Head Space

by Andrew Vaillencourt

  No one else had these issues. Roland had his military exemptions, Lucia was a law-abiding woman of significant means, and Mindy had all the weapons she needed already on Enterprise. In the end, they simply registered the shotgun to Lucia, and booked Manny’s ticket with a separate credit account so none of the transactions would get flagged. Manny set up a three-layered credit account that channeled funds between several banks for this. The subterfuge would not trick anyone with real skill if they cared to dig into it, but it would be more than sufficient to fool the security AI that would certainly be looking very hard at Manuel Richardson’s traveling habits.

  Marty Mudd had selected a very simple Tavor magazine-fed side-by-side shotgun for Manny. Under eighteen-inches in total length, the slate-gray gun utilized a gas-block system to make the recoil manageable enough to be used with one hand. It had a fore-end grip for stability, though a strong man would not need to use it. Or, Roland noted, perfect for a person with a bionic arm. Even more interesting was that it still used chemical propellant and not electromagnetic acceleration to hurl the swarm of tungsten and ceramic pellets wrapped in neat cylindrical tubes. Roland commented on the somewhat archaic design and Manny explained.

  “Most scanners won’t see it as a weapon. It’s just cold metal to them unless they have sniffers. That’s pretty rare outside of Earth’s more developed areas.”

  “That makes sense,” Roland conceded. “But you are missing out on a lot of projectile velocity.”

  “But I won’t miss, either. At the range I’ll be using it, velocity won’t matter much. If I really want to knock something down, I’ll use explosive slugs.” His face took a wry turn when he added, “Or other kinds of shells.”

  Roland gave up at that point. “I’m just going to assume that whatever ridiculous crap you’ve tinkered together for ammo will do the job. Just don’t kill yourself doing it, kid.”

  “Top of the list, Mr. Tankowicz.”

  With Manny suitably armed, passage to Enterprise was booked. The shuttle to Enterprise station took fifty-one hours. While nicely apportioned for the entertainment of bored passengers, the commercial ferry that brought them to Earth’s main Gate Station moved far too slowly for Roland’s liking. Being stuck in a flying tin can with Manny and Mindy was the sort of road trip fun that put the surly cyborg in a foul mood. Fortunately for everyone, alcohol was served on board and Roland was able to hide in the lounge with a decent beer when the pair took to squabbling in their rented G-pod. Also fortunate was Roland’s inability to get drunk.

  It was during one of these intervals that Roland was approached at the bar by a now-familiar face.

  “Jimmy,” he harrumphed over the top of a beer glass. “Fancy finding you here.”

  “Yes,” the round-shouldered analyst replied. “Interesting coincidence, indeed.”

  The response should have been nonchalant, yet Roland detected the sharp edge of anxiety. The pale forehead wore a thin sheen of sweat, soft hands clasped and unclasped, and nervous eyes darted around the lounge as if looking for someone or something. He slid into the booth Roland had commandeered and sat down. Even then he showed no signs of relaxing. A pasty hand wiped at his damp forehead and the man leaned forward awkwardly, as if he was trying to sit comfortably and watch the whole room at the same time.

  “Jimmy,” Roland sighed. “If you don’t chill the hell out you are going to blow your whole op before it even gets started. Since it’s my op too, I’m going to need you to relax.”

  “I’m not sure I get your meaning, Mr. Tankowicz...”

  “You don’t like field work.”

  The man paused at the interruption, scowled, then very deliberately folded his hands on the table in front of his chest. “Is it quite so obvious?”

  “Yes. The good news is that no one here cares about one nervous spook on his first day out.”

  “I’m not very accustomed to this sort of thing. The training on OpSec is rather ominous though. I’m seeing counter-agents in every shadow.”

