing personal, Jenna,’ she muttered, ‘but I don’t want them thinking that we’re weak or tired.’ There was no need to specify who them was: the slight tilt of Rourke’s hat at the black-armoured shapes further down the tram had been all the explanation necessary. The tram was a continuous unit with flexible membranes at the joins between the carriages, so there was little practical division between one carriage and the next. However, Moutinho and Achilles had left the length of one between themselves and the Keiko’s crew, which Jenna didn’t object to in the slightest.

  ‘They’ll be tired too, right?’ Jenna asked quietly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Rourke conceded, ‘but they weren’t up all night planning insurgencies with Uragans or slicing into communications systems. Or recovering from ankle surgery,’ she added with a glance at Apirana, whose chin was now touching his chest and whose eyes were shut.

  ‘What are we going to do when we get to the Jonah?’ Jenna asked, trying to steer the conversation onto a slightly more positive subject.

  ‘That might depend on what we’ve had to do to get there,’ Rourke grimaced, ‘but I’m still holding out that Ichabod and the Changs can get away from that security chief. If there’s anyone who can talk his way out of a situation like that, it’s Ichabod. Although I must admit, they’ll still have to get to us.’

  Further down the tram, Moutinho got to his feet and picked up his rifle. ‘Look alive over there,’ the Brazilian called, ‘we’re coming in!’

  Rourke adjusted her hat and took a grip on her Crusader. ‘Just don’t get us all killed!’

  ‘You’d best keep up then!’ Moutinho replied with a laugh that Jenna didn’t like the sound of at all, before pulling the politsiya riot helmet back over his face. Beside him, the dark visor of Achilles’ mask seemed to be staring at her in a manner she found quite unnerving.

  ‘A.?’ Rourke said, looking over at the big man.

  ‘M’awake,’ Apirana muttered, ‘just restin’ my eyes.’

  ‘Well, up and at ’em,’ Rourke told him as the tram began to slow, ‘it looks like we’re here.’

  Jenna sucked in her breath as she saw what awaited them. The station was inside the spaceport’s boundaries and had several different maglev lines leading in and out of it, to take passengers to the various areas of Level One. There were a few visible bullet holes in the walls, and one platform was blackened in places with dark blooms of damage as though from fire.

  ‘Molotov cocktails,’ Rourke grimaced, ‘or something similar.’

  The rail itself appeared undamaged, and they glided into a station which proved to be oddly deserted. Only the digital displays presumably showing scheduled arrivals and departures gave any indication that this place would normally be bustling with people.

  ‘So far so good,’ Moutinho commented as Jack brought them to a halt. His helmet turned towards them. ‘I’m thinking we’re escorting some off-worlders to their ship.’

  ‘Prisoners or guests?’ Rourke asked warily.

  ‘Prisoners would work best,’ Moutinho shrugged, ‘or at least, the sort of foreigner scum we want out of our new Free State. You know, place ’em in the ship, keep ’em under arrest there until the storm lifts when they get sent on their way. That sort of thing.’

  Rourke snorted. ‘That would involve me handing over my gun, wouldn’t it.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Got some restraints on our belts, too,’ Moutinho said agreeably, ‘might as well make it look convincing.’

  Rourke shook her head. ‘Not happening.’

  Moutinho barked a short, humourless laugh. ‘What, you don’t trust me? I want to get back to my ship too, y’know?’

  ‘No, Ricardo, I don’t trust you,’ Rourke said flatly. ‘I’m not giving over my gun, and there’s certainly no way you’re putting any of us in cuffs.’

  ‘You’re making this harder than it has to be.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you,’ Rourke retorted. ‘You can be escorting us, but we’re not prisoners.’

  ‘That might prove problematic if anyone else picked up that transmission from your friend the councillor,’ Moutinho pointed out as Jack appeared at his shoulder, having left the driver’s cab. ‘Someone sees you already in custody, they might not make an issue of it. Someone sees you wandering around free with a gun in your hands …’

  ‘We’ll improvise,’ Rourke shrugged.

  ‘You mean we’ll shoot people.’

  ‘Probably, yes,’ Rourke sighed.

  Jenna couldn’t see Moutinho’s face, but there was less irritation in his voice than she’d have expected. ‘Okay, we play it your way. Lead on.’

  ‘You’re the escort,’ Rourke pointed out, nudging the door control with her elbow and sending them sliding sideways, ‘after you.’

  ‘Puta que pariu!’ Moutinho muttered, but he jerked his head and his two crewmen followed him out of the carriage, forming up into a wide triangle on the platform. Jenna stuck close to Rourke’s side as they also exited the tram, with the dual clack-scuff of Apirana’s crutch-assisted locomotion bringing up the rear. The air around them was bitter with the aftertaste of burned chemicals: presumably whatever had been used on th
e next platform over.

  ‘I’m still not getting anything on the comms,’ Rourke said as they walked towards the gently hissing escalators which led up to the many spaceport berths. ‘Have you heard anything from your people?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Moutinho replied, turning towards her, ‘the systems must still be down. But we got a new problem.’

  ‘What?’ Rourke brought the Crusader up slightly, her hat turning from side to side as she scanned for threats.

  ‘Well, right now Achilles is holding a gun on the Maori,’ Moutinho said almost apologetically as his own barrel shifted slightly to cover Rourke, ‘and unless you hand that rifle over nice and slow, he’ll pull the trigger.’

  Rourke froze, but Jenna couldn’t stop herself from turning her head as her guts turned to ice water. Sure enough, the lanky shape of the Jacare’s apparent marksman had his gun unwaveringly aimed at Apirana, close enough for the threat to be imminent but far enough away that even a swing from one of the big man’s crutches wouldn’t reach him.

  ‘You are bottom-feeding scum, Ricardo,’ Rourke bit out.

  ‘Playing nursemaid to your crew’s already cost me one of mine,’ Moutinho bit out, his voice suddenly hard. ‘Sure, Skanda could piss me off at times, but that doesn’t mean I was happy he got shot because you thought you were cleverer than you are. And just because I know when to cut my losses and leave the dying doesn’t mean I don’t have loyalty. So hand the fucking gun over and behave, and we’ll take you to your ship. Try to fuck with me, and we’ll leave all three of you bleeding here and go to our shuttle without having to explain why we’re with your worthless asses.’

  ‘Bro, you might wanna move that pea-shooter,’ Apirana rumbled, turning to face Achilles.