Fool's Gambit (Confederation Reborn Book 5)

by Bernard Schaffer

  Fool's Gambit

  Confederation Reborn

  Simon John Cox

  Bernard Schaffer

  The only thing Knox liked about planets was leaving them.

  He'd been born on an orbital station and hadn't set foot on solid ground until the age of eleven. Of course, his various dealings inevitably dragged him planetside, it wasn't until after the shuttle punched through the atmosphere and the shaking stopped that he began to feel at home once again. After two weeks of a smothering atmosphere and gravity that dragged at his bones there was nothing he liked better than the deafening sound of engines.

  The lifeboat thrust toward the massive structure floating three hundred thousand kilometers away, firing its engines once it broke free of the atmosphere. Being crushed back into his seat and seeing the planet's vast marbled curvature falling away slowly beneath him, gave him a feeling of peace. Something he did not experience often.

  Of course, having a vast amount of money waiting for him didn't hurt either. All he had to do was deliver. All he had to do was keep one name safe and secure in the recesses of his mind, and that name was worth a damned fortune.

  The orbital station's clean, wide, avenues teemed with life. Most of it was Confederation, looking crisp and clean in their uniforms, out of place among the ragtag assembly of non-affiliated species. A languid Vian merchant hawked belts and pouches from a mobile stand along the side of the concourse. A timid pod of Kreel flitted at the fringes of the forest of humanoid legs blocking their path. The rest of the inhabitants seemed to be in perpetual motion, weaving and channeling, passing from one place toward another, pausing only to look up at the lifeboats shuttling in and out of the docking channels high above.

  Knox shouldered his way into the crowds and made his way to the docking bay lifts. He inserted himself into the loose group who stood waiting for the high, vault-like doors to slip open, their multi-colored bags, holdalls and rucksacks marking them as travelers. A few of them were clearly pleasure voyagers, but the majority looked poor and gaunt; refugees and immigrants, the tattered remnants of the Great Invasion. As, in his own way, was he.

  As they waited, a fat Batusian waddled out of the crowd and circulated amongst the travelers, offering up foul-smelling chunks of charred flesh that each of them in turn either politely declined or, rather less politely, ignored.

  Eventually the Batusian reached Knox. "You buy juul," it said, skewering a stinking clod of meat from the plate that hung around his neck and thrusting it in his face.

  Knox shook his head. "Already ate," he grimaced, trying not to inhale.

  "You buy," the Batusian repeated.

  Knox yanked the skewer out of the Batusian's chubby paw and flicked the disgusting gobbet of meat onto the floor, leaving a slick of yellow grease on the pristine tiles. He held the sharp end of the skewer under the Batusian's pig-like nose and reached up, bending the thing in half until its point almost touched its handle. "I said, I already ate."

  When he dropped the ruined skewer on the plate the Batusian gave a strangled yelp and fled into the crowds, the plate and useless skewer clanking as he went.

  After the Batusian had gone, Knox noticed the other travelers stealing glances at him. A few shuffled warily, but most seemed relieved to be rid of the obnoxious merchant. A child smiled up at him in admiration.

  "Batusians, huh?" said Knox, only half to himself, "They just won't take 'no' for an answer."

  When the elevator arrived, it was silent in the way that only elevators can be, and the travelers remained resolutely impassive as advertisements danced around them. Women of all races smiled down at them from screens built along the white walls of the elevator's interior. Long-legged models, arranged artfully beside swimming pools, or winking from the pilot's seat of a cloud speeder. Knox saw the image of a Rothian female draped over the sterile surfaces of industrial machinery, back arched and lips pursed seductively. Buy this and I could be yours, was the message. As if the one thing a shimmering pink sex goddess looked for in a man was the size of his energy condenser.

  Knox shook his head. Sex had sold before the Great Invasion, but the women in the ads seemed even more exotic now that there were so few of them left. Connect here to win a trip to Lahal! announced one of the screens. What new things could YOU see with the new VeriVue 3Z? Connect to find out! flashed another.

  Still, he was surprised to see a Rothian female used in advertisements. It was said that the Rothians were a race of slavers and whores. The males were ruthless traders, and the commodity they traded in was their own females. Confederation had done all it could to stomp the slave trade out of existence, but out here, in the fringes it continued, and since the Great Invasion, had flourished.

  Knox turned away, looking over one of the pleasure travelers who was leering at the video screen. An overweight man with a too-tight shirt, who had with him a basic artificial life form that stood rigidly gripping a blue holdall in one of its hands. The sheen on the thing's smooth, hard, almost-human skin reminded Knox of the meeting that had brought him to this place.

