“This is why you assholes should lay off the tattoos a little,” said Kohl. “It’s distinctive. The Yakuza have a bad rep.”
Shig took in another sharp breath, which Kohl ignored again. Kaz had a small smile playing on his lips. “October, we are reputable business people.”
“Hey, you’re reading me all wrong,” said Kohl. “The fucks I could give on this? You could put them in those saki cups from last night and still have enough room for a decent swallow. I need to know what, which we’ve covered. I need to know who, which I figure we’ve got a lead on. And finally, I need to know where. Once we’ve got those three things down, we’re good to go.”
“Kiagawa.”
“Kia-what?”
“Four light years closer to Sol,” said Kaz. “Now, I need to know a few things too.”
“Okay,” said Kohl.
“I need to know how much you’ll go to protect what’s mine,” said Kaz. “Mithril is valuable. It is new. Its military applications are … significant.”
“Anyone fucks with me, they go home in a box,” said Kohl.
“The Gold Boar Syndicate are not known for their delicate nature,” said Kaz. “They would give my soldiers a run for their money.”
Kohl eyed the woman still standing close to him, then the man standing at Kaz’s side. “These two? I figure them for a couple tall glasses of water. Drop ‘em on a hot day and you wouldn’t even stop sweating.”
Kaz looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that analogy.”
“I make a few up as I go,” admitted Kohl. “How you want to do this? I see the floor is ready to be hosed clean of the loser.” He stamped a boot on the grating for emphasis.
“There are rules,” said Kaz. “The first rule is, everyone must survive. The second rule? Yayoi, when you’re ready.” And then he clapped his hands together.
Kohl almost missed the start of everything, on account of the conversation going so smoothly right up to that point. The woman close to him moved like a bolt of lightning, snaring Shig in a hold that looked too complicated for Kohl’s tastes. Despite that, it had the desired effect, Yayoi snaking around Shig and pressing a blade to his throat. The blade had a green tinge to it, glinting in the light. Probably poison, which was annoying. No wonder Shig wants out. He’s the first fucker up against the wall when it’s quiz night.
While Yayoi was grabbing Kohl’s friend, the man at the front gave a yell, drawing his sword and running for Kohl. Kohl would have sighed if there was time, but there wasn’t time. Everyone must survive was the first rule. And there was a mysterious second rule Kohl didn’t know about, which made honoring it difficult. Hot on the heels of all that mental lifting was the thought Kohl was here without his main blaster, backup blaster, or his knife. And some asshole was running at him with a sword.
Kohl lifted the catch on his belt buckle. The buckle was unremarkable except for its size, shiny chrome metal big enough to be held in one hand. The belt itself was the desired tool of the moment. Kohl hadn’t chosen the belt to keep his pants up. He tugged the belt free, the material coming loose in a hiss of fabric on fabric. He held the buckle like a handle, the belt spooling down by his feet.
The action hadn’t slowed the man with the sword even a little bit, and that mean length of metal swung down towards Kohl’s unprotected head. And here he was, without a weapon. Or at least, that’s what these assholes thought. Stepping sideways, Kohl lashed out with his belt, the material wrapping around the other man’s blade like a whip.
The swordsman gave Kohl a condescending smile, tugging his sword in a way designed to cut through the belt and free his weapon for the killing stroke. Only, the belt didn’t cut. It was lashed fast around the blade. Kohl bulldozed in, grabbing a fistful of five-thousand coin suit lapel, and slammed his forehead into the other man’s nose. Cartilage crunched and blood sprayed, the man staggering back. He was disciplined enough to keep a hold on his blade, and Kohl would have been disappointed with anything less. Kohl gave the belt buckle a savage tug, and the material pulled free with a grating noise. The blade sheared through, a good thirty centimeters of metal falling to the floor to be lost through the grating.
The swordsman looked at Kohl, then at the remains of his sword, then at Kohl’s belt, and back to Kohl. “Impossible,” he said. Blood and mucus ran down his face, but he still looked haughty with it. Kohl hated that look. It suggested this was the kind of man who wanted to put a boot on your neck. Or a blade through your gut.