  Roland leaned back and drained his glass. Then he flipped through the service terminal and scowled at the drink list. “Jimmy, it goes like this...” A thick finger stabbed the screen with authority and closed the terminal. “Either there are opposing agents here or not. If they are following me, then they already know about you by now. So why sweat it?” The big man sent a baleful glance over the lounge patrons. “Counterespionage was never really my thing. It was Alicia’s, as you are already aware. I’m too conspicuous for cloak and dagger work which is why I don’t get excited over people following me. Either way, if I was a betting man, I’d say that The Brokerage won’t have anyone on this ferry.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “We left quickly, told no one, and Manny has already checked out the entire passenger list. He sliced into the manifests as soon as we boarded and ran all the ID’s down. Nobody looked all that suspicious. Besides, why bother? They know where we are going already.”

  “I suppose you are right. In your estimation is this bar a good place to have a conversation? Or should we adjourn to somewhere more private?”

  Roland’s shoulders heaved up and down. “Ought to be fine. Booth is quiet, bar is busy enough to annoy listening devices. I assume you checked the lounge for bugs and drones?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then all we really need to worry about is old-fashioned eavesdropping. No problem.”

  The waiter arrived at that moment and placed a large mug of something straw-colored and foamy in front of Roland. In front of James he set a dainty snifter of a sweet-smelling amber liquid. James looked at the glass and then at Roland. “What is this?”

  “Brandy.” Roland cocked an eyebrow at the smaller man. “You look like a brandy drinker to me.”

  “I can’t drink!” James looked scandalized at the implication. “I am on a mission.”

  “Every spy I’ve ever met drank on-mission. It’s one of the ways you convince people watching that you are not a spy on a mission. Some of the best spies I ever worked with were certifiable drunks. No one ever figured them for spooks because they came off so helpless.”

  James did not seem entirely convinced. He stared at his glass as if it might burst into pink flames at any moment. Then slowly and gingerly, his hand reached out and picked it up. He held it in front of his face for a moment, swirling the liquid gently around the inside of the snifter. Then he took a sip and sighed.

  “You are much more insightful than your demeanor might let on, Corporal. How did you know I was a brandy drinker? Why not scotch or gin or vodka?”

  “Like I said. You have that look.”

  “And what look is that?”

  “Ivy League arrogance, bad at sports, probably a flop with the girls, too. You passed a DECO psych eval and that means none of that crap turned you bitter or unbalanced. So you are okay with it. You never got caught up in other people’s opinions, so they never shaped your preferences.”

  “And how does that make me a brandy drinker? Lots of my peers were just like me and they turned into scotch or bourbon drinkers if I recall.”

  “Whiskey is an acquired taste. Most people who drink whiskey start because it’s macho and cool to drink whiskey, then they develop the palate for it later.” He paused for a sip of his own beverage before continuing. “You’re too smart and detached to get caught up in that. You gave up on ever being cool long before you discovered booze.”

  “Why not vodka, then? Many of my co-workers are fond of vodka martinis. It’s practically an industry cliché.”

  “You’re too practical. What is vodka? It’s just ethanol and water. Good vodka? That’s just ethanol and water that has been filtered a bunch. By definition vodka is flavorless, so why drink it at all? Vodka is for spiking fruity cocktails and impressing divorced women. You don’t drink often or a lot, so you don’t bother with Vodka.”

  “I see. And gin?”

  “Gin is gross.”

  The barest twitch of a smile turne
d the corner of James’s mouth for a fraction of a second. “But then why brandy, specifically?”

  “Brandy tastes good. It’s sweet and easy to drink while still kicking just as hard as any other hooch. The only reason more guys don’t drink it is because they think they have to choke down shit whiskey to look like a badass. Guys like you only drink what tastes good, so most guys like you drink brandy.”

  “Astounding,” James said and took another sip. “Your files did not indicate you possessed this level of reductive reasoning.”

  “Your data is thirty years old. I’ve been negotiating gangland squabbles for a long time. I’ve learned to read people by the booze they drink.”

  “You’ve been hanging out in bars too much.”

  “That is probably accurate,” said Roland with a tip of his glass. “Now let’s get down to business. I assume you want to know why we are heading for Enterprise?”

