Head Space

by Andrew Vaillencourt

  “Every time a player comes after us...” Lucia began.

  Roland continued the thought. “...Manny hunts them down...”

  Manny finished it. “...And Mr. Tankowicz wipes the floor with them.”

  Lucia leaned back in her chair with a weary sigh. “I guess we all know who that ‘somebody’ probably is then.”

  “If we are all thinking ‘Brokerage,’ then I’d say you were right,” Roland scowled deeply. “And we have an idea of the ‘why,’ at least as far as trying to ice Manny goes.”

  Lucia wagged a delicate finger his way. “Don’t get cocky. We can guess they want us down a scout, sure. But why a giant network of crooked lawyers and accountants keeps taking swings at Dockside is still a little murky, big guy.”

  “Controlling a trillion-credits in annual smuggling money isn’t enough motivation?”

  Lucia was unconvinced. “It’s never been their style, Roland. Something has smelled funny about their obsession with Dockside from the start. I can’t shake the feeling that not knowing the ‘why’ of it all is going to bite us in the ass.”

  Roland shrugged in defeat. “Start with ‘who,’ figure out the ‘where’ and the ‘why’ will follow.”

  “We know who. So just need the ‘where’ to get rolling, then?” Lucia’s question had the odor of apprehension to it.

  “Oh, I think that much is obvious, Lucy.” Roland nearly growled with anticipation. “Manny has made sure our best lead has only one place to run to at the moment. He’s going to find out that hiding there is a very different problem.”

  “I’ve never been to Galapagos,” Manny mused with an apprehensive shake of the head. Roland’s face stretched into a feral smile.

  “Why are you smirking like a moron, Roland?” Lucia did not like what she was seeing. “Galapagos is a lawless haven for the worst people in the galaxy. Why does it look as if you are going to have the time of your life there?”

  Roland shrugged, but his goofball grin was irrepressible. With a roll of his enormous shoulders he spread his arms out to his sides. Audibly, the seams of his jacket groaned in protest as thick ropes of techno-organic muscle fiber bulged and rolled beneath the linen. Under his shirt, the dim shading of his black dermal armor mesh darkened the bright white cotton to a sallow gray. The pose exaggerated his breadth and width, showcasing his excessive mass and musculature in a casual display of simian aggression.

  Lucia knew the numbers. She understood that Roland could lift sixty tons from the floor, run as fast as a cheetah, and greet the fire and force of heavy weapons with a smile. She had seen him tear metal monsters apart with his bare hands and massacre his enemies dozens at a time. However, because she loved him, she preferred to think of the idealistic man with outdated notions of honor and heroism that lay hidden under the ferocious war machine. She knew him better than anyone, so it was easy for her to forget that all the technological might on display was additive. It was more convenient to see the armature as something that was done to him, an extra artificial layer the real Roland wore over his fragile humanity. It was a childish conceit to indulge such fantasy and Lucia was smart enough to know this was not the case. Roland “Breach” Tankowicz was not what he was because he bore a billion credits worth of cybernetic augmentations. He had been mounted to the Breach armature for most of his life at this point. As far as he was concerned, Roland had always been this thing. The layers of armor and tech merely served to make him better at doing the things he would be doing, regardless.

  So Lucia did not really need to hear his answer, but he gave it anyway.

  “Galapagos is the only place in the whole universe where I can truly be myself.”

  She huffed a heavy sigh. “Well, don’t get too excited. You are on the clock tonight and we can’t go tearing off to the frontier before you take care of the jobs we’ve got down here. Tonight’s meeting is important for a lot of reasons. The client is paying for the full ‘Tank Tankowicz’ experience on this one.”

  Roland acknowledged this with a gruff nod of his bald head. “I hear you, Boss. This one’s been coming for a long time now. Speaking of which, I should go get set up. You cleared the spot yet, Manny?”

  “Clean as a convent, Mr. Tankowicz.”

  “You and I have been to some very different convents, kid.” Roland stood, drawing a relieved groan from his beleaguered chair. “All right. I’m heading out. Wish me luck or something.”

