Chaos Quarter

by Welch, David

  “Planet of Igbo. Two detected space stations. Various satellites in orbit. No defensive satellites detected. Locally produced fighter craft sixty thousand miles starboard, ten thousand miles dorsal. Oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. Estimated 64 percent ocean. Eleven continents noted. Numerous large islands. No natural satellites. 101 percent Earth-sized...Incoming transmission. Open channel?”

  “Go ahead,” he spoke to the empty bridge.

  “—ention approaching vessel, please transmit your beacon code and identification. I repeat, attention approaching—” a voiced blared over his comm.

  “I hear ya,” he replied. “Beacon code 2-7-9-Alpha-Alpha-Zulu-Hotel-3. This is the Long Haul out of Boundary. Requesting permission to land and trade.”

  “What are you currently carrying?” the voice continued.

  “Pulse acceleration coils, two dozen Elys missiles, ten thousand rounds ammo and a few hundred sniper-rifles. Heard your king has been hiring on new mercs, figure he might want to fit them out.”

  “Our king does not hire mercenaries; he hires soldiers.”

  “Semantics. These guns come from the Commonwealth, from the military arsenals. I put them in a market-place and they’ll be gone in ten minutes, if your lord and master doesn’t want them.”

  The line was quiet and staticky for a moment.

  “You have permission to land at the Biafara Spaceport. Its position is being fed to your computers. You will be met by a representative of the local lord.”

  “Thanks, gentlemen,” he replied. The coordinates for the spaceport flashed on his screen.

  “Take it in for me,” he spoke to his computer. The auto-pilot kicked on, moving toward a point in the southern hemisphere. A large continent filled his viewscreen.

  “Temperate to semi-tropical. Non-mountainous. Broken forest and extensive farm-lands. Six noticeable metropolitan areas.”

  “Get an air temperature and local time as soon as we hit atmo,” he spoke and then got to his feet.

  He moved up the bridge. It looked like a small amphitheatre, with only two levels. The bottom level held his pilot’s console and the gunner’s position, which was empty. The upper level held three seats, one for communications, one for monitoring the ship’s condition, and one for scanning. All three were empty. Usually, on a ship this outdated, that meant that the vessel couldn’t be effectively operated. However, this particular junker had been decked out with the latest in Commonwealth military computer technology, giving him a degree of automation unimagined in the Chaos Quarter. It was still a pain-in-the-ass to fly, he was always on the bridge, and when he wasn’t, the damn computer was asking him to return. But it was possible.

  Six months and still no crew, he thought as he entered the main corridor. He had meant to hire on people long before now, but these parts didn’t offer up many choice picks. In the Quarter, being able to fly, at all, would get you a job. Being able to operate weapons systems made you a valued commodity. Engineers and mechanics were worth a fat man’s weight in gold. Years of training cadets back at the academy didn’t help, either. He had helped shape the best flyers in the Commonwealth into something better, and with such a high standard, the dregs of the Quarter didn’t really stand much of a chance.

  He made his way to his cabin. He knew if he didn’t want to exhaust himself out here he’d need to get some people on. He couldn’t go two days without paying a toll to pass through somebody’s space or fighting off some cobbled-together pirate fighter that wanted his cargo. With his ship’s tech, it was fairly easy to do, but he knew eventually he’d run into somebody bigger and badder than himself. If he was slumped over his console asleep when that day came, things wouldn’t end well.

  ’Course at this rate, they won’t end well anyway, he sulked as he approached his closet. He opened it, revealing no clothing. The floor and the hamper were for clothing. The closet was for weaponry.

  He pulled off his shirt and reached for an armored shirt. It worked on the same principle as his ship’s armor: non-Newtonian fluids. When struck, the fluids rearranged their molecular structure in a microsecond, becoming hard almost instantaneously. His shirt, made of thick cotton impregnated with these fluids, could withstand pretty much anything short of a fifty cal. It still hurt like a bitch when he got shot, but it didn’t kill him. Break a few ribs, leave some bruises, sure. But no death.