“It’s diamene,” said Kohl, then kicked the man in the stomach. As the air whooshed out of him, Kohl slapped the remains of the sword from his hand, hauling him around as a body shield. Kohl’s timing couldn’t have been better, as Yayoi had her dart gun out, and she fired at him. Or, in this case, the swordsman that Kohl had inserted in the path of the darts. Kohl pushed the other man in front of him like a ram, hearing the phut, phut, phut of darts as they impacted on his human shield.
When he judged himself close enough, he let the swordsman fall, whipping his belt around. It wrapped around Yayoi’s arm, and Kohl gave a tug. The diamene edge of the belt sawed through her arm with less problem than it had with the sword, her hand — still holding the dart gun — dropping to be lost through the grating. Blood sprayed into Kohl’s face, but that was less of a concern right now than the knife at Shig’s throat.
Shig, to give him credit, grabbed Yayoi’s remaining arm from around his throat, keeping the blade from going into his neck by main force. It was sufficient, and he wrestled himself free, ducking under the hold Yayoi had him in. He stumbled back to Kohl’s side. “They’re supposed to live!”
Kohl wiped blood from his face, then stepped forward, dodging Yayoi’s knife swing once, twice, a third time, before kicking her feet out from underneath her. He turned to Shig. “Belt,” he said.
“What?”
“Your belt,” said Kohl. “Mine’s a weapon.”
“Oh,” said Shig, handing his belt over.
After using it as a tourniquet for Yayoi’s arm, Kohl stood, stretched back, and then said, “She’ll live.” He turned to the swordsman. “This asshole might not. Best call a doc.”
A slow clap interrupted their conversation. Kohl turned to Kaz as Shig bent to help the fallen swordsman. Kaz was smiling, an eyebrow raised. “Very good, October.”
“You’re not concerned that I’ll come over there?” Kohl flicked blood from his belt. “I’m fifty-fifty at the moment, Kaz.”
“You like Republic coins,” said Kaz.
“Yeah.”
“Then I doubt you’ll come over here. That was impressive, using your belt as a weapon. I will need to school my guards to be more thorough.”
Kohl twisted his torso, trying to get a kink out of his back. “To be fair to the suits on the door, the belt’s an odd weapon.”
“But with it, you didn’t break the second rule,” said Kaz. “You must not fight like a Japanese. Cristina Gomar would suspect you of being an … agent.”
“Cristina the fuck?” said Kohl.
“Cristina Gomar is the head of the Gold Boar Syndicate,” said Kaz.
“Fair enough,” said Kohl. “Gimme the package and the location, and I’ll see it done.”
CHAPTER ONE
THE COSMO TRYPSO wasn’t even close to the second best bar on Trypso Beta. Maybe if you paged through the directory some, got right to the trash pile at the end, buried inside spacer bar territory, you’d find the Cosmo. It was full of low life scum drinking cheap beer. On the way in, Kohl had stepped over a man passed out in the doorway. Kohl took a piss before heading to the bar and someone tried to roll him for his coins before he’d reached the head.
All in, it was a hard place for rough people. You could start shit here and they’d just pour you another beer once the mess was resolved. Perfect. Kohl was carrying a metal case — with the Mithril recipe inside it — and the beginnings of a bad attitude as he left the toilets.
Shig was looking a lot less comfortable about t
he place than Kohl. He’d dressed down again, but not enough. He might be too damn pretty for a spacer bar like this. Or it could have been the gold chains he was wearing. As Kohl maneuvered back to the bar from the head, he saw his friend in an argument with another man. Tight pants. Chain for a belt. Holo tattoo on the side of his face. Kohl walked right on up, drew his arm back, and decked the other guy right in his shiny holo tattoo. The guy dropped like a sack of puppies. Kohl dragged the body aside and stepped up to the bar.
“Hey,” said Shig. “What did you do that for?”
Before they could get started on an argument Kohl sorely wanted to have, on account of his friend setting him up for an interview where people were trying to kill him, the bartender appeared like some kind of wizard. She had green pigtails, braids that drew the eye like landing beacons. She was chewing gum, and looked like she was bored of talking to them before she opened her mouth. “What’ll you have?”