  “Well, yes.” James settled into the plush seat, his features losing some of their tension. “I can surmise you are starting your move on Jean Marceau, but I’d feel better if we knew your plan.”

  Roland cast a sidelong glance over the top of his beer glass.

  Catching the look, James clarified. “So as to better render assistance, of course.”

  “Right.” The big cyborg did not sound convinced.

  “Oh, come on,” James implored, “I understand you not trusting DECO, but I refuse to believe you think you are going to raid the Galapagos system all on your own. I know you haven’t contacted the UEDF, and I can assume you don’t plan to simply extract Marceau and leave.” He raised his brandy to his lips and gave the drink a judicious sip. “You will want to retrieve the armature, and for that you will need a lot of help.”

  “Help you are willing to give?”

  “Within reason, yes.”

  “We want to hire Pike’s Privateers.”

  James sopped fidgeting at this declaration. “I see.” He paused, considering the magnitude of the idea. “Your plan goes beyond retrieving the armature then.”

  Roland nodded. “We have reason to believe that The Brokerage has a physical presence in Galapagos.”

  “They’d almost have to, wouldn’t they?” James agreed.

  “We are going to burn it down and stomp them out for good. UEDF won’t be part of that. We will need private contractors.”

  James blinked at the obvious point. “Well yes. Obviously. The Planetary Council has no authority in Galapagos, no competing interests to protect, and nowhere near the sort of political capital it would take to convince the voting public that a costly war in a far-off system is worth the price.”

  “On the other hand...” Roland prompted, his tone pure innocence.

  James completed the thought, “Secret missions in politically volatile situations is exactly the kind of silliness DECO gets up to all the time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Pike is expensive, Roland. I do hope our budget can support this!”

  “I’ve seen your budget. Don’t whine.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  Roland nodded a brisk affirmative. “We are going to pull this Marceau creep first and squeeze him for intel.”

  “He’ll have very little of use.”

  “We know. But squeezing him should shake some trees. Then it’s up to Manny to find The Brokerage. When he does, we hit them like the wrath of God himself.”

  James shook his head. “It’s too thin, Roland. It’s too much to put on one kid from Venus. He’s very good, but Galapagos is a big system. It could take him months to make any headway.”

  Roland let a mean smile turn the corners of his mouth ever so slightly. “I also intend to make myself an attractive target. The Brokerage wants me? Let them come and try to get me.”

  “Ah,” James exhaled the syllable, “you are to be bait, then?”

  “Yup. And Pike will be the trap.”

  “A squadron of heavily armed and highly trained professional mercenaries against a pirate station in their home system? Still a very long shot.”

  “You underestimate Chris Pike and my team.”

  “Possibly,” James conceded the point with grace. “Lord knows others have made the same mistake often enough. Fine. DECO will foot the bill for Pike if it’s not too exorbitant. We have some assets in Galapagos that I can tap for intel and field conditions as well. We have a decent fix on Marceau’s last location, too. He’s crewing a Galop knorr called the Ripsaw, due at Vinland in about a week. If he survives his first pirate cruise, he’ll be there looking to scrub his biometrics. It would be best to pick him up before he does.”

  “Roger that.” Roland stood and dropped some cred chits on the table. “I’ll go brief my people. We hit the beach tomorrow, so try to get some sleep tonight. Enjoy the brandy, Jimmy.”

  On schedule and without further incident, the team disembarked at Enterprise Station the next day. Within seconds of clearing receiving and customs, the four fixers found their path blocked by a man barely five-and-a-half feet tall who managed to appear much bigger. His right eye was missing, replaced by a sophisticated bionic monocle. His hairline marched across his scalp in a thin carpet of orderly gray stubble, and the scarred skin of his face was a deep tawny tan. He wore a gray and brown military uniform that barely contained a brawny frame wrapped in slabs of muscle both organic and synthetic. His human eye hid like a small black pinprick buried under a heavy brow. That eye looked to Mindy and his greeting was neither formal nor friendly.