  He pulled the shirt over his chest and reached for a grey leather duster. Slipping into that, he glanced at his weapons rack, set against the back wall. On it rested his own fifty cal sniper rifle. It was a tried and true design that went back centuries. While energy weapons may have revolutionized combat in space, they had never been successfully scaled down to personal arms. The weapons he had weren’t much different than the weapons that had been used for the last five centuries. They still threw slugs; they just threw them electromagnetically instead of explosively.

  Next to the sniper rifle sat an assault rifle, and beside that an automatic shot-gun. Below these larger guns lay a pair of hand-guns: .45 semi-automatics with fifteen-shot magazines. He slipped then into the inside pockets of his coat, along with a half-dozen spare clips. He grabbed a bowie knife and hid it in his left pants pocket. Armed for a pleasant night on the town, he cinched his jacket half-closed, but left it unbuttoned. No use going for your gun if you have to stop and take off your coat first.

  The ship began to shake gently.

  “Entering atmosphere. 5:32 pm local time. Calculations show the planet is on a 26-hour clock. Estimated air temperature at surface is 52F.”

  “Brisk,” he mumbled, moving back to the bridge.

  The great black void was gone, replaced by the blue skies of a living world. The tone of the ship went from a barely audible whir to a run-of-the-mill hum as the engines shifted from matter/anti-matter elimination to age-old nuclear thermal rockets. It was considered good form to do that in an atmosphere. People below generally didn’t take kindly to their pretty worlds being hosed with neutron radiation, an unfortunate byproduct of matter/anti-matter drives. In space it didn’t much matter. Everything was radiation up there. Down here, high energy neutron emissions could really ruin your day.

  Continuing on, Long Haul pierced effortlessly through wispy grey clouds, then fluffy white ones. It rapidly approached a mid-sized city, made up of low clusters of buildings, surrounded by patchy farm land. Near the west end of the city was a broad concrete pad, maybe a mile across. Circular patterns had been painted on it. This was the spaceport he was heading for. As it grew larger in his viewscreen, another hail came though.

  “Please land on Pad-6, location is being transmitted,” a bored voice spoke. Whoever was speaking cut the line before Rex could thank him. The computer adjusted the course, moving to the east end of the spaceport. The ship slowed as it came over a circular concrete pad, stopping and hovering there. It slowly descended the last hundred feet vertically. A familiar thunk and a light jolt ran through the ship, telling Rex that he was down.

  He left his room, heading down the main corridor. He passed several empty crew cabins and then descended three steps. This brought him past the shower room and sick bay. The hallway widened into a common room, flanked by two more cabins and a pair of storage areas. The common area ended at a half-wall that opened into the ship’s small kitchen. On either side of the kitchen, corridors ran back to the aft of the ship. He ducked into one, passing the thick-walled reactor compartment before entering the cargo bay.

  “Open the doors,” he ordered.

  The computer complied. Two massive doors, each thirty feet high and almost as wide, opened downward. They touched the tarmac, forming ramps that vehicles could drive up and down. Rex descended a narrow staircase to the floor of the cargo bay.

  “Lock down all systems, close all hatches to the ship. Nobody gets past the cargo bay.”

  A small screen on the wall next to the starboard door flashed its compliance. Rex walked down the ramp/doors. A half-dozen people waited not ten yards from his ship. They
were tall, dark-skinned men. He vaguely remembered that at one time, people who looked like this had mainly lived on Earth’s African continent. At least he thought so. He’d never been much of a student when younger. All he really remembered from seventh grade history was something about Mongols and convincing Jania Perkins to make out with him after school.

  Five of the men were muscle, complete with the requisite short-cut hair and intimidating stares. The leader was smaller and had an impatient air about him. They wore isiagus—loose-fitting, thigh-length shirts with deep necks and billowing sleeves, over dark slacks. The leader’s garb was adorned with intricate patterns of fiery scarlet and the eternally flashy gold. The others just wore plain tan.

  “Hello,” Rex spoke, approaching the leader and extending his hand.

