The Lazarus Particle

by Logan Thomas Snyder

  Dell was starting to regret bringing it up at all. “I don’t know, I just—”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Torrey interrupted. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, we were all one at some point. My advice? Don’t overthink it. Just take it easy and let it come to you.”

  “He’s got a point there. The only thing you’re missing out on down that way is a nasty case of VD and a month’s course of antivirals. Not pretty, trust me.”

  “Okay, you can go ahead and listen to that part. That’s genuinely good advice.”

  “Focus up, people.” Even shrouded behind his cowl, Commander Harm’s voice was no less sharp. The sound of it snapped them back to task as quickly as a whiff of smelling salts.

  The child runner was on his way back, his little chest huffing and puffing as he clambered to a halt before his master, handed him a folded slip of paper, then promptly doubled over and vomited up the contents of his stomach. Indifferent to the boy’s plight, the man in charge unfolded the note. His eyes scanned slowly back and forth across the page as he read and reread its contents.

  “Ptsvy instructs I am to extend greetings on his behalf to his old and most favored associate Cornelius. He further instructs I allow you to retain possession of your weapons. Make certain they remain well concealed at all times. You have two hours to conduct your business. Do you understand and consent to be bound by these conditions as they have been laid out for you?”

  “On behalf of myself and my party, I understand and consent.” Two more ingots found their way into the man’s hand.

  “You may enter,” the man said, standing aside. “Welcome back to Kalifka Bazaar, Cornelius.”

  Dell carefully sidestepped the child runner’s sick as their party crossed the threshold into the Bazaar.

  His first impression of the Bazaar was that it was teeming with humans and aliens of every type, more than he had ever seen in any one place. They were all humanoid, of course, all bipedal, all symmetrical, all bearing a roughly analogous set of physical features, but even so, the sheer variety and volume threatened to overwhelm the senses. And that was before he even got to the various others sights, smells, and tastes of the Bazaar. The stink of the dense press of humanity; the musky, feculent odor of pack animals bound for slaughter; the remnant, vaguely metallic tang of the recently slaughtered still hanging in the air; the sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy aroma of exotic spices and herbal remedies. All of these and more combined to create a cloying yet oddly compelling funk Dell had a feeling he and his companions would be smelling on themselves and their clothes well after they had taken leave of this place.

  “We’re here,” Commander Harm said as their path through the complex layout of the Bazaar terminated before one of the more elaborate and imposing permanent structures Dell had yet seen. The compound was segregated from the rest of the Bazaar by two massive reinforced gates and tall walls covered top to bottom in a tight alien script he could only guess was some form of calligraphy. As they approached, the gate began to open outwardly. By degrees they revealed something akin to a glittering oasis in the middle of a scorched, barren desert. Well manicured lawns set around a grid of wide lanes. Decorative foliage strategically placed at discrete intervals around the interior. A stately fountain to which all lanes seemingly led. They started into the compound, all the chatter and foot traffic of the Bazaar-proper seeming to fade away as the gate closed behind them.

  They were met at the fountain by a reedy, long-limbed humanoid with a chalky gray complexion and strangely opalescent irises that made it difficult to precisely identify the color of his pupils. “Cornelius,” he said, dragging the last syllable into something of a breathy hiss.

  “Jobosk.” He affected a tight, not altogether sincere smile. “I see you’ve done well for yourself. Majordomo now, is it?”

  “Let us not pretend to be friends, Cornelius. I have not the stomach for the tedium of it. Now, come. Ptsvy is waiting.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The interior of the manor was wide and capacious. Armed guards idly strolled a perimeter lined with trickling canals and lush, leafy greenery. Fountains burbled at each of the corners framing Ptsvy’s inner sanctum, where presently he stood at the center of what could only be construed as a preposterous show of wealth where little actually existed. It was all in flux, constantly moving, like the water through the fountains. Everything here was predicated on a standard, a kind of status quo, the ebb and flow of one conflict to the next. But then the wars, the conflicts, the petty squabbles and the accidental skirmishes, they would never cease. And neither would places like this, Dell concluded with a mournful pang.

