Silent Order: Iron Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  He took one step and then stopped.

  “What is it?” said Heath.

  “Something’s wrong,” said March.

  “What?” said Heath. “I don’t see anything.”

  March said nothing for a moment, watching the line of loaded cargo drones rolling away down the corridor. A steady stream of them left the Fisher, but there was one cargo drone heading towards the bay. His first thought was that it was another one sent to help with the unloading of the Fisher, but the drone was carrying a half-dozen metal barrels in its bed. Undoubtedly the Fisher would take on more cargo before departing Rustbelt Station, and for a second March’s alarm eased.

  Yet why would a loaded drone come while the Fisher was still unloading? It would just get in the way and slow the entire process. Spaceport cargo controllers always unloaded first and then loaded freighters. Trying to do both at once invariably caused problems.

  March took three quick steps to the right.

  The cargo drone shifted direction. It was subtle, and March wouldn’t have seen it unless he had been paying attention, but the drone changed direction to follow him. As March moved, he also saw the labels on the barrels in the drone’s bed. All kinds of red warning labels covered the barrels, warning about the toxic engine coolant within. The stuff did an excellent job of cooling down fusion engines, but it also was supremely toxic, and a deep breath of the gas would turn a pair of human lungs to sludge.

  A bomb in the cart would shatter the barrels and kill everyone in the cargo corridor. There were still dozens of people in the corridor, and perhaps the gas would spread far enough to kill hundreds.

  The Machinists did not care about collateral damage.

  All this flashed through his head in a second.

  “What’s wrong?” said Heath again.

  “There’s a bomb on that cargo drone,” said March, his voice calm. Heath said something, but March ignored him. “Bishop, Vigil. Cargo drone CR-8897. There’s a bomb on the thing. Can you disable it remotely?”

  “Negative, Captain March,” said Vigil.

  “It’s not showing up on the system,” said Bishop. Likely Lorre had disabled its antenna and programmed it for autonomous action.

  “We should inform the guards,” said Roanna. “We…”

  “No!” said Heath. “My lady, those barrels hold engine coolant. If even one of them is breached, the gas might kill everyone in this corridor.”

  Roanna flinched, the color draining from her face as the cart continued rolling towards them.

  March looked to the side. “Bishop, we’re outside Bay 173. What’s the nearest unoccupied bay?”

  “207,” said Bishop.

  “Is there access to the service corridors there?” said March.

  The drone began to roll faster, the whine of its electric motor reaching March’s ears.

  “Hang on…yes,” said Bishop.

  “Good,” said March. “Run, both of you. Bay 207. Run!”

  Both Roanna and Heath started running, and March followed them. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw the cargo drone break free of the line, shooting towards them. The Ronstadt security men shot it a bemused look, but the useless idiots took no action to stop it. Well, at least they weren’t on Lorre’s side. The men could have drawn their weapons and shot them all down while pursued by the cargo drone.

  Roanna reached the airlock door to Bay 207 first, followed a half-second later by Heath. March joined them, the whine of the cargo drone’s engine getting louder, its tires squealing against the rock floor as it accelerated. The bay door was unlocked, and March triggered it, the wide doors sliding open with a hiss and a clang. The bay beyond was about the size of the one that held the Tiger, a large oval pit carved into the rock of the asteroid, a service gantry mounted to the wall.

  There was also a door leading to the service corridors.

  “This way,” said March. “Hurry!”

  He ran across the bay and reached the service door first, sliding it open. Beyond stretched a narrow corridor with a metal grill floor, pipes and bundles of wires lining the walls in racks. The air within stank of machine oil and insulation foam and emergency lights hung in small metal cages from the ceiling. Heath urged Roanna into the corridor, and March followed them, drawing his pistol from its holster and thumbing its selector to maximum power.

  “Bishop!” said March. “When I give the word, close the airlock door to Bay 207 and lock it down.”

  “All right,” said Bishop, and March heard a keyboard clattering in the background. “We…yes, here we go. Say the word, and I can close the airlock.”

