by Richard Fox
“You know why I became Faceless,” Tolan said. “For justice.”
“Bliss was not your only option.” Faylun brought out a corked jar with a spiked slug clinging to the inside. The Martian reached into another cabinet, then froze. “You have a problem.”
“It’s not because I like Bliss. It’s because I don’t want lose coherency and walk around with a face and body that looks like wet clay,” Tolan said testily.
“No, not that,” Faylun said. Holo screens formed flat against the bar. Images of small groups of men and women in gang colors moving through the nearby streets played on the screens. Icons tracing side arms hidden beneath their jackets and coats popped up.
“Oh look, White Knives,” Tolan said.
“You still owe Weissgerber money?” Faylun asked.
“What happened, Mr. ‘We’ll duck surveillance—no one can find me unless I want them to’?” Wyman drew a pistol from his coat and reloaded the magazine.
“I thought he’d be dead by now…” Tolan hissed through his teeth.
“This is their territory. As my hosts, they have certain expectations I have to meet,” the Martian said. “I may be part machine, but I can still feel pain.”
“We’ll leave.” Wyman turned away.
“Not out the front door,” Tolan said, shaking his head before giving Faylun a knowing glance.
“I can fabricate my video logs, show you leaving soon after you arrived.” The Martian traced a word onto the bar top and a glass case moved to one side, revealing a narrow staircase.
“Just get us a head start.” Tolan pulled out his own pistol and started for the stairs, then caught himself and half-twisted around. “Have you got anything off the shelf? You know, for the effort.”
Faylun plucked a bottle full of black and white flecks and tossed it to the spy.
“Dizorphomene. The abusers call it Dizzy. It’s strong, be careful,” the Martian said.
Tolan gave the bottle a quick shake and stuffed it into his coat.
****
Wyman kept one hand against a slimy wall in a tunnel lit by a flickering glow strips every few yards. The passage was so narrow, he had to almost walk sideways to keep his broad shoulders from scraping against god-knew-what on the bricks. He adjusted the grip on his pistol and kept his focus on a green light off in the distance.
“Thanks for not turning into a babbling lump of tears like when we made our exit from Albion,” Tolan said from just ahead of him. The smaller man had a much easier time navigating the narrow confines than the pilot.
“Cockpits are tight, enclosed spaces,” Wyman said. “Not that different from this…but I’ve never been in a Typhoon that smells so bad. Everything about this pirate crap hole of a planet makes my skin crawl. And so what if I don’t like being exposed to raw slip space? You know many people that do?”
“Once dated a girl that liked to meditate outside the hull during slip travel. Said it made her feel ‘closer to oneness with the universe.’” Tolan stopped Wyman with a hand to his chest. The tunnel rumbled as a heavy vehicle passed overheard.
“I know where we are,” the spy said. “Faylun has a couple different bolt holes across the city. He’s rather paranoid, a trait I can get behind. So unless the zoning commission decided to tear down the neighborhood’s penultimate strip club…”
Wyman heard Tolan tapping against the side of the tunnel with the butt of his pistol until the taps changed to a hollow thunk.
“Ha! Still got it.” Tolan stepped back, then bumped his shoulder into the wall with no effect. He tried again, then breathed a curse. “Knuckles, if you please.” He backed down the tunnel a few steps.
“You’ve got a funny way of asking for favors.” Wyman found the spot Tolan had tried to force open, braced himself against the ground, and pushed against the wall. There was a creak of stone on stone, then a narrow door swung outward. Air that stank of tobacco and spilt beer blew past Wyman, a welcome respite from the mildew and sewage.
Inside, a ladder was bolted to the wall of a small chamber. A square panel just large enough for Wyman to squeeze through lit up on the ceiling above the ladder.
“Finally,” Wyman said, holstering his pistol and climbing up the ladder. He reached for a latch on the panel when Tolan pulled him back by the edge of his coat.
“Hold on,” the spy said. “Before you go rushing face-first into a titty bar, activate the cameras Faylun’s got watching our exit. He’s paranoid, remember? Just tap the panel.”