  Ptsvy himself in no way resembled the paunchy, well heeled warlord Dell realized he had been expecting. Arrestingly short at all of four-foot-nothing, he shuffled forward to meet them with an awkward, stiff-legged gait and an impish smile perfectly suited to his diminutive stature. To Dell, the man looked as if he had never once had occasion to use any of the singularly lethal technologies in which he trafficked. The worst kind of arms dealer. Someone who’d fought at least had a sense of the level of death and destruction they were peddling. This man wouldn’t give anything but profit so much as a passing thought.

  “My dear, dear Cornelius! So long it has been! Ptsvy was beginning to think you had forgotten your old friend.”

  Commander Harm grinned. “Oh, but who could ever forget Ptsvy? I just haven’t been in the neighborhood lately, is all.” Dell and the others hung back a few feet while the two embraced enthusiastically, laughing in the way of business acquaintances playing at old friends. “Business is well, I take it?”

  “Business is well? Business is booming, Cornelius, booming! War is always good for business.”

  “A sad truth, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, yes, for those fighting the wars. For those supplying the warriors, it is a celebrated mantra,” Ptsvy said, his eyes practically twinkling. “Ptsvy assumes that is why you are here, yes?”

  “Ptsvy always has possessed a certain clairvoyance when it comes to taking the measure of his clients’ needs.”

  “As you say, Cornelius, as you say. Come, Ptsvy senses we have much to discuss.”

  So they did. Nearly an hour after disappearing into Ptsvy’s manse, the two men had yet to emerge. That left Dell, Torrey, and Breed little to do but mill about and try to discreetly shield Alexia from Jobosk’s eerily inscrutable gaze. The rangy, ashen-skinned majordomo seemed to have developed an unhealthy interest in her male persona. More than once he approached their group under the guise of solicitousness, asking in that rasping hiss of his if they were all quite certain they would not like to indulge in Ptsvy’s hospitality.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Torrey said flatly the third such time. “We’re good.”

  “You are certain? As honored guests, you are more than welcome—”

  Breed cut him short impatiently. “We’re on duty, man. We gotta stay focused.”

  “What he means is it wouldn’t look good with Cornelius,” Dell added smoothly. “You understand.”

  “Of course. And your associate?”

  “What?”

  Jobosk nodded to indicate Alexia. “Surely your associate can speak for himself.”

  “He could if he hadn’t gone and gotten his tongue cut out. Damn fool never did know when to stop running his mouth.” Torrey fixed Jobosk with a look to signal the end of the conversation. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

  The moment seemed to strain against itself as Jobosk continued to stare penetratingly at Alexia. For her part, Alexia met his gaze before tugging her cowl a bit lower. Finally he smiled thinly. Unnervingly. “Yes,” he hissed before moving to take his leave of them. “Quite.”

  Torrey and Breed traded knowing glances. Somehow Jobosk had made Alexia. In a flash they had their plasma rifles out. Dell and Alexia followed in kind. Just before launching, Torrey and Breed had made them practice again and again until each had the draw just right. The lifting of the arms;
the parting of the cloak; the leveling of the weapon. Dell brought the plasma pistol up smoothly, sighting down the barrel at the nearest guard. Caught entirely by surprise by the sudden display of superior firepower, Ptsvy’s guards were still fumbling for what was their own woefully inadequate hardware by comparison. Between the four of them, they each had a point of the compass and everything between covered.

  “Stop right there, Jobosk,” Torrey called out. “Turn around. Slowly.”

  “Everybody else just take it nice and easy,” Breed advised. “Oh, and drop your shit if you don’t want to get smoked.”

  To a man, Ptsvy’s guards chucked their weapons toward the foursome.

  “Well, at least I can take this off now.” Alexia spared a hand to pull back her cowl and shake out her hair. “Itchy as all hell.”

  Jobosk hissed almost gleefully as she revealed her face. “A female, yes, as I suspected! Ptsvy will be most displeased with your Cornelius.”