  “Good luck,” Lucia replied. “Don’t kill anyone, please.”

  “No promises.”

  Manny looked askance to Lucia as Roland stalked back out the door. “Is he joking? I can never tell when he is joking. Please tell me he is joking.”

  “He was joking,” said Lucia. Then she added, “I think.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Roland Tankowicz was often surprised by the sheer quantity of dingy basement meeting places in Dockside. Even after three decades of residence in the rough blue-collar zone, he was still finding dank new hidey-holes where street hoods and gangs met to talk business. The maze of unused tram tunnels, warehouse subbasements, and other abandoned caverns beneath the gray streets and scowling facades of the grimy district could be every bit as convoluted as the alleys above.

  Squatting below an old freight hauler’s office was the tomb of a decrepit digital vault. It had once been home to racks of electronic archives though now it was reduced to yet another dark hole beneath yet another ugly Dockside structure. Like any well-hidden and unused space, this one attracted vermin. While Dockside had enough four-legged pests to keep municipal exterminators flush with overtime for years to come, today it was the two-legged variety that occupied the otherwise empty room. This was as it has always been, and Roland stifled a tiny disappointed sigh over it. That being settled, he assessed his surroundings out of ingrained habit.

  The room was dusty and small, even more cramped than usual thanks to Roland’s rather prodigious bulk. The light from a single fixture glowed with a cool white light both soft and jarring. The light filled only the center of a table, illuminating near objects with a fierce intensity while burying the corners and hidden places in deep inscrutable blackness. There were five other people in the room, three men and two women all seated around an old aluminum table adorned with bottles of beer and glasses of liquor. The booze glasses were filled or emptied to various degrees, though no one seemed too interested in drinking much. Neither did any of the faces at the table appear pleased to be there. Each visage, be it friendly, ugly, tired, or bored, wore a veil of bemused irritation. The origins of their consternation were likely associated with the musty odors and uncomfortable seating arrangements, though the big man in the corner had to concede that present company may have soured their moods as well.

  A man among them spoke up, voicing the question so many of them were pondering at that moment. “Christ on a fookin’ cracker, Tank! Why the fook are we settin’ in a musty old basement for this meetin’? I got plenty o’ booze and party favors back at Hideaway and it dinnae smell like a fookin’ sheep’s arse there, neither!”

  “It smells worse, Rodney.” Roland’s response was flat and humorless. “And the person who called this meeting has no interest in being seen at your place by anyone.” A massive black-gloved hand gestured to a stern man seated quietly at the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Detective Sam Parker.”

  Heads turned to cast appraising glares at the indicated person. They saw a smooth square jaw, deep chestnut skin, intense brown eyes, and black hair cropped short and severe. He was powerfully built, but without excessive bulk or obvious cybernetic enhancements. They saw a young man’s energy in that face. Each of his features seemed etched with the intense focus of someone not old enough to have become jaded yet. The older and wiser folks in the room understood that time and failure would erode that resolve and bleed that energy as surely as a river carves a canyon. But for now, they saw and they understood that they were looking at someone who would not be easily swayed by anything they had
to say.

  Rodney “The Dwarf” McDowell huffed at the introduction. “Ah yes. Our wee rookie detective with dreams of cleanin’ up his home town, eh? We’re all bloody touched, Sammy.”

  The other figures chuckled at The Dwarf’s condescending tone. Detective Parker’s face tightened to an angry snarl, but a giant fist crashed onto the table like a dropped anvil before he could spit a retort. Everybody started at the noise, and one woman gasped when the glass in front of her jumped up to spill on her lap.

  The sound from Roland’s mouth was far more of a growl than anything else. “Do not start, Rodney.”

  The Dwarf seemed the only person not cowed by the show of violence. A technological monster that twisted metal in his hands and swatted cyborg killers like flies might make his competitors nervous, but Rodney knew Roland from the old days, and he was not so easily intimidated.

  “Touch a nerve there, boyo? He inquired with a raised eyebrow. “I remember Bixby too ye’ know. Have ye’ told the boy about Detective Sergeant Walter Bixby yet?”