  “Welcome to Igbo,” the man replied in accented English. “I am Emeka, representative of Governor Odemegwu.”

  “Tell him I say hello too,” Rex replied.

  “You shall do so yourself tonight,” replied Emeka.

  “I shall?” Rex said with a raised eyebrow.

  “No trade may be conducted on Igbo without approval of the territorial governors, usually done through a representative like myself. However, Governor Odemegwu insists that he meet with all who bring weapons or military goods. It is difficult to find such things sometimes, and he wishes to maintain good relations with traders who can get such cargos past the criminals of our outer territories,” Emeka explained, meaning the various pirates roaming the Igbo system.

  “Sounds good,” Rex remarked. “Do we do the business part now?”

  “Of course,” Emeka said with a smile. “May my men inspect?”

  Rex motioned them ahead with a sweep of his arm. The muscle moved into his cargo bay, opening the various crates. It was standard procedure out here. Nobody brought money out until they were sure the cargo was genuine. The excited shouts of the muscle as they examined the sniper rifles told Rex all he needed to know. He had no idea what language they were speaking, but excitement was excitement no matter where you went.

  Emeka sensed this too.

  “My men are saying that the king himself does not have such weapons,” Emeka spoke.

  “I’m sure your governor will get one into his hands,” Rex replied.

  Emeka nodded and shouted to one of his men. One of the men bounded out of the cargo bay and ran to a small terminal across the tarmac. He emerged a moment later with a large briefcase. He trotted back and handed it to Emeka. Emeka hoisted it with some effort, opening the case and holding it up. Two dozen gold bars waited inside. The muscle removed something from the side of the case and handed it to Rex. It was a small bottle of nitric acid with a dropper at one end. Knowing the routine, Rex squeezed a dozen drops onto the gold. Nothing happened. No bubbling, no hissing, no reaction of any kind.

  “Good enough for me,” he replied, handing back the bottle. Emeka closed the case and handed it to Rex.

  “One of my men will be back at eight this evening to escort you to the governor’s residence,” Emeka said with a crisp nod.

  “I’ll be here,” Rex replied. The man and his muscle moved away. Two dozen men emerged from the terminal, dock-men. Chattering away in their native tongue, they approached his ship. He walked from the cargo bay as they went to work, wondering what exactly one wore to meetings with the governor.

  * * *

  “Ever been with a tigress?” a lightly accented voice asked. There was a practiced sultriness to it, but the oddness of the question alone caused him to pause. What exactly passed for fun on this planet?

  Rex had intended to go into Biafara for an hour or so, or whatever part of Biafara he could see on foot before Emeka’s man showed up. He hadn’t gotten one step off the spaceport when the question had been posed.

  Worries of bestiality faded when he looked at the woman asking. She did look quite like a tiger. Her skin was a dark orange-red color, interrupted by black vertical stripes a foot or so long. Raven-black hair washed to a silky sheen cascaded to her shoulders. Her yellow eyes, complete with cat-like slit pupils, invited him with calculated warmth. She had high cheek-bones and full lips, framing teeth that were close to being perfectly straight. That alone was a rarity this far out.

  “No,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Slept with a blue woman on Halcyon.”

  The woman moved closer. Rex’s surprise at her appearance was soon replaced by lust. All the orange skin and stripes formed a body that demanded attention. Toned thighs and magnificent hips were sheathed in a skirt that stopped just a few inches below heaven. Her stomach was taut; the girl did her sit-ups, but not enough to erase the femininity. Her breasts pressed against a camisole that stopped a hand’s-breadth above her navel. They were not overly large, but respectable enough for any straight-shooting male to notice. He allowed himself to notice as she continued her pitch.

  “Blue is cold. Red is so very, very…hot,” she said, drawing out the last words as she ran her fingers up his arm.

  “You don’t have to put on the act, I’m willing,” he replied.

  She chuckled.

  “Straight to the point, never hurts,” she replied. “Two bits for a night, gold.”

