by P. A. Piatt
“Okay. Can you stay here with him for a while longer? I’ll send a clean-up crew to pick him up and take him out to the site.”
“Sure. I’m due at work in an hour.”
“They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
Three hours later, Lieutenant Fortis was smiling to himself as he walked onto the dusty street outside the GRC facility. He could still feel the rush of his strength enhancement from the workout he’d just completed, and it was exhilarating. Fortis wasn’t claustrophobic, but three days underground had left him cramped and restless.
He patted the wad of scrip in his pocket, and his smile broadened. Fortis had received the L’Ordre de la Galanterie for his actions on Pada-Pada. Along with the medal, the award came with a generous, life-long monthly pension, which nearly doubled his second lieutenant salary. He had been self-conscious to the point of embarrassment when he’d received the medal because any number of the other Space Marines who had been on Pada-Pada deserved it more, so he had decided to use the pension to improve the lives of his Marines whenever he could. Today, that meant putting down a pile of company scrip on a bar tab and inviting the men to drink their fill.
Fortis didn’t know which of the half-dozen Dirt Alley bars the Space Marines would be in, so he let his ears guide him. He stopped in front of a nondescript place that looked like every other building except for a large red metal rooster mounted over the door. A faint, dirt-stained sign next to it read “Cock and Tail.” Judging from the riotous sounds leaking into the alley from behind the door, the Marines were inside.
A wall of noise greeted Fortis as he stepped inside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. A muscle-bound man met him at the door and looked him up and down before tilting his head to the Space Marines crowded on one side of the bar. The bouncer had a facial scar similar to Chive’s and Fortis wondered if he was a Kuiper Knight, too.
Fortis saw Corporal Heisen standing atop a table, waving a mug, and leading the Space Marines in a song.
The One-Legged Lady of Pada-Pada
Splash a taste and toast.
DINLI! DINLI!
Drink to Kilfoy’s ghost.
Fortis recognized “The One-Legged Lady of Pada-Pada,” the song the survivors of Pada-Pada had composed in memory of one of their fallen comrades, Sergeant Maya Kilfoy. Kilfoy had been popular with her fellow Marines, and her agonizing death from the necrotic sting of one of Pada-Pada’s many venomous bugs had deeply affected the Space Marines. It was a silly song that barely rhymed and had no identifiable tune, but it had bonded the survivors of that desperate battle as they came to grips with the deaths of so many comrades for no discernable reason.
“Hey, Lieutenant Fortis!”
Corporal Ystremski and several of the other Space Marines had spotted Fortis and waved him over. He couldn’t help but smile as the drunken mob greeted him with shouts and rude remarks. Somebody pushed a beer mug into his hands, and he clinked glasses with everyone in reach.
“How’s it going?” Fortis shouted to Ystremski. “Looks like a good time.”
“The good times are just getting started,” the corporal replied. “We might do some fire walking later, maybe sacrifice a virgin or two. You busy?”
Fortis laughed, loud and long. The corporal drained his glass and set it on a nearby table before he reached for the mug Fortis had been given.
“Here, LT, let me help you with that.”
Fortis gave him a reluctant smile as he let go of the mug. He’d almost forgotten about the prohibition against alcohol while undergoing strength enhancement.
“I need to get out of here before I get in trouble,” he told Ystremski.
“It’s all right, sir. In two or three years, when we stop at Eros-69 on our way home and all your enhancements are complete, you’ll be able to drink with the adults.”
Ystremski maintained a straight face for a long second, and Fortis almost believed he was serious. Then the corporal’s face split into a wide grin, and he slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.
“It sucks, sir. DINLI.”
“Damn right. DINLI.” He looked over at the bar. “I need to go talk to the bartender and then I’m headed back to Fenway. Keep these animals from killing each other, okay?”
Ystremski nodded and shouted something unintelligible as the noise level exploded. Fortis looked around and saw Heisen and Lemm standing on adjacent tables with their trousers around their ankles. Long strips of paper hung from between their buttocks, and as Fortis watched, another Marine lit each piece of paper. The flames raced up the makeshift fuses, and Lemm shouted and slapped his out a split second before Heisen did. The Marines cheered Heisen and booed Lemm, and a fresh contestant clambered up on the tables.
Ystremski hooted and slapped Fortis on the shoulder, and the lieutenant shook his head.
When he got to the bar, he leaned across to the smiling bartender.
“These Marines giving you any trouble, ma’am?”
A toothy white smile split her face, and she laughed. “Not a chance. Those guys are gentlemen compared to our usual crowd. The Dance of the Flaming Asshole is a new one, though. What can I get you?”
“Nothing for me.” Fortis pulled out his roll of scrip and laid it in front of her. “You can get these guys as many drinks as this will buy.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? These guys will be drunk for a week!”
Fortis nodded. “I’m positive. Give them whatever they want, and at the end of the night, what they don’t drink is yours. Just don’t tell them until I’m gone, okay?”
The bartender gave him a confused look. “Why not?”
Fortis gave her an embarrassed smile. “Doctor’s orders. I want to get out of here alive.”
* * *
Glenn Deale sputtered and gagged, regaining consciousness when a bucket of frigid water doused his face. The water had a sour odor and left an oily residue in his mouth, and he struggled to breathe without swallowing any.
His throat burned when he choked and spat, and it was then that he remembered his failed assault on the scarred bouncer. By the light of the bare single bulb in the ceiling, he saw shackles on his wrists. When he tried to get to his feet he discovered his ankles were chained, too.
“Where am I?” he croaked, looking around the dim cell, but there was no answer. He swiveled his head back and forth and caught sight of a silhouette standing behind him. “Hey! Hey, you. Where am I?”
A heavy metal bucket passed through the light and hit Deale in the face. He shouted as the bucket spun off into the corner. He tasted blood on his lips.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded.
“Stand him up,” the shadow commanded and rough hands jerked Deale to his feet. They attached his wrist shackles to a chain that ran through a pulley on the ceiling and hauled him onto his tiptoes.
The shadow leaned into the light. Deale saw thick scars on his captor’s cheeks. “You’re a mercenary,” he croaked.
“My men and I hire out for certain tasks from time to time,” the scarred man said. “My name is Chive.” He pulled a GRC employee identity card from his pocket and threw it at Deale’s chest. “Your name is Glenn Deale. You’re a shift mechanic, and you’re a member of the resistance.”
Deale hung silently.
Without warning, Chive drove a fist into Deale’s exposed ribs. Pain lanced through his chest, and he gasped. Chive punched him again in the ribs. Deale wheezed as he struggled to breathe.
“I might have broken a rib with that first one. Sorry.” Chive shrugged and gave an embarrassed grin. “Sometimes I get carried away.” His fist smashed into Deale’s face, and he felt his nose break. Hot blood gushed down his chin, and his face swelled immediately.
“Wha-what the fuck?” Deale spat through the blood running into his mouth.
“That’s right. I know your name, and all the others in your cell. Will you talk now?”
Deale shook h
is head.
“Good. Very good.” Chive nodded. “It makes a dreary job much more fun.”
The mercenary delivered punches to Deale’s stomach. Searing pain paralyzed the mechanic. His mouth opened and closed as he fought to draw a breath. His chin hung down to his chest as he drifted toward unconsciousness.
“You know who else didn’t have much to say at first? Raisa Spears.” Chive delivered another series of body blows before stepping back. “Let him go.”
The chain rattled through the pulley letting Deale collapse to the cold cell floor. He curled up and clutched his abdomen as he fought to breathe. He heard a screeching whine, and it took him a moment to realize it was the sound of air wheezing through his throat. After several long minutes, the pain in his ribs subsided, and he got his wind back.
“Back up.”