Wyman pressed his fingerprints within the lit edges and holo screens popped up along the ceiling.
Inside the bar, groups of men in matching gang colors clustered around tables littered with bottles. Strobe lights and laser-effect beams flashed across the stage featuring dancers with moving tattoos and shimmering body paint.
“Damn it,” Tolan said. “Tables next to the exit and the backroom entrance. What do you see?”
“Bunch of thugs…that aren’t drinking and aren’t watching the girls,” Wyman said.
“And…” Tolan zoomed in on one table and moved the camera from brute to brute. “They’re all packing HK-999s. Very expensive side arms. Very rare out here. They aren’t White Knives. They’re someone else.”
“Is there anyone on this planet that you haven’t pissed off?” Wyman hopped off the ladder.
“Nice thing about being Faceless is that I needn’t suffer from a bad reputation.” Tolan took a small injector from his coat and pressed it to his throat. His face went slack, almost drooping from his skull. He pressed the blades of his hands against the sides of his nose and stretched his skin back. It sprang into place, puffier and several shades lighter than a moment ago. He tugged on his nose, bending the bridge to one side like an old boxer’s.
“Yeah? Good?” Tolan’s voice modulated, ending slightly higher.
“Does that…hurt?”
“You have no idea. Too bad we can’t do much for you…who they’ll be looking for, not me,” Tolan said.
“If these guys are pros, won’t they be watching every exit?” Wyman asked.
“They will, which is both a problem and an opportunity.” Tolan reached into his coat and took out a puck slightly smaller than the palm of his hand.
“What’s that?”
“Explosive cord. Never leave home without it. Amazing what a little boom-boom can accomplish when you’re in a pinch.” Tolan pressed a button on the puck and drew out a length of yellow and black cord. “I’ll make us an exit through the roof out onto the street. Random explosions aren’t too unusual in this part of town.”
“What about people up there? What if some kid’s walking by and you—”
“It’s a high-speed route, automated drivers only. No one will be on the road and I’ll use a cutting charge. Mostly safe. If we go charging through an exit covered by the local muscle, there will be bystanders hurt in the crossfire. We rarely get perfect choices in this line of work. Best we can do is pick the least bad option.”
“Flying fighters has a hell of a lot less guesswork, just so you know. What else do you have on you?”
“Eight types of currency, two cameras with full-spectrum passive collection, a hazmat mask with its own air supply, two pistols, dazzler grenades, quick-clot spray, and five—no six—knives. I’m traveling light. What did you bring?”
“Some…extra bullets and beef jerky,” Wyman said.
“Amateur hour down here.” Tolan drew a length of the explosive cord from the puck and ducked into the outer hallway. “Bit of a risk that the overpressure will kill us,” the spy called out, “but we’ll be inside our little cubbyhole.”
“‘They want either you or me to go down with Tolan,’” Wyman said, mimicking Ivor’s feminine voice. “‘It’ll be fun. Besides, I just got off ready flight and I’m so tired. Would you please go?’ I am such a sucker.”
Tolan closed the door and Wyman was treated to another round of limited personal space as the spy nuzzled against him so they could both fit.
“Hold me.” Tolan looked up at the pilot and batted his eyes.
“If I break your face, can you fix it yourself?”
“Your chivalry only goes so far, eh? Cover your ears and hope for the best.” Tolan raised his arm holding the explosives case and clicked a button.
The blast sent a tremor through the chamber, flexing the door against the frame. Wyman’s ears popped. Muffled shouts came through the panel as panic broke out in the club overhead.
“That’s enough of that.” Tolan pulled away from Wyman and grabbed the door handle. He gave it a pull, and the door groaned.
“Uh oh…” Tolan pulled with both arms, but the door remained fast. The spy banged a fist against the frame, then kicked the door.
“What have you done?” Wyman asked.
“Look, Sicani isn’t exactly known for its quality workmanship. I’d wager the doorframe bent when part of the tunnel collapsed. Thing’s jammed shut.”
“You’d ‘wager’? So we’re trapped in this tiny coffin until we die?”
“No, the locals will eventually come down and find the door, bust it open, and kill us.” Tolan pointed to the panel leading into the club. “We have a new less bad option.”
“This is the last time I ever leave the Orion. To hell with shore leave,” Wyman said as he climbed up the ladder and pulled the handle. The panel sprang up on a hinge. Dim, off-white light beckoned to him.
He got his head and shoulder through the opening and found himself beneath a desk. A meandering line of stools ran parallel to more desks. He saw the bare legs of women as they scurried past. Some ducked down to pick up clothes as the legs moved toward one end of the line of desks.
Wyman pulled himself up and crawled into the dressing room, pistol in hand. Fixed to the desks were tall mirrors surrounded by mostly functioning lights and piles of makeup and sprays.
A dancer with a half-shaved head looked up as she stepped into a set of overalls and frowned at Wyman.
“Gang war or not, this room’s off-limits to customers,” she said.
“Good to know.” He got to his feet and moved his pistol behind his back. “There an emergency exit?”
“Carl, our idiot bouncer, locked it again.” She zipped up her overalls and pointed to a gaggle of angry dancers gathered near a doorway. One yanked against the handlebar and shouted a curse in a foreign tongue.
“Faylun, you dog,” Tolan said, crawling out and smoothing the front of his jacket.
The dancer leaned to the side and got a look at their entrance.
“I didn’t see anything,” she said.
“Smart.” Tolan winked at her.
One of the dancers turned to the hallway leading out to the stage and put her hands on her hips. “Hey,” she said to someone Wyman couldn’t see, “get back out there before Carl breaks your legs.”
A brute of a man stepped into view, a snub machine gun clenched in one hand. He did a double take at Wyman, then swung his weapon up as the dancers broke into screams.
Wyman froze. Fighter combat came with a certain distance. He never saw the enemy pilots he shot down, only their ships. Facing off against a steely-eyed killer did not rouse the same instincts as when he was in the cockpit of his Typhoon.
Shots sounded from just behind Wyman and the thug crumpled to the ground, two splatters of blood dribbling down the wall behind him.
The dancers screamed louder and pounded at the rear exit.
Tolan pushed past the stunned Wyman and shouted, “Out the front! Now!” He pointed his pistol down the hallway and stomped toward the panicking women. A pair skipped over the dead man and ran, and the rest followed within seconds.
“Hurry.” Tolan went down the line of desks and glanced down the hallway. “More trouble’s on the way. Get the door open.”
“I-I…” Wyman stared at the corpse as pools of blood and urine seeped out from beneath the body.
Tolan snatched up a lipstick case and hurled it at Wyman’s face. The pilot ducked aside and gave Tolan a dirty look.
“The. Door.” Tolan jerked his head at their escape.
“Right.” Wyman pushed against the handle and felt the door jiggle slightly. “Well, I can—”
A shot rang out and part of the door level with the pilot’s head burst into splinters. Tolan fired as Wyman ducked down. Screams and shouts echoed down the hallway.
Wyman stood up and slammed his boot into the door. The lock ripped out of the decaying wood and the door swung open.
“Moving.” Tolan fired two more shots. “Moving, yes?”
Wyman waved to the dancer that saw them earlier and ran out the door into an alley full of rotting garbage.
“I don’t know you,” the dancer said as she followed on Wyman’s heels, Tolan just a step behind. “I don’t want to know you. Just leave me alone, okay?”
“Fine by me.” Tolan ducked as a bullet sprang off the wall just over his head. “Move a little fa—” His foot caught the side of a trash bag and he stumbled forward.
Shots rattled out from the dressing room and the dancer shrieked, then pitched forward into Wyman’s arms. He felt hot blood beneath his hands as he dragged her out of the alleyway and onto a sidewalk running along a backstreet.
The dancer looked into Wyman’s eyes, her face wrought with pain as she coughed up blood that covered her mouth. Droplets sprinkled across Wyman’s face.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “Get you to a doctor and—”
An explosion rocked the club, sending a gout of dust down the alley and into the air. The blast shattered windows and led to several beat-up cars crashing into each other in the confusion.
Tolan crawled out of the dust and smoke.
“We’re out…of explosives,” he said.
“Help me with her.” Wyman looked down and into the dancer’s lifeless eyes. Her head lolled to one side, but the blood kept oozing from the bullet holes in her back.
“No, stay with me,” he said, tapping her on the cheek with bloody fingers, leaving a red smear down her face.
“She’s gone.” Tolan looked around, then pointed down a street. “There’s a market down there. We can slip away and then get back to the Commodore. Let’s go.”
Wyman laid the woman down on the sidewalk as gently as he could.
“It’s not fair,” he said. “She just wanted to—”
“Down!” Tolan pointed at a shadow in the smoke and shoved Wyman to the side. A blue bolt sliced through the air where Wyman had just been and struck the sidewalk with a sizzle of fat hitting a hot pan.
The shadow jumped high, far higher than Wyman would have ever thought possible for a normal human, and landed in a crouch a few yards from the two Albians. A slender man with slicked-back hair and a leather coat popped to his feet and threw two small razor blades, both crackling with energy. One hit Tolan in the arm and he seized up, limbs rictus, and fell next to the dead woman.
The blade meant for Wyman nicked his thigh. Pain shot through his leg, leaving it numb. Wyman stumbled over his dead leg and fell against a car. The man in the leather coat pointed a strange-looking pistol at him.
“Where is the Martian?” the man asked, his face neutral. “What did you tell him?”
Wyman fell back onto his elbows, one leg spasming uncontrollably.
“You’re one of them, a Daegon,” the pilot said.
“This can kill you,” the man said and the pistol in his hand emanated a red light from the barrel, “or it can set your every nerve-ending on fire. Talk, and you’ll live.”
“He’s not allowed to talk,” Tolan said. Wyman and the Daegon looked aside. Tolan held a knife by the tip, reached back, and hurled it into the Daegon’s chest. It hit just below the collarbone and sank into his flesh.
The man yelped and dropped his pistol.
Wyman kicked the Daegon in the knee, buckling his legs. The pilot picked up a hunk of brick blasted out of the club walls and rose onto one knee. He smashed the brick against his enemy’s face. Th
en again. And again. The Daegon’s body began smoldering and Wyman rolled away before it immolated into charred meat.
Wyman slapped a hand against his cut thigh. Feeling was coming back, but slowly.
“Nice job, kid. Can you walk?” Tolan asked through fat lips. One half of his face drooped; the other seemed frozen in place.
“Yeah.” Wyman got up, leaning against a car for support. “You took one of those knives clean to your arm. How are you moving at all?”
“Rolled onto the unfortunate miss,” Tolan said, waving a hand toward the dead dancer. “Blade stuck in her. Seems it doesn’t work on the dead.”
Wyman wiped a sleeve across his face and saw the Daegon’s pistol on the ground.
“We could use that,” he said.
“Don’t touch it. Daegon weapons are booby-trapped.”
Wyman hefted the hunk of masonry he used to kill the Daegon and slammed it onto the dead man’s pistol. It shattered into a thousand pieces.
“You want to hang around here? See if he had friends?” Tolan asked.
“No.” Wyman helped the spy up, and as the two shuffled away, Wyman took a final glance over his shoulder to the dead woman. She’d been alive mere minutes ago. Now she was just a body on the roadside, and Wyman never caught her name. He looked away, the image burned into his mind forever.
Chapter 7
Gage shrugged off his coat and handed it to Bertram. A small dome of energy-shielding surrounded the Commodore, his steward, and his bodyguard, and a wide dueling strip of white rubberized flooring ran from beneath Gage’s feet out of the shield to where his opponent waited without his own dome. Sound from a chanting crowd pulsed through the shielding.
Old bloodstains marred the dueling strip. Black volcanic sand formed a perimeter around the strip, not a single grain touching the alabaster surface of Gage’s forthcoming duel. That the pirates would leave a fighter’s spilled essence but sweep away the sand told him something about the pirate’s culture: Honor remains.