  It had been back down below, in a bar in Gulleray. He'd been drinking, celebrating having offloaded a stack of third and fourth-hand Confederation guns to a trader with more money than sense. The trader foolishly thought a few dozen worn-out particle rifles would help him if his ship got boarded in the demilitarized zone. Little did he know, the pirates in that area were Thracellian. Even Broken Moon thought twice about going there, and they were certifiable maniacs. Knox didn't feel bad for doubling his price on the man. The way he saw it, it was less money for the Tracellians to strip off his dead corpse later.

  He saw someone walking up behind him in the bar, coming his way. His hand shifted to the weapon at his side, resting on the molded plastic holster. He didn't draw it, or even bother to unclick the latch, but if he needed it, he'd have it ready to fire in the blink of an eye. And if he wasn't fast enough, he'd just be dead. Either way, he figured, and shrugged as he sipped his drink.

  In the bar's mirror, he saw who was walking up on him. Not a who, he thought, but rather, a what. A faker. Some artless facsimile of a human being that was now walking stiffly up to him, eyes flicking toward his in the mirror, mechanically. "Mr Knox," it said. It didn't sound like a question, but one could never tell with these things.

  "Sorry, you got the wrong guy," Knox said, lifting the glass to his mouth.

  "You are Mr Knox."

  "You keep going like that, you're going to make me angry, faker."

  "I have a message for you," the thing continued regardless, "It is important."

  "I don't want any damn messages. I'm just here to drink."

  "The message concerns an extremely large sum of money that is available for you to earn. All you need to do is follow me into a private room," it said, then turned away and began walking for the door.

  In his pleasantly inebriated state it took Knox a few moments to process what the faker had said. He looked down into his drink, at the reflected blue light that winked from the smoothed surfaces of the cubes of ice, and weighed his options.

  "Well, I suppose it can't hurt to hear you out," he said, then he realized that the thing was already too far away to be able to hear him. He swore to himself, drained his glass and stood up.

  Knox followed the artificial life form out to the back rooms, trying to avoid looking at it as it walked. He couldn't stand the way they moved. It was as though their designers had watched footage of human movements played backwards and then tried to figure it out from there.

  Once they exited the bar, the faker stepped through one of several open doors, and
even through the fog of alcohol Knox knew to check the corridor and glance into the private rooms nearby before getting comfortable. He'd been in enough situations to know that private rooms on isolated orbital stations were the places where throats were slit and digits severed, and the best-laid plans were pulled slowly apart by the kinds of people who looked at you like you were nothing more than meat.

  A quick search showed that the corridor was clear, and the other rooms were host to nothing but a few gamblers and drug jacks who were hostile to him poking his nose in, right up until he opened his jacket and pointed at the fragmentation grenade strapped to his belt. It was a counterfeit, of course, but they didn't know that. All they knew was that by the time they'd yanked their pistols out of their belts he could have pulled the pin.

  Finally, Knox scanned the room that the faker was waiting for him in. It was filthy, but he was satisfied that this was no ambush. The faker was sat at a circular metal table in the center of the low-ceilinged room, and remained motionless as Knox peeked under the table and moved a few chairs around, before sitting down opposite it.

  "So," said Knox.

  "You are interested," said the artificial life form. Out here, away from the music and the noise of the other drinkers, its voice sounded even flatter and less human.

  "Just tell me whatever it is you want to tell me."

  The faker paused for a moment.

  "Your channel is closed," it said, eyes fixed on the metal band around Knox's wrist.

  "Of course it is. I don't want just anyone connecting with my net."

  "The message is an optic-aural construct. It must be delivered via your network."

  Knox glanced at the red X that lurked in the corner of his vision.

  "How much did you say this was worth to me?" he asked.

  "An extremely large sum of money."

  "How much?"

  "I have no additional information about that."

  "So I'm just going to have to listen," said Knox. He sighed, but touched the metal band with the tip of his finger, lighting the thing up with several quick swipes. The red X disappeared. "All right. Show me what you've got."

  The faker nodded, and a woman's face immediately glimmered into being.

  "Good evening, Mr Knox," she said. She was a mature woman, maybe a little over fifty, with sharp features and a head of greying hair that looked as sleek and hard as steel.

  "Is this a sim, or are we talking live?" he asked.

  "I am a simulated persona."

  "So I'm not worth talking to in person. Fine. I get it. Well, let's get this over with."

  The woman smiled briefly. "I need something delivered," she said, and as she spoke a transcript of her words slid across the bottom of Knox's vision, "Something of particular value and importance, and something that I cannot move through official channels. I am aware of your experience and expertise in this area, and I am willing to pay you extremely good money to conduct this cargo to its recipient."

  "How much?" he asked.

  "A hundred thousand. Ten thousand up front."

  The amount cut through Knox's drunkenness like a scalpel. He shook his head.

  "Just who are you?" he asked.

  "My name is Axalis," said the woman.

  "I mean, who do you work for?"

  "That data is not included within this simulation."