  “Yeah, well that’s too fucking bad for Ptsvy, isn’t it?” Breed snarled. “Considering we have the plasma.”

  Torrey had Jobosk locked square in his sights. He wasn’t taking any chances with the man. “How’d you know, Jobosk?”

  “My people are quite adept at sensing deception. Yours was more benign than most, but a stain upon my spectrum nonetheless. It was only a matter of time.”

  “Fascinating stuff. Now, get down on your knee—”

  One of the younger guards Dell was covering made the inadvisable decision to lunge for his discarded weapon. There was a sound like a muted, echoless clap as Dell pulled the trigger without hesitation. A yellowish-white bolt lanced from the pistol, shearing the top of the young man’s skull away and dropping him like a sack of bricks. What remained of his exposed brains sizzled and steamed in the open air. Fighting down a sudden wave of nausea, Dell kept the plasma pistol fixed before him determinedly. Neither of the other two guards he was covering proved foolish enough to emulate their colleague’s fatal boldness.

  “Anyone else want to take a stupid chance?” Torrey called out. It was then that Commander Harm and Ptsvy finally emerged from the private office, oblivious to what had just transpired. One second they were laughing and bantering cheerfully, the next Commander Harm was in a ready stance, his pistol unholstered to cover Ptsvy as he shrieked, enraged. The pocket warlord was far less concerned with the dead guard, it turns out, than Alexia’s unwelcome presence within the compound. Wheeling around, he jabbed a stubby arm straight up into the line of Commander Harm’s downward-aimed fire. If the moment weren’t fraught with such tension, the sight would have been downright comical.

  “You have brought a foul and execrable creature into Ptsvy’s midsts, Cornelius! This is an outrage that will not stand!”

  “I’d choose your words more carefully from here on out if I were you, Ptsvy,” Commander Harm advised him. “My boys happen to be especially fond of this particular foul and execrable creature. Honestly, I have to admit to a certain avuncular affection myself.”

  Ptsvy’s upper lip curled into an atavistic snarl. “Sickening.”

  “Hey!” Torrey barked. “In this situation there are two types of people: the dumb shit who keeps talking and the smart shit who shuts his mouth and listens to what the people with the plasma have to say. Which one are you?”

  Ptsvy set his mouth into a razor-thin line but said nothing.

  “Atta boy. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to walk out of here like this nasty little bit of unpleasantness never happened. You will honor the agreement you made with Cornelius. Our shuttles will arrive to begin transporting supplies within the hour, and they will be accompanied by armed guards. And just to make sure you stay good with all of that, we’re taking Jobosk with us. You get him and the rest of your payment when we get our supplies. That’s the new deal. Nod if you accept the terms.”

  Ptsvy narrowed his eyes. Clearly he was not accustomed to having terms dictated to him so draconically. Yet faced with no other choice, he ultimately nodded.

  “Pleasure doing business with you as always, Ptsvy,” Commander Harm said.

  “You will pay for this transgression, Cornelius. Mark Ptsvy’s words.”

  “Probably,” he agreed. “We all pay for something in the end.”

  28 • REPRISAL

  “We estimate that less than forty percent of personnel survived the Tyroshi strike on Orbital Station Tau. There may yet be others who have been unable to make contact, but at this point it seems unlikely.”

  “I see,” Admiral Bakhtiari said tightly via holopresence. “And there is no indication as to what precipitated such a shocking, unprovoked intrusion of our corporate space?”

  “None, Admiral.”

  “Are you being pursued?”

  “Not that we are presently aware of.”

  “Very well. Ship Commander Trufant’s battle group will rendezvous on your position within the hour. I see from your jacket you two have had… issues in the past. I trust this will not present a problem going forward.”

  “Not from me, ma’am.”

  “A carefully chosen answer, though I shall take you at your word.”

  A thought occurred to Commander Orth just as Admiral Bakhtiari was about to sign off. “Admiral?”

  “Yes, Commander Orth?”

  “There was a security breach last week that resulted in the theft of my CCV as well as the abduction of an officer, a civilian advocate, and a key corporate asset. I trust you’ve been apprised of my report?”

  “I have. Are you suggesting these events may somehow be linked?”

  “I tend not to put much stock in coincidences, Admiral. Certainly not coincidences of this magnitude.”

  “I take your point, Commander. It shall go under advisement.”

  Orth sat for several moments in the silence that engulfed the room following the transmission. After their escape from Orbital Station Tau, his and several other shuttles followed the emergency protocols and linked up with the station’s three Arbiter-class destroyers at predetermined coordinates. Despite the imposing moniker, the Arbiter-class was actually several decades old, accounting for just under ten percent of Morgenthau-Hale naval vessels still in active service. Those that were rarely saw any action more exciting than low-risk defense and escort duty—precisely the duty they had been tasked to perform at the station. The fact that all three of their captains decided to engage the Tyroshi fleet despite being wildly outnumbered and outclassed both infuriated and inspired Orth. It also spoke to the measure of their dedication. Some orders, no matter how tactically sound, cannot be abided. Nearly forty percent of the station’s personnel had survived as a result of their actions before they too were forced to flee or face certain destruction. It was by no means a good day, but Orth knew from experience it could have been far, far worse.

  All that aside, Orth hadn’t hesitated to ensconce himself aboard the Reliant, dispossessing Captain Hondo of both his personal quarters and office.

  As for the other matter, he couldn’t fathom a scenario in which the two incidents—catastrophes, really—were not somehow linked. Yet he could no more easily imagine one in which they could be legitimately intertwined. What did one have to do with the other? What was the common element? If he could determine that, perhaps he could gain a little clarity on the situation. Perhaps the weight of blame would fall less heavily if he were the one to source the truth behind the assault.

  A soft tone signaling someone outside the office vied for his attention.

  “Come ahead.”

  Captain Hondo entered. Dorsey Hondo was a sailor’s sailor, a man who had never aspired to anything more than commanding his own ship. A square peg in a square hole, Hondo was a man who knew his place and was more than happy to be the one occupying it. The Reliant was hardly flagship or even frontline material, never would be, but it was his, and he ran it like a well oiled machine. He’d grown a tad portly over the years, but still had a quick and purposeful stride. “Just
thought I’d check in on you. Hope the accommodations are up to snuff.” He eased himself into a seat normally reserved for visitors other than himself. “Bottom drawer, left side,” he said. “So, we at war yet?”

  Orth opened the bottom drawer to reveal a half full (half empty?) bottle of a Golish liquor not unlike tequila. “Why, my dear Captain, I never knew you had such exotic tastes.”

  Hondo shrugged. “Picked it up early on when I was a young buck. Did a couple rotations in a group patrolling Gole space, back before they sued for independence. Me and the boys in my wing used to go on these wild benders. We’d pick up a couple Golish whores and just the slam the shit out of this stuff until we could barely put the wood to ‘em anymore. Not that we didn’t still try!” He barked out a belly laugh and slapped the desk before realizing Orth wasn’t sharing in the mirth. “Anyway, I lost my taste for it after a while. Only just rediscovered it a month or so ago. Contraband. Some things you just don’t let go to waste. Know what I mean?”

  “Indeed.” Setting the bottle and the two shot glasses also present in the drawer on the desk, he poured them each a helping edging up to the brim. “Not at war yet, no.” They clinked glasses.

  “That’s surprising,” Hondo said after firing back the shot. “Seems pretty obvious we need to strike back.”

  “We don’t have enough information. Something about it all just doesn’t feel right. Why come at us so aggressively? So implacably? We were barely in communication with them before they began bombarding us.”

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  Something about airing his doubts seemed to unlock what Orth knew could be the only reasonable answer to the conundrum facing him ever since the Tyroshi entered his system.

  “I think someone did an exceptional job of convincing the Tyroshi we were involved in a very dramatic, very damaging attack upon one of their fleets. It’s the only plausible explanation.”