“That’s … unexpected,” said Shig. “You’re not going to ask us to leave?”
“Not that kind of place,” said Kohl.
“What he said,” said the bartender.
“Yakuza,” said Kohl to the bartender, like it explained everything. She was kind of cute, and would be approachable in any circumstance where she didn’t look like she wanted to stab you, but she had a stabbing face on, so that was out. “I need a beer.”
“Saki,” said Shig.
“Not that kind of place,” said Kohl.
“What he said,” said the bartender, but giving Kohl a small smile this time.
“Whiskey?” said Shig.
“Coming up,” said the bartender, pigtails shining as she grabbed a glass.
“Here’s the thing,” said Kohl. “You said your boss wanted to talk.”
“Kohl, you wouldn’t have come—”
“You know, it’s not even that he wanted to kill me that’s the problem,” said Kohl. “It’s that you let yourself get taken like you were throwing a prizefight for a cut of the take.”
“Hey,” said Shig. “Yayoi’s good.” Kohl grunted. “Akihiko’s good too.”
“Who the fuck is Akihiko?”
“Swordsman.”
“Not that good,” said Kohl. A beer appeared in front of him. He nodded his thanks to the bartender, who shrugged it off and walked to serve someone else. “It’s like you all have been getting a manicure while the real work is outsourced.”
“Been some of that,” agreed Shig. “So, there’s another thing.”
“What’s that?” said Kohl. “Is it another thing I’m not gonna like?”
“Boss says I’ve got to come with,” said Shig.
“Eh,” said Kohl. “Your funeral.”
“Because … wait, what?”
Kohl savored the first pull of his beer. He’d grabbed a shower and clean clothes before coming to the meeting point, but it still tasted like someone else’s blood in his mouth. “Thing is, Kaz doesn’t want me to survive. This Mithril shit,” and here, he hefted the case, “is one of those things you hire expendable people to deliver. If your courier knows what’s inside? Well, that’s one person too many.”
Shig thought about that while he toyed with his whiskey. “Why do you think he wanted me to come along?”
“I figure that’s between you and him,” said Kohl. He slapped his friend on the back. “Look on the bright side. You wanted to get off this rock anyway.”
The bartender drifted back, nodding to Kohl’s empty beer. “Another?”
“Figure so,” said Kohl. He dropped coins on the bar. “Name’s Kohl.”
“I look like I care?” she said, but with another hint of a smile. “Joni.” Another beer appeared in front of him, and she was off again.
“When’s your man get here?” said Kohl. “Some big starship captain?”
“That’s right,” said Shig. “Big starship captain. He’s a free trader. Guild license and everything. Won’t attract suspicion.”
“Any starship that leaves Trypso Beta without a corp consignment is suspicions on account of all the drugs,” said Kohl. “Still. We can sell it as a passenger transport.”
“Exactly,” said Shig. He turned around. “There.”
Kohl swiveled, following Shig’s gaze. The guy who’d just walked in didn’t look too concerned about the coma-care patient sprawled in the doorway. Didn’t seem to care about the state of the place. To Kohl’s eye, he looked more comfortable than not, like he was used to spacer bars. “Ah,” said Kohl. “Finally. A fucking professional.” The professional saw Shig, and put a good saunter on as he walked towards them. Kohl saw the glint of gold peaking out of the man’s jacket. Fucker’s got himself a metal hand. Can’t be that professional if he’s lost a perfectly good limb.
“Shig Ishikawa?” said the captain, holding out his hand.
Shig shook it. “Nathan Chevell?”
“Yeah,” said the captain. “My friends call me Nate.”
“Fuck, one of those,” said Kohl.
“Sorry, friend,” said Nate. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“October Kohl,” said Kohl. “People call me October Kohl.”
“On account of your low number of friends,” said Nate. “Easy to see.”
Kohl bristled, coming off his stool a ways. “If you weren’t a cripple…”
“Come now,” said Nate. “I figure a man like you doesn’t let the fact his opponent’s disadvantaged slow him down none.”
“Friends,” said Shig.