The chain rattled and yanked Deale up. Deale screamed as the pain in his ribs became a white-hot spear again.
Chive leaned in and peered into his face.
“I like that you’re strong, Glenn, but you need to know something. I can do this a lot longer than you can take it.”
Deale responded with a nod, and a stream of blood and snot from his ruined nose ran down to his chin.
“Now that we understand each other, let’s get back to it. I will ask you some questions. If you don’t answer, I will hurt you. If you lie to me, I will hurt you. Do you understand?”
Deale didn’t answer, so Chive flicked his broken nose with a forefinger. He gasped in pain.
“You see? You didn’t answer my question, and I hurt you. Get it?”
After a long second, Deale nodded.
“Good. Okay, first question: Are you in a resistance cell with Raisa Spears?”
Another nod.
“How many terrorists are in the cell?”
Deale coughed, and blood dribbled down his chin.
Chive sighed. “I’m a patient man, Deale, and I try to be fair, but you’re making this very hard. Again. How many terrorists were in the cell?”
A sob wracked Deale’s body. He moaned from the agony in his ribs as tears created tracks down his blood-streaked cheeks.
“Six,” he croaked.
“Very good,” replied Chive. “Why did you attack my man Wychan last night?”
Deale stood in silence as blood dripped down his face.
“You attacked one of my men last night, Deale. Why?”
When Deale didn’t answer, Chive delivered a sharp kick to the inside of his right knee. Deale felt the ligaments give way. His legs gave out and the chains around his wrists pulled tight, which immediately reignited the fire in his abdomen. He forced himself to take his full weight on his toes to alleviate the agony of his body, groaning with the effort.
“Does that feel better, Glenn?”
Chive grabbed the front of the mechanic’s tunic and drove a knee deep into his groin. Nausea boiled up from Deale’s stomach and foul-tasting bile fountained from his mouth. The mercenary danced back to avoid the reeking vomit. One of the mercenaries holding Deale’s chains made a noise in his throat.
Chive glared at him. “What? Do you have a problem with that?”
The mercenary shook his head and looked away. Chive turned his attention back to Deale.
“Why did you attack my man?”
“D-d-dealer. Ch-ch-china Mike dealer.” Deale fought to get air into his lungs as spasms of pain from his damaged testicles wracked his body. “Fuckin’…mercenary…”
“Let him drop.”
The chains rattled again, and Deale collapsed face-first to the cold, hard floor. The pain in his face barely registered as he fought to breathe through all the pain.
“What do you know about China Mike?” the mercenary demanded.
Deale’s head felt stuffy and thick and he welcomed the unconsciousness starting to sweep over him.
“Not so fast, Glenn. Water.”
Another bucket of foul water was poured over his face, and the darkness in his mind receded. Chive pinched his cheeks with one hand and looked into his eyes.
“Give him the dope.”
Deale felt a prick in his arm. Seconds later, a surge of energy rushed through his body.
China Mike.
“You bastard.”
“Ah, you’re feeling better. Good. Let’s talk about China Mike.”
The interrogation went on forever. Chive seemed to know when Deale was going to risk a lie. The mercenary was skilled in inflicting excruciating punishment with minimal effort. Once Deale had surrendered everything he knew about China Mike and his resistance cell, Chive stopped his questions.
“Deale, I appreciate your honesty. You want to hear a joke?”
Deale grunted. His swollen face throbbed where Chive had poked and prodded at his broken nose, and sharp edges of broken ribs tore at him whenever he coughed up gritty, foul-tasting blood.
“Your friend Raisa Spears,” the mercenary whispered, and he leaned in until their cheeks almost touched, “she died right here, in the same spot where you’re about to die.”
Deale summoned the last of his energy and aimed a headbutt at Chive’s face. Chive dodged the attempt and laughed as the pain of Deale’s last-ditch effort coursed through his body.
“Not today, Deale. Not ever.”