  Roland’s gaze could have melted tungsten, but The Dwarf met it without flinching. “Ah, I see ye haven’t then. Make sure you tell him what happened to the last copper what thought he could fix this town up nice and respectable like. He has a right ta’ know.” The Dwarf turned to address the detective. “I was around when yer giant friend here first strolled into our wee piece of paradise, boyo. Just a small fry then, hustling and puttin’ in me hours on the streets. But I’ve seen cops come and go through here plenty since those days. Ye aren’t the first, ye’ll nae be the last. But let’s just table that and get to the business at hand, then. Ye called this meet-up and had the big metal bastard drag us all down here. So out with it.”

  Parker exhaled a long breath as if cleansing his anger and composing himself. “Fine. I called you all here because you each represent the main extralegal marketplaces in Dockside.”

  One of the two women at the table laughed. It was rich and throaty, and when she leaned forward to speak, her lustrous black hair framed a perfectly gorgeous face. Her eyes sparkled with legitimate good humor and she purred like an alley cat. “’Extralegal,’ huh?’ What a great turn of phrase you have, Detective! So you’re clever and good-looking? Play your cards right and I may just have to get myself arrested for something real soon.”

  Roland scowled when he saw the detective’s face flush ever so slightly under his dark skin. For all his zeal and work ethic, Sam Parker was a young man and his hormones were no match for the wily money launderer and her ferocious sex appeal. He elected to rescue the boy before an embarrassing loss of his composure could occur. “Sid...” he said in a low dangerous tone, “this is not the time.”

  “Don’t be a grump, Tank,” she replied with a friendly sneer for the big man. “It’s just a compliment.”

  “Ye never compliment me like that, lass,” Rodney said with a chuckle.

  “I like tall men,” Sid fired back, and Rodney winced comically. “The Dwarf” was not an ironic moniker. The bearded criminal needed lifts in his shoes to stand five feet tall.

  “I have other attributes, ye know,” he said, and the conspicuous bionic claw that was his right arm spun and vibrated in a manner both suggestive and terrifying.

  “Can we please just let the man speak his piece?” The next mysterious person in the room spoke up. The harsh light cast the man’s face in competing light and dark slashes. It was a visage sharp and narrow, split down the center by a hooked nose framed with bushy eyebrows. Thin brown hair, liberally streaked with dirty gray, sat against his scalp as if plastered there with an industrial polymer. His skin stretched over razor-sharp cheekbones, pale and with enough luster left to make his age inscrutable. To Roland’s eye, he could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. A touch of an accent colored his words. Roland supposed it to be vaguely Germanic. “We are here, and we must stay until the detective says what he needs to. Stop playing around and let him talk.”

  “Oh settle yer wee temper, Henry,” said The Dwarf. “Don’t let yer lofty new position go ta yer head. Be a shame to lose it so early in yer career.”

  Henry rose to the bait, betraying his inexperience. “My position is quite secure, Rodney. Thank you very much.”

  “I was talkin’ about yer head, lad.”

  “Unwissendes kleines schwein...” barked Henry, and Rodney replied without hesitation or any trace of an accent.

  “Achtung, junge. Ich habe männer für weniger als das getötet.”

  Roland would not have thought it possible, but Henry went even paler at this remark.

  That Rodney spoke German was no great surprise to Roland, but then Sid sighed and breathed an exasperated, “Ihr jungs seid lächerlich.”

  “Jesus Christ!” the detective nearly shouted. “Can I get you all to focus over here?” Parker looked over and up at Roland. “Is it always like this? Do they always chatter at each other this way?”

  “No,” Roland grunted. “Sometimes it’s worse.” Then he addressed the group. “Henry, cut the shit. You’re fresh meat here and you’d be best served by talking less and listening more. Rodney, stop being a dick to the new guy. Sid, try to be part of the solution, not the problem, please.” Heavy shoulders rose and fell and the giant turned back to the detective. “Go ahead, Sam.”