“We’re just talking,” said Nate.
“What he said,” said Kohl. Neither Nate nor Kohl moved. Neither blinked. Kohl thought about that for a second. Man, walks into a spacer bar. Hired by the Yak. Taking a couple assholes off-world, no questions asked, no answers given. Used to the quiet work. He squinted. “You want a beer?”
“I do,” said Nate. “I really do.”
“Good,” said Kohl. He gestured for Joni, who gave Nate an appreciative look before sauntering off. On another day, that would have pissed Kohl off for sure, but today it was just another reason to get off this rock.
Nate took a swig of his beer when it arrived, winced, and said, “You know there’s a bunch of guys outside?”
“Drunk or sober?” said Kohl.
“More on the sober side of the scale, I reckon,” said Nate.
Kohl eyed Shig. “We expecting company?”
“No.”
Kohl wondered about going outside and solving the problem. Then he wondered about being able to finish his beer in peace. The people outside might not be here for the Mithril. They might not be here for Kohl and Shig. Hell, they might be here for some kind of hazing-based stag event. Not likely, but possible. “How many?”
“Ten,” said Nate, leaning against the bar like he faced down odds like that before breakfast. Kohl had to admit, the man did flair pretty well. It didn’t make him like him anymore, but you didn’t need to like someone to fight alongside them.
“How many you good for?” said Kohl.
“Not ten,” said Nate. He raised his metal hand. “Before this? Not even then.”
Kohl rolled his shoulders. “Okay.”
Joni appeared behind them. The three men turned to face her. Her stabbing-face scowl had returned. “Are you planning to start something serious?”
“Not going to start anything,” said Nate.
“Fuck,” she said, slamming a hand under the bar. The lights in the Cosmo came up what felt like a few million lumens, making Kohl wince. Security shutters crashed down over the bar, securing Joni behind them.
Kohl gave Nate a look. “Real smart.”
“What?” said Nate. “Tell me what I said.”
“The wrong damn thing,” said Kohl, as ten people filed into the Cosmo with murder in their hearts. Kohl knew this from the looks on their faces, and the slow, deliberate way they moved inside, fanning out, and making sure the exits were covered. Most by the doors. A couple scattered by the windows. One asshole by the door to the head.
Only way out is through. Kohl felt himself grin. No problem. “Let’s teach these assholes a lesson.”
“What? No,” said Nate. “I’m just the pilot. Hell, not even that. Got a Helm for piloting. I ain’t being paid to get into any local nonsense.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” said Nate. “Don’t do anything for free you can get paid for.”
“Huh,” said Kohl. Sounds like something I’d say. “Shig?”
“The Demon Crocodile Company is prepared to extend your rate,” said Shig, pulling a blaster from under his jacket.
Nate nodded, unholstering his own blaster. The patrons of the bar were taking notice, on account of the bright lights, and the newcomers pulling weapons and being a pain in the ass. “Okay,” he said. “I figure we—”
“Hey,” said Kohl. “Who the fuck put you in charge?”
“I’m the captain,” said Nate. “I captain things.”
“This,” said Kohl, gesturing around the bar, “look like a starship to you, flyboy?”
Nate considered the bar, his blaster, and the thugs. “No. But, you know, similar.”
“I don’t like your starship already,” said Kohl.
“Hey,” said one thug, a thin woman with a pinched face that looked like it would be right at home providing honest critique on your life’s failings. “Hey.”
“Hold up,” said Kohl, palm out towards her. He turned back to Nate. “What’s the name of your ship?”
“The Tyche.”
“Hey,” said the critical woman, but louder this time.
“Sounds French,” said Kohl.
“Greek.”
“Hey!” said Critical Woman.
“Whatever,” said Kohl. He turned to Critical Woman. “Relax.”
“Relax?” she said, voice going up about thirty octaves. “I’ll tell you—”
A man at her side, shorter by ten centimeters at least, stepped forward, tossing a glance back at Critical Woman. “Clea. Clea! Business first.” He turned to face Kohl. “I’m Dale Barrow. This is Clea Henley. Are you in charge?”
Tyche's Fury Page 2