  Knox pushed himself back from the table and stood up. "OK, I'm out," he said, "You smell like Fed. And you can forget about getting your faker back. I'm keeping it as payment for you having wasted my time."

  "Even if I were with Confederation, or a Fed, as you call it, do you think I'd admit it to you?"

  She allowed the question to hang for a moment; it was only a sim, but the personality traits scanned in alongside her memories clearly enjoyed toying with people.

  "Don't worry," she went on, "I'm an independent agent. A freelancer, much like yourself. Besides, you may be a wanted man, but Confederation has bigger problems right now. They wouldn't be wasting their resources running after small-timers like you."

  "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just walk out that door."

  "I thought I'd already given you a hundred thousand reasons. And you are hardly in a position to be choosy. Remind me: how much is it that you owe the Broken Moon, Mr Knox?"

  The mention of his former employer sent lurid, bloody images splashing across Knox's consciousness. He rubbed his jaw and eased himself back onto the seat.

  "All right, all right," he said, "Let's say for a minute that I believe you. And by the way, I'm not saying I do. Why don't you go ahead and tell me what it is that you need me to deliver?"

  "You don't need to know."

  "I don't deliver things if I don't know what they are."

  "The hundred thousand is for delivery, not knowledge," said Axalis, "I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust me."

  "And where exactly do you want me to take this mystery package?"

  "You don't need to know that either."

  "How am I supposed to deliver something if I don't know where I need to deliver it to? This is bullshi—"

  "Patience, Mr Knox," the image of the woman flickered red for a moment, "I will explain everything. You won't be going alone: I have recruited a Gorohai pilot to act as the navigator, he alone knows the destination. There is a Yuruk in charge of the cargo. All you need to know is to whom you will deliver it when you arrive. Each of you will be given one crucial piece of information required to deliver the cargo successfully. You will either arrive together," she said, pausing. "Or, you will not."

  "Sounds like a pretty complicated way of getting something from A to B."

  "It's for my own security, Mr Knox," she said, "And might I add that you are admirably thorough for a man who by the end of the month will be sliced into pieces and cast into deep space by a Broken Moon cutter gang if he does not honor his debt."

  "All right, you made your point," said Knox, "So who's the contact?"

  "First I need to know that you accept."

  "Ten thousand up front, the rest on delivery, right?"

  "That's correct."

  "All right. It's a deal. Go ahead."

  The woman's face froze for a moment, then flickered back into life. "Check your account."

  Knox unlocked the secure channel on the right of his vision and looked at the number in the green box. There were more zeroes than were there when he bought that last round of drinks. Hell, there were more zeroes there than he'd seen in a good while.

  "OK," he said, trying to look unmoved as he closed and locked the channel. "Tell me."

  "The name of your delivery contact is Lissit ul-Unni. You leave tomorrow from docking bay D-21 on the orbital station. The pilot will be waiting. Repeat the name of your delivery contact."

  "Lissit ul-Unni."

  "Again."

  "I just told you, Lissit ul-Unni."

  "Good. That's not his real name, of course. You'd expect nothing less, I'm sure."

  "The way this conversation is going I'm surprised you're even telling me that."

  "Listen, all I'm paying you for is to put a name in your head, and to keep it there – you do that and believe me, this will be the easiest money you'll ever make. But I warn you, if you give that name to anyone else, especially the Gorohai or the Yuruk, then the deal's off and you get nothing. Not a thing. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Don't worry, I get it."

  "Good. In that case I think our business here is concluded. Good luck. And Mr Knox?"

  "What?"

  "Please don't steal Arty."

  "Arty?" Knox said.

  The artificial life form nodded at him, from behind the table.

  Knox scowled and muttered, "The hell would I do with a thing like that anyway?"

  The next day the lift delivered Knox to Bay D-21. Its vast doors slid open and Knox stepped out into the cavernous space of one of the industrial loading areas.

  Walkways ran around the edge of the bay, above a loa
ding zone in which several large, outdated haulage units awaited orders. The area was dominated by a huge concavity bulging from the wall into the bay's center, as though some vast entity had prodded a finger into the station's side while its walls were still soft. The concavity was studded with docking passages leading out on to walkways and down toward the loading zone, and a strip of observation panels circled its center.

  Knox walked along one of the walkways, looking through the panels until he saw something that made him stop and cross his arms. He leaned against the rail and peered through the observation panels at a ship docked outside. It was connected to the dock by one of a series of short umbilical tubes that protruded outside from the docking bay.

  A small craft, and it looked as though it had seen better days. It was mostly dull grey, but several panels were lighter and had clearly been replaced. Dark scars of battle lined several areas of the hull, many of them cut off abruptly at the edges of the replacement panels. Where Knox would have expected to see the likes of long-range target acquisition sensors and defensive systems there were either empty recesses or blank filler panels.

  As he looