Exodus

by Jamie Sawyer

  Lopez produced a chip from her pouch—probably a smaller denomination than that Bukov had already paid—and handed it to Vostok. The corporal didn’t even bother hiding the bribe, but held it up, inspected it. Finally, he slid it into his BDU.

  “I do not know her,” Vostok said.

  Lopez tutted in exasperation, but Vostok put up a hand to silence her protest.

  “But I know someone who will,” he offered.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “His name is Antonis Vitali. He is ganger.”

  “And how will a ganger help us?”

  “Nothing happens in Svoboda, on Kronstadt, without Vitali knowing about it.”

  Bukov, obviously annoyed that he had not been the one to make a quick buck out of this exchange, interjected. “Vitali is king of the Barrows, what locals call the Kurgan. Anyone want to know something, Vitali is man.”

  “And the Barrows is …?” Lopez muttered.

  Vostok shrugged. “Where too many people end up,” he said.

  “And where a nice girl like you could make some money,” Bukov added with a lingering glance at Lopez.

  She gave him a look that could kill, and I was suddenly glad that we were not in combat-armour. I suspected that she would’ve gone through with it had she been.

  “How do we get to the Barrows?” I enquired.

  “I give you directions,” Vostok said. “No extra charge. Vitali has bar, place called Nikolai’s Dream.”

  I pulled up a local map on my wrist-comp, and put it under Vostok’s nose. He selected a site in the middle of the sprawling shanty district.

  “Is maybe five kilometres,” he said. “But be aware, the Barrows are gang territory.”

  “We can look after ourselves,” Lopez muttered.

  “I’m sure that you can,” Bukov replied. “So, if you find your—ah, friend—will you need to leave planet too?”

  “Maybe,” I said noncommittally.

  “I can do run, back to space,” Bukov said. He knew that we had money, and there was still some to be made from us. “Maybe find friend who can take to neighbouring system, if interested?”

  “Would require exit papers, of course,” said Vostok.

  “Of course,” I said. “We could pay the admin fee.”

  “Good, good,” Vostok muttered.

  “Then come back and see us when you are done,” Captain Bukov concluded.

  We trudged on through the rain, towards the cosmodrome’s perimeter. A row of heavy armoured vehicles sat at the security gate. I made out the hulking outlines of battle tanks—the famous Turing MBT-900, with its multi-weapon turret and heavy-bore main plasma cannon.

  Feng whistled. “Are those automated tanks?” he asked.

  Vostok nodded and sighed at the same time. “Sure. Most intelligent piece of military hardware ever made, or so they say. Full AI, requires minimal crew to operate.” Vostok patted the hull of the enormous tank, producing a solid thump. “Equipped with the largest-calibre plasma weapon on any ground vehicle, dual gatling cannons in the turret, smart missile system, and a triple-strength null-shield.” Vostok paused. “They are useless to us in this war.”

  “Why?”

  “Their motherboards are fried, and I don’t see us getting resupplied anytime soon. Maybe proper technician could get them up and running. But I don’t see us getting one of those soon either.”

  Each of the tanks sat on its anti-grav sleds, hulls corroded, half-submerged in the wet mud.

  “You seem to know lot about tanks for civilian, yes?” Bukov said.

  “Yeah, well, everyone has a hobby,” Feng replied.

  “That they do,” said Vostok. From what I could see of his face, he didn’t really care who we were or where we were going. He and Bukov were kindred spirits; that he had been paid was enough. “Good luck in your search,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “But here is tip for free: do not take too long.” He nodded at the sky, where the Shard Gate was still shining. “The Gate will fall within days, of that we are sure. Soon, this will not be Alliance territory.”

  Through the labyrinthine streets and alleys we went, sticking to the shadows, avoiding the advertising drones and surveillance eyes. Although I doubted that anyone was looking for us that closely—not yet, at least—it never hurt to be careful.