The next blow landed on his broken ribs, and more pain detonated across Deale’s midriff. Chive’s punches landed on his vulnerable body, hard and fast. Deale wallowed in a sea of agony as red crowded the edges of his vision. At long last, the pain faded.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
“Lieutenant Fortis!”
Rough hands yanked him from the depths of a wildly erotic dream starring the bartender from the Cock and Tail, and he thrashed wildly to escape his sheets.
“Fortis!”
Fortis tumbled out of his rack. His feet hitting the cold floor shocked him awake. He shook the vestiges of the dream from his head as he rubbed his eyes.
“What? Who? What is it?”
“Sir, it’s Corporal Heisen. Ystremski sent me. We’ve got big trouble.”
“Trouble? What trouble?”
Heisen briefed him as Fortis pulled on his uniform.
“We were partying at the Cock and Tail, trying to drink up that pile of scrip you left on the bar. The place started to fill up, and a couple of the guys went upstairs to do their thing. Next thing I know, a bunch of cops in those orange jumpsuits showed up, blowing whistles and dragging Space Marines outside. They lined us up, and then they dragged Landis and Marx out in restraints. That’s when Ystremski told me to come find you, sir.”
“Ah, shit.” Fortis yawned and started for the door. “Where are they now?”
“I don’t know, sir. The last time I saw them they were lined up in the street.”
By the time Fortis and Heisen arrived back at the Cock and Tail, the alley was vacant. When they tried to enter the bar, the same burly doorman he’d seen before met him on the steps and held up a meaty hand.
“No Space Marines allowed,” he rumbled.
“I’m looking for my men,” replied Lieutenant Fortis.
“They’re not here. They left with the cops.”
“Where did they go?”
The doorman shrugged his massive shoulders. “Wherever cops take drug dealers.”
Frustration rose in Fortis’ chest and he had a sudden urge to slug the bouncer. Just then, the bartender stepped outside.
“What’s going on out here?” she demanded.
“No more Marines,” the doorman mumbled. “Too much trouble.”
“I just want to find my men,” Fortis told her. “This clown is getting in the way.”
The bouncer took a step forward, but the bartender stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“Cut the bullshit, both of you.” She looked at Fortis. “Your guys are probably at the colonial police headquarters inside Fenway. That’s where I would start looking.”
“Hmm, yeah. I should have gone
there first.” Fortis gave the bouncer the same up-and-down look he’d been given when he’d arrived at the bar earlier, and then he winked at the bartender. “Thanks for the tip.”
As Fortis and Heisen left the bartender called after them.
“Thank you for the tip. You made my year!”
* * *
Jandahl watched the exchange from a shadowed doorway a few doors from the Cock and Tail. After the bartender and the bouncer went back inside, he emerged and headed for the door. The raid on the bar and arrest of the Space Marines interested him, if only because he’d never heard of the colonial police taking such action before.
When he tried to enter the bar, the bouncer stood in his way.
“We’re closed.”
Behind the massive human doorstop, Jandahl saw the bartender righting overturned chairs and straightening tables.
“What happened here?”
“I said, we’re closed.”
“Let him in, Shag. He’s a regular.”
Shag glared at Jandahl but moved aside, and the intelligence operative nodded as he stepped past the bouncer. He straightened up some chairs and tables as he picked his way through the wreckage to his customary spot at the bar. The bartender had retreated behind the bar and greeted him with a tall glass of beer, which he accepted with a grateful smile.
“Some party in here, eh?”
The bartender laughed. “Space Marines being Space Marines, until the colonial police showed up and hauled them away.”
“Really? Why?”
The bartender started drying a row of glasses lined up on the sink board. “Some of them were dealing China Mike, if you can believe that.”
“Space Marines dealing China Mike? That’s hard to believe.”
“Yep.” The bartender finished drying the glasses and wiped down the bar. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know the signs of a China Mike user, and none of those guys were using. I don’t even think the prostitute they were with is using.”
“Huh.” Jandahl drained his glass and slid it across the bar.