  The bit was as close to a standard system of currency as you could find out here. It basically meant an ounce of gold, worth about five hundred dollars back in the Commonwealth. Most worlds made coins based off this. Bits of silver took care of lesser transactions. And bits of silver were usually more than enough for this type of business.

  “Not cheap,” he replied.

  “Best basilisk on the continent, and there’s the novelty of me to consider,” she replied. “Not gonna find another tiger-girl around.”

  “Basilisk?” he asked, perplexed. ”We are talking about sex, right?”

  She laughed again. “Never been out this way before, eh? You want a regular whore, I can point ya’ in the right direction. Set ya’ up with my girl ’Neke. Me, I offer full service, twenty-four hours. I’m the perfect wife, girlfriend, lover—whatever you want me to be. I cook, I massage, stroke your ego, and I can make you scream better than any mere hooker.”

  Rex looked at her quizzically.

  “People pay for all that?” he asked.

  “Gets lonely out in the void. Guy spends every day raiding, killing, staring at nothing. They’ll pay big to feel normal for a day, two days. Hell, you put the cash down, I’ll stay as long as you want.”

  “One day seems fine,” he said, removing two small gold coins from his pocket. “This-a-way.”

  He glanced at his watch as he led her back to the ship. His window for exploring town was closing quickly. By the time he got her back and set up, Emeka’s man would be back. Oh well.

  Several dock-men saw them pass and smiled knowingly. The Basilisk waved at several of them.

  “You have a name?” Rex asked as they reached the ramp/doors. The last of the crates were being offloaded.

  “Chakrika,” she replied, then slipped something into his hand. He looked down. It was a business card.

  “Chakrika, Basilisk, Igbo,” he read.

  “In case you ever come back this way,” she said as they reached the staircase. She moved to go ahead of him. “I’m addictive.”

  He made no attempt to hide his appreciative glare as she climbed. He took a deep breath, pocketed the card, and followed her.

  * * *

  “So you don’t want me to cook?”

  “Nope,” he replied.

  “I’m really good. I have people who can deliver everything I need right here. You gotta be tired of canned food and protein bars.”

  “I am,” he replied. “But I’ve been invited to the governor’s residence.”

  Her eyebrows went up, clearly impressed. They were in the common room. He stood at one end of a long metal table. She had spread herself across it seductively.

  “Must have brought something good,” she replied. “Perhaps a quick one then? Before you leave?”

  H
e waved her off.

  “I promise that when I get back I will let you do your job to the best of your ability,” he said. “But I don’t think it would be best to go in smelling like sex.”

  “Mmm…disciplined man,” she spoke. “Any place you don’t want me going?”

  “Just stay out of the bridge,” he replied. “Everything else I can replace.”

  “I don’t steal from my clients,” she said with mock-indignation.

  “I know, I know—bad for repeat business,” he said. “I gotta go get ready. Hopefully it’ll only be a few hours.”

  Chakrika sat up, dangling her legs off the side of the table. She straightened her back, twisting her arms behind her to fiddle with the clasp of her top. It burst loose, the garment sliding an inch down her breasts, dangerously close to revealing all.

  “Don’t stay out too late,” she smiled.

  He dashed out of the common room, wondering if he had time for a cold shower.

  * * *

  He sat in the back of what passed for a luxury car on this world. It resembled a limo, but was much too spartan in its furnishings to impress. Emeka’s man, one of the muscle men from earlier, sat across from him. For a thug the guy sure did know how to make conversation. Rex knew of all the best bars in town by the time they reached their destination.

  The vehicle stopped. They got out, and Rex found himself inside a fenced estate. Two guards looked at him from the end of the driveway. In front of him, a simple fountain sent water skyward. Behind that a mansion rose four stories. It had straightforward furnishings and a quartet of columns across a front portico. Another pair of guards paced across the flat roof above.

  The muscle escorted him up the tall stoop and into the building. They moved through a hallway that opened into a large great room: the governor’s court. The governor sat on a basic throne, raised four feet above the rest of the room. Beside him, on a smaller throne, sat his wife. Her stomach swelled outward, enormously pregnant, and enormously topless. Rex quirked his head at this.