  “Good,” said March, sliding the access door almost closed, leaving only an inch-wide crack open. With his right hand he gripped his pistol, and with his left hand, he grasped the door handle. He would have exactly one chance to get this right.

  “What are you doing?” said Heath.

  March didn’t say anything, his whole attention on the airlock.

  “What are…”

  “Quiet!” said March. He heard Heath start to move forward, then Roanna said something that March didn’t catch, and Heath subsided.

  The cargo drone rolled into the bay, the barrels of coolant clanking in the bed.

  “Bishop!” said March. “Now!”

  He aimed and squeezed the trigger, sending the plasma bolt streaking towards the nearest barrel, and as he did he slammed the door the rest of the way shut.

  A lot of things happened at once.

  There was a roaring noise, and a jolt went through the floor. The door bulged out from sudden pressure, and the impact sent March stumbling back. He caught his balance, but not before he stumbled into Roanna, and he felt the warmth of her hands against his right arm she helped him to stand up. A klaxon wailed in the distance, and he heard frantic voices, both from his earpiece and from Roanna and Heath.

  March ignored it all, his eyes focused on the damaged door. If it decided to fail and flood the corridor with the released gas, they were all about to die.

  But the door held. Despite the slipshod maintenance standards aboard Rustbelt Station, this door at least was airtight. At least for now. Given how badly the door had been stressed, it might fail at any moment.

  “What happened?” said Roanna and Heath.

  “What happened?” said Bishop.

  “I shot one of the barrels, and that set the bomb off,” said March. “Bishop, did you get the airlock sealed?”

  “Yeah,” said Bishop. He let out a low whistle. “Like two seconds before the cargo drone exploded.”

  “It was actually 0.67 seconds, Mr. Bishop,” announced Vigil.

  “Are you insane?” said Heath. “That was reckless! You could have killed Lady Roanna!”

  “A lot of people would have died when that bomb went off,” said March. “There wasn’t time to play it safe. Bishop, what’s our status?”

  “The cargo corridor is locked down,” said Bishop. “Maintenance teams and security are rushing to the landing bays. Looks like you’ve kicked over the beehive, Jack. Are you in the service corridors?”

  “Yeah,” said March. “We can’t get back to the Emperor’s Rest or the Tiger. And if Lorre knows about us, we’ve already been compromised. I need another location to take Lady Vindex while we figure out what to do next.”

  “There’s a bar in Dome 7,” said Bishop. “I don’t own it, but the owner’s a friend, and he owes me some favors. I’m sending directions to your phone. Head there and I will meet you there as soon as I can. Hopefully, we can make some sense of this mess.”

  “Thanks,” said March. “I’ll meet you there. Good work.”

  Bishop snorted. “Me? You’re the one who just saved a noblewoman and a few hundred other people. Keep your eyes open, Jack. I’ll call if anything comes up.”

  He ended the connection, and March turned back to Roanna and Heath. The naval officer glared at him, while the noblewoman only looked pensive.

  “Captain March,” said Roanna. “I
would appreciate an explanation.”

  “There’s a Machinist agent named Simon Lorre on your trail,” said March. “He sent that bomb to kill you, and he’s been trying to kill me, which means he knows about you. The bomb’s given us a moment of chaos, and we had better exploit it. Follow me. A friend of mine is going to meet us there, and we can figure out what to do.”

  Roanna gazed at him for a moment and then nodded.

  “Lady…” started Heath, but she spoke over him.

  “So be it, Captain March,” said Roanna. “You’ve dealt honestly with us so far. It seems we must place our lives in your hands.” She smiled a little. “Please endeavor not to drop them.”

  “I have very steady hands,” said March, which was truer than she knew. He fished out his phone and glanced at the map Bishop had sent him. “This way, please.”

  Chapter 4: Out Of Place

  For the moment, confusion ruled in Rustbelt Station, but despite that, the area around Dome 7 seemed quiet.

  March led the way through the service corridors, his gun in his right hand and his phone in his left. Roanna followed him, and then Sam Heath. March had been concerned that Heath might get excited and accidentally shoot him in the back, but Heath handled his gun properly and even went around corners with smooth skill, his pistol sweeping to track for any potential enemies. His steady competence seemed an odd contrast to his infatuation with Lady Roanna, and March wondered how Heath had gotten involved with the Vindex twins and their troubles.

  Another complication. March wasn’t surprised. When things went wrong, they tended to go wrong in unexpected ways.

  “Here,” said March, stopping before an access hatch. He slipped his phone back into his jacket and gripped the handle, the hatch swinging open on creaking metal hinges. Beyond was a corridor hewn from the rock of the asteroid, lit by dim red lights, and March heard a distant bass thumping.

  “What is that noise?” said Roanna.

  “Music,” said Heath. His scowl deepened. “Of a sort.”

  “Watch your step,” said March, testing his balance on the corridor floor. “The gravitics here feel like they need maintenance.” The noblewoman and the naval officer followed him into the corridor, and March led the way into Dome 7.

  It looked as if it had once been a hydroponics bay. The metal dome arched overhead, its central third made of a clear alloy that offered a view of the stars. Where hydroponics pods had once grown food now stood a variety of seedy-looking businesses – pawn shops, questionable druggists, shops offering “escorts,” and various gambling establishments. The largest business was a bar lit with flickering green lights, and the pulsing music came from within its doors. Two guards stood before the doors to the bar, stun batons in their hands.

  “That does not seem like a reputable establishment,” said Roanna.

  “It does not,” said March, and he led the way forward. The two guards looked them over, their eyes settling on Roanna with gleeful interest. That made Heath bristle, and March hoped the damned hothead would not start a firefight.

  “Here to audition as a dancer, miss?” said one of the guards, grinning. Tattoos covered his thick, muscled arms. “You can get started here. Take off your clothes and give us a twirl or two, and if we like what we see, you can dance for the boss.”

  Heath started to snarl an answer, but Roanna spoke first.

  “I’m afraid your establishment couldn’t afford me, sir,” she said with a chilly smile.

  “Bishop sent us,” said March, meeting the guard’s eyes with an unblinking stare.

  The guard grunted, glanced at March’s gloved left hand, and then tapped an earpiece. He listened for a moment, then nodded.

  “Go on in,” said the guard, stepping to the side. “Booth in the corner, the opposite wall of the stage. Don’t make trouble.”

  “I’ve never made trouble in my life,” said March.

  The guard snorted but waved them through.

  March walked into the bar.

  He had been in a lot of places like this during his duties, but to judge from the way that Roanna’s eyes went wide, Calaskaran noblewomen did not often come to establishments of this nature.

  The bass rumble of the music filled the air, and the patrons sat at the tables and drank, eerie in the green light. Waitresses in translucent halter tops and short skirts tottered past on stiletto heels, carrying trays of drinks. On the stage, three women wearing string, glitter, high heels, and nothing else twisted and danced in time to the beat of the music. A large crowd of men had gathered at the base of the stage, many of them holding credit notes.

  March’s eyes swept the room, looking for threats. Despite the alarm klaxon, most of the crowd was indifferent, either focused on their drinks or on the dancers. No one was paying any attention to them. He glanced at his companions. Roanna’s face had settled into a cool, aloof mask. No doubt that had been drilled into her since childhood. Heath’s face had turned red, and he looked like he didn’t know where to put his eyes.

  “Here,” said March, gesturing to the booth in the corner. Roanna sat down, a bit gingerly, while Heath followed her. March sat across from them, making sure he had a view of the crowd and the door.

  “This is not a suitable establishment for a Calaskaran noblewoman,” said Heath, indignant.

  “Probably not,” said March. “It’s also the last place anyone would look for her. Which is why we are here. My friend should arrive soon, and we can make a proper plan.”

  Heath scowled but didn’t argue further.

  “I suppose it is nothing I have not seen before,” said Roanna, trying to keep her voice light.

  Heath gave her an astonished look.

  “There were communal showers after gym class at the Queen’s Academy on Calaskar,” said Roanna.

  “Ah,” said March. He jerked his head at the stage. “Can’t imagine that went on in the showers, though.”

  Roanna gave him a shocked look and then laughed. Even Heath smiled a little. “No, sir, it did not. Captain March.” She took a deep breath. March tried not to notice how her jumpsuit pressed against her chest as she did. Heath might have become besotted with her, but he had come by it honestly. “Thank you for saving our lives.”

  March inclined his head.

  “Unless it was a ruse to gain our trust,” said Heath.

  Roanna frowned at him, but March spoke first. “If it was, that was a crap way to do it. Death by engine coolant gas is a bad way to go. No, if I wanted to gain your trust, I would have hired a couple of these idlers,” he jerked his head towards the crowd at the stage, “to attack you in the corridor. Then I would have swooped to the rescue.” He shook his head. “No, that was a bad business. If it had gone wrong, a lot of people would have died.”

  “That coolant gas,” said Roanna. “Would it really have killed everyone in the corridor?”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Heath. “The stuff is toxic. It’s not even supposed to be transported through pressurized corridors. It’s safer to have a tug carry it through the vacuum. That must have been what tipped Captain March off.”

  “It was,” said March, ignoring the suspicion in the younger man’s voice.

  “All this just to kill me?” said Roanna. “Why?”

  “Think you know more about that than I do,” said March, and Roanna swallowed. “Here comes my friend. Might be time to put all our cards on the table.”

  Heath started to protest, and then Bishop approached the booth. He had changed to a dark business suit, though it was shabby enough to match the other patrons of the bar. It made him fit in, which was no small feat for a man of his height.

  “I do apologize for my lateness,” said Bishop, dropping into the booth next to March. The seat creaked a bit beneath their combined weight. “Your little adventures have caused quite the tangle in the station’s transit systems.”

  “This is your friend?” said Heath, eyeing Bishop.

  “Oh, of course,” said Bishop, sticking out a callused hand.
“Constantine Bishop.” Heath gave the hand a cautious shake. “And you…”

  “This is Lieutenant Samuel Heath of the Royal Calaskaran Navy,” said March, “and Lady Roanna Vindex, daughter of Lord Sebastian Vindex, the Earl of Sundrex on Calaskar.”

  “A pleasure, Lieutenant, my lady,” said Bishop. “Do forgive the lack of a proper bow. I don’t wish to draw attention to us.”

  Roanna raised one eyebrow. “As if I have not already drawn attention by being the only clothed woman in here.”

  Bishop laughed. “The waitresses are clothed, at least according to the minimal legal standard of the word. But we ought to be unobserved for the moment.” He waved a hand at the room. “You will see that none of the patrons or the employees have abandoned this establishment, despite the alarms. No one here wishes to be noticed.”

  “What happened after the bomb went off?” said March. “Was anyone killed?”

  “No,” said Bishop. “Luring it into the empty bay, that was clever. The gas was vented into space and didn’t spread to anywhere else within the station. Ronstadt still has the cargo corridor sealed off, and the rest of the station is on temporary alert. Heitz is fit to be tied, but the official story is that there was an accident with coolant gas. This is an inconvenience, but it will hinder our friend Mr. Lorre as well.”

  “Who is this Lorre person?” said Heath. “You mentioned him before.”

  “He’s a Machinist agent,” said March. “Think he was sent here to kill Lady Roanna. He tried to kill me on Antioch Station when I was hired to fly her and Lord Thomas off this rock, and he tried to kill me again when I arrived here. He likes to work through hired thugs and sabotage. A bunch of gas barrels on a hacked cargo drone is exactly his style.”

  “Why would he try to kill you at Antioch Station?” said Heath. “You’re just a privateer. Does he have a grudge against you or something?”