  The sun was setting in the distance, throwing a sickly pale light over the shanty town. The aura of oppression ramped up, and the rain intensified. It stung when it touched my skin, and I quickly learnt to avoid letting it get into my eyes, because that shit seriously hurt. It probably accounted for the high proliferation of bionic eye replacements in the passersby, from crude mechanical jobs, to more advanced semi-organics.

  Make no mistake: Kronstadt was a cruel, cruel world.

  The streets were packed with citizens. They had a universal appearance, with long armoured trench coats, usually pulled up to the neck, bald heads polished to a gleam by the ever-present rain. No headgear seemed foolish, but it was also a show of strength. I know this place, and I will not be cowed. Near the cosmodrome, weapons tended to be concealed beneath outer clothing, identifiable by the incongruous bulge at the hip where a pistol could be holstered. But as we left the surrounding district, that quickly changed. Pistols, shotguns, machetes, whatever shit the folks used to kill each other down here, it was all worn quite openly.

  Eager for some respite from the rain, we entered a covered market. The smell of human sweat and hot food cooking on open griddles mixed in the air, against a backdrop of white noise produced by a few hundred civvies packed into a tight space. Lopez approached the nearest stall.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “Weapons market,” Novak said. “For gangs.”

  Sure enough, nearly every stall was devoted to weaponry. From rifles to pistols to grenades, new and used, foreign and domestic. The selection was quite bewildering. But it wasn’t the items on sale that impressed me.

  PRIVACY FIELD IN OPERATION, said a holo-sign over the market entrance. NO DRONES! NO CAMS! NO LAW ENFORCEMENT!

  “We’re cutting through here,” I decided. “I’ll use the privacy field to make contact with Zero.”

  “Just keep your hands off those knives, Novak,” Feng suggested as the big Russian eyed a stall dedicated to all manner of bladed implements.

  “Will try,” Novak said, very unconvincingly.

  I used my wrist-comp to make uplink to Zero and the Firebird. Luckily, despite the privacy field, my military-grade transmitter operated just fine, and I cracked the protection in seconds.

  “Do you copy, Zero?”

  “I read,” she said. “Signal is poor, but that’s to be expected.”

  “I’ll keep this brief. We’re deployed on Kronstadt. We rode a civilian ship to Svoboda cosmodrome. We have a retreat route planned as well, using the same ship.”

  “Is it reliable?”

  “Probably not, but we still have most of Phoenix Squad’s credit chips.”

  “Copy that.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “We’re in fixed orbit over the city,” Zero explained. “It’ll allow us to remain within neural-link range.”

  “Good work. How’s P behaving? Any fresh intel?”

  “Nothing. It’s … it’s been very quiet.”

  “Hopefully it’ll stay that way,” I said as I jostled past a stall offering stun grenades and flechette blasters. I paused occasionally to take in some of the more esoteric tech. Mostly, it was low-grade and mass-manufactured: ideal for gang-on-gang warfare, but hardly sufficient to defend against a Krell invasion. “We found something that you might be interested in.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah. The cosmodrome has a troop of those old MBT-900s.”

  “Turing MBT-900s? The AI tanks?” she asked, enthused suddenly. “Those things are classics!”

  “Knew you’d love it. But the garrison down here can’t get them working. Some problem with the motherbo
ards. Probably caused by all this damned rain.”

  Zero tutted over the comm-line. “I doubt the rain would cause that problem. Did they say whether the main antenna had been checked? If that’s still operational, then the actual motherboard just needs a hard reboot. It’s very resilient tech. Nadi had this technique, actually, where she—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I get the picture. I just thought you’d be interested, is all.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “You can tell me all about it when we make rendezvous. Until then, comms-quiet.”

  “Affirmative. Zero out.”

  “Jenkins out.”

  Feng was at my shoulder. “Is Zero okay?”

  “She’s fine,” I answered. “All quiet up there.”

  Feng nodded, looking a little boyish. “That’s good.”

  We cleared the weapons market and emerged into the Barrows. Groups of young gangers in trench coats, faces completely covered in ink, stood in the street outside. They watched us go but did not follow.

  “Hey, Novak, what’s with all the tattoos?” Lopez asked. She had enough common sense to keep her voice low.

  “Gang affiliation,” Novak said. There was a certain wariness in Novak’s eyes that I hadn’t seen before.

  “What sort of gang?”

  “Many gangs. Sons of Balash, Kozha Brotherhood.”

  The zone around the cosmodrome had been populated by off-duty soldiers and sailors. Here, things were different. Not necessarily physically—although the buildings had gradually taken on a more dilapidated appearance, and we’d already passed several burnt-out shells. But the place’s vibe was different. The aura was all wrong, from the way in which the auto-cabs never seemed to stop in the road, to the look that the last handful of gangers had given us.

  But Kronstadt had worse to offer.

  “You see that,” Feng asked me, pointing as surreptitiously as he could at the fascia of a derelict building. “They’re here, too.”

  “I see it,” I said. “Stay sharp, people.”

  It only confirmed what we already knew, but that didn’t make it any more palatable. A Black Spiral had been sprayed onto a shop front. The slogan PURGE THE FISHES was painted beneath, in sloppy Standard. Like I say, hardly surprising. This was fertile recruitment territory. The Black Spiral was just another gang to these people.

  We passed by a street preacher, screaming a sermon in pigeon-Russian at the top of his lungs. He clutched a tattered holo-book in two metallic hands, bionics that reminded me of Harris’ missing hand. The preacher looked like a semi-mechanical vagrant and projected an aura of insanity.

  “He is telling world that it will end soon,” Novak muttered, almost under his breath. “That the Singularity Cult will come, and a machine tide will wash us all away.”

  “The Cult of the Singularity is a prohibited organisation,” Lopez reeled off.

  “I don’t see anyone arresting this guy,” Feng muttered. “He’s attracting a big crowd.”

  “You want to arrest him,” I said, “be my guest, Lopez. But I’d rather not get into a fight down here, if that’s all the same.”

  The Barrows were tight, claustrophobic even. My combat senses were in overload, eyes darting over every rooftop. There were too many vantage points. This wasn’t just paranoia. Shanties and abandoned buildings presented ideal ambush opportunities. Exfiltration in these circumstances would be far from ideal.

  “I can’t believe that people survive like this,” Lopez said.

  “Not everyone is a senator’s daughter,” Feng said.

  “I’m lucky. I get that. You don’t need to keep reminding me.”

  “Speaking of great men, we are in luck,” Novak said. “We are about to see greatest cosmonaut ever: Rejeik Nikolai.”

  We passed into shadow. Craning my neck, I looked up at an enormous metal statue that stood astride the roadway: so big that it almost grazed the atmosphere grid overhead. At least a hundred metres tall. Dressed in an archaic spacesuit, Nikolai’s upper body was barely visible, choked by the low-lying clouds of pollution. The figure was poised bravely, one hand on his hip, fishbowl helmet under the other arm. The elements had corroded whatever compound the statue was made from, reducing the bronze-coloured metallics to a patina-blue.

  “He founded the original colony,” Novak said. “Was real genius.”

  “He founded this dump?” Lopez said. “That hardly makes him a saint.”

  I had the distinct feeling that nothing remotely saintly happened here.

  We had reached Nikolai’s Dream.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  APPLIANCE OF SCIENCE

  The bar’s name was printed in Standard, Russian, and even Chino: every language in a gaudy blue-and-red neon light. Augmented by a tri-D presentation of various glyph-like symbols that hovered over the heads of passersby.

  “What do the symbols say, Novak?” I asked.

  “Are fenya symbols,” Novak offered. “Is like gang-language. Means this place is safe house, for any bratva.”

  “All of the gangs?” Feng queried.

  “They come to drink here and can get information,” Novak said. “Is not fighting place. Is good location.”

  “How very civilised,” I muttered.

  The building itself was dilapidated and run-down, in not much better condition than the rest of the Barrows. Even so, a bubble of quiet, of relative calm, seemed to surround Nikolai’s Dream. The effect was almost supernatural, as though the building were somehow capable of repelling the hustle and bustle of the Barrows. As we approached, I realised the reason why. The shimmer of a null-shield surrounded the bar front, projected in a field across the street. Although people came and went beneath the shield, the rain produced a rainbow-like effect as it made contact.

  “Whoever this Vitali is,” Feng concluded, “he has money. No one else here has that sort of technology.”

  “If he’s so rich, why is he still living here?” Lopez asked.

  “Power isn’t like that,” Novak muttered.

  “It is where I come from.”

  “Russia, gangs: things are not same as Proxima,” Novak said.

  “Let’s get this done,” I decided.

  Beyond the door—which, I noticed, was actually made from military-grade armourglass: another nod to the fact that Vitali wasn’t your typical citizen—the bar was bigger than it looked from the outside. Separated into several booths and sub-chambers, almost randomly. Holographic images danced on the table surfaces, providing the only light inside the dingy cavern. A blue haze hung in the air, vibrating softly, with a life of its own. The stink of narco-sticks was strong, only made stronger by my improved simulant senses.

  The place was busy, filled with off-duty gangers huddled over tables. Every weathered face in the joint sent a message: you’re not from here, and you’re not welcome here. There was only one way to deal with a situation like this, I figured. Brazen it out. I gave the closest clutch of gangers a disdainful look and walked straight up to the bar. The Jackals followed me, Lopez and Feng keeping pace, Novak at his own speed, keen to take in his surroundings.

  A tender—who was more machine than woman, with both arms replaced by the ugliest metal prosthetics I’d ever seen—zealously guarded a selection of spirits and drug-dispensers behind the bar. Her face was an immobile rictus of scar tissue, upper lip caught in a permanent scowl. She carried the tattoos of a Singularity Cultist alongside more obvious Russian stamps and paid us no recognition as we approached.

  But, unfortunately, others in the bar did.

  “What you want?” came a voice from behind me. Splintered, heavily accented Standard. “Bar is closed.”

  I turned slowly to face a four-man team of gangers in full clan uniform. Identikit assholes in trench coats, eyes replaced with mirrored visors that reminded me a little of the eyes of Krell thralls. Each had a missing limb of one type or another. Hands went to weapons at their belts almost immediately.

  “Really?” I asked. “It
doesn’t look closed to me.”

  “Private party,” said another of the gangers. “You American, yes?”

  “Alliance,” I answered.

  The third man sucked his teeth. “All Alliance here, although that hasn’t helped us much.”

  That drew some sniggers across the bar, which had quietened a little: had now become focused on this confrontation.

  Novak stepped forward. “We want to see Vitali.”

  “Vitali isn’t here,” said the first ganger.

  There was probably a neat, clean way of doing this. A diplomatic method, which involved talking the fine young men down and persuading them that—in the interests of protecting galactic peace—we really did need to see Antonis Vitali. But that would take time, and time was the one thing we didn’t have. Sim or no sim, all of this subterfuge was beginning to give me a headache. It might be Harris’ way, but it sure as damn wasn’t mine.

  “Novak,” I muttered. “I’m going to need you to show them.”

  “Show what—” the first ganger started.

  His words were cut off by the heel of Novak’s palm being driven into his face.

  The ganger yelped, mouth fountaining crimson. He slammed into the table behind him. Glasses, narco-pipes and credit chips scattered across the floor. Hand to mouth, the ganger was down and out.

  The second blurted something in Russian and produced his piece, a cheap-looking needle-pistol. Capable of firing small-calibre flechettes, the gun was almost silent—a popular choice among the criminal fraternity. Probably purchased from one of the street vendors.

  Novak spat something back, the words tumbling from him as though they’d been stored somewhere deep for too long.

  The ganger got the gun up, but that was where his act of protest ceased.

  Novak put his left fist into the man’s face. He’d shown restraint, as far as the first attacker was concerned. Now that weapons had been produced, a certain boundary had been crossed. Maybe it was part of Novak’s criminal code—if such a thing could persist across the void between Old Earth’s Norilsk and Kronstadt—but whatever it was, the big man wasn’t taking any shit.