  “Goddammit, Mindy. I was on my first goddamn vacation in twelve goddamn years. You better have a good goddamn reason for pulling me from the blue coral beaches of Cygnar or I will goddamn gut you where you goddamn stand.”

  “It was me who needed to talk to you, Commandant.” Roland’s interjection was swiftly brushed aside.

  “I know that much, numb-nuts. I’m talking to the walking pile of silicone and hair bleach right now.”

  Manny could not restrain a snort, and the monocle buzzed as it zeroed in on him. “Someone tell a joke, boy?”

  “No, sir,” Manny quickly replied.

  “Good, ‘cause you smell Venusian to me, and I ain’t never met someone from Venus who’s sense of humor was worth shit.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Pike,” Mindy replied sweetly.

  “Of course it’s good to see me. I’m one goddamn handsome man. Now somebody better fill me in on why I am not neck deep in umbrella drinks and exotic women right now before my good mood evaporates and I forget my manners.”

  Lucia stepped from behind Roland and beamed her most dazzling smile at a man many considered to be the most decorated soldier in the history of warfare. “Commandant Pike, I think I can spare you a long debrief and just tell you right here that we come with a very lucrative job opportunity for you. Perhaps we should discuss the more sensitive parts of it in a more secure location?”

  At the sight of her, Pike’s demeanor softened immediately. “Good lord, Ms. Ribiero! I am thrilled and relieved to see that somebody with some goddamn brains is herding this gaggle of underachievers. I thought for sure I was going to have to thump them all on the head and ship them off my station to avoid a debacle like the last time this big oaf was here.”

  “The debacle where you made a huge amount of money?” she asked.

  “That’s the one. Thank goodness I was there to un-fuck that cluster for you guys.”

  Roland growled, “You and I remember that debacle very differently, Pike.”

  Pike winked his good eye. “Well, I’m getting old and my memory ain’t what it used to be. Let’s go talk business, then.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jean’s perceived success in his first raid elevated his social status by several degrees afterward.

  Men who had dismissed him as useless chattel or at best an unproven greenhorn now afforded him a measure of respect previously reserved only for blooded crewmates. Jean understood why. He had ‘pulled his oar’ as well as any of them a
nd better than some. He made two bona fide kills on his first raid, and the way Stumpy told the story made it sound as if he had killed his foes barehanded, all while wooing a bevy of comely maids and sipping a glass of vino.

  Stumpy made a gift of the Dragoon to Jean for saving his life, and Jean strapped the giant weapon to his belt like some sort of swaggering desperado. Even though the pistol threatened to drag his pants down with every step and made sitting down far more of a process than Jean was used to, he wore it with pride. It was hard not to get caught up in the respect and adulation of the rough men on board. Galop knorrs were feared predators of the spaceways, and their crews unholy terrors in the dark stories told by old spacers to fresh swabs on maiden cruises. Now Jean was one of those stories, complete with a certifiably legendary exploit. It was almost enough to make him forget about the spine-crushing terror of the act or the fact that his shot had been born of fear and succeeded only through the kind of stupid battlefield happenstance that blessed and cursed with equal frequency. Galops liked to pay lip service to the old gods, and chaos in battle was Loki’s domain. It was a common Galop adage that the trickster god held no favorites and was an unreliable ally. What Loki might give you in one fight he might just as easily take away in the next. Jean had no taste for religion, modern or ancient, so he failed to heed the warnings of these old stories. He basked in the affection and admiration of the crew and pretended that Stumpy’s version of events was the truth. The small yet persistent refrain in his head reminding him that it was all stupid luck and he was more or less a useless coward was shoved deep into the background where it could not bother him quite so much.

  When they finally gated into Galapagos, the captain offered Jean a permanent bench on his ship and a promotion to one-half share as a swab. Jean gave it some serious thought. Staying on board would protect him from The Brokerage and those fixers from Earth, and this made the option more compelling than it might have been otherwise. The heady rush of his combat success was wearing off, however, and he knew the pirate’s life was not for him. He thanked the captain for the offer, said farewell to the crew, and left for the unrelenting chaos of Galapagos.