  Parker stood. “I’ve called this meeting because you and I have competing goals, and Roland says it will be better to work things out at a meeting than in the streets. I respect Roland, so I am going to try this his way.”

  “Ye mean ye want to arrest all the criminals in Dockside including us, too.”

  “Maybe at first I did. But being back in town has reminded me of one important fact. Dockside likes its criminals, and as long as the Docksiders want it that way, I can’t change it. But that doesn’t mean they want to get mugged on their goddamn doorsteps, either. I realized that my goal is not to eliminate crime, but to serve and protect the citizens. Starting a street war with you lot is only going to hurt the people here.”

  The Dwarf gave a dismissive snort. “A street war ye nae have any chance o’ winnin’, ye mean?”

  “I won’t argue that point. Like I said, Dockside is the way it is because it wants to be. But that doesn’t mean that people want to be robbed, raped, murdered, or swindled. We need to find a line that works for both of us.”

  “Not for nothing, and yer big bald bodyguard notwithstandin’ boyo, but ye’re not exactly dictatin’ from a position of strength now, are ye?” The bushy-bearded face swung over to Sid. “Now there, lass, exactly how much of the good detective’s department do ye’ currently own?”

  Sid’s mouth turned in a coy smile. “I’ll never tell, Rodney. But I’d guess about as much as you do.” She winked at The Dwarf. “Maybe a touch more.”

  “Henry.” Rodney addressed the thin man next. “How much of the department would ye guess end up as customers o’ yers?”

  “Oh, I’d say a third, at least,” he replied with a tilted head. “Very good customers, too.”

  Parker did not let his disappointment show. He dismissed Rodney’s point without prejudice. “I am aware of the state of Dockside PD, guys. Your point is taken. But that is where my line begins. I want to clean up my department.”

  Roland saw the faces at the table tighten, eyes narrowing and feet shifting uncomfortably. A functional police department was not something this cohort would be happy to see. Parker saw it too, and the tiniest smirk twitched the corner of his mouth.

  “The people need a police department, guys. For all the good Roland has done keeping your business contained, we still have four times as many murders per capita than any other district. Violent crime is seven times higher than anywhere else and property crime is just ridiculous. The regular folks are getting hurt, and that’s where my line is.”

  “It’s not our people, Detective.” The Dwarf’s accent thinned as he leaned forward, earnest to the point of petulant. “We don’t like instability or extra attention. When t
he wee folk get trampled, that brings heat on all of us. I’m a smuggler and a gun-runner, and I am the president of the Dockside Trade Association. I’ll let the other guilds speak fer themselves, but ye can bet yer last copper cred that I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about what the citizenry get up to.”

  Sid agreed. “My guild loans money and occasionally handles banking for those with questionable income streams. What a longshoreman or a shift supervisor does at night is nothing to us.”

  All heads turned to Henry, who looked very uncomfortable at this moment. He shrugged. “My people sell drugs. But thanks to this one,” he pointed to Roland, “our product is of the highest quality and we only sell in entertainment zones. Nobody who gets to my door does so by accident or ignorance. Nobody gets anything adulterated or more dangerous than whatever poison they originally ordered.”

  The last to speak up was the final person in the room. She had not spoken yet, and had contented herself to sit quietly in the shadows and hear the others out. Now she sat up and addressed the room. She was of medium height, but powerfully built. A jagged scar ran from the corner of her left eye and raced like a lightning bolt down her cheek to disappear under her collar. Her hair was mousy brown and pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. She was grizzled, gnarled, and looked as hard as a coffin nail. If her reputation was even slightly accurate, Roland figured her to be as tough as any frontier mercenary. He harbored strong suspicions she may have spent a few years out past Galapagos before landing in Dockside.

  Her voice matched her appearance. “What the hell do you want from me? I’m only here because the boys elected me their spokesperson. Officially? The Enforcers Guild does not engage in any business that ain’t business, you get me?”

  “I do,” said Roland. ‘Bouncing’ Bettie Braddock was the only person in the room besides Parker that Roland took at face value. “And you can take that to the bank, Sam. Bettie’s crew plays by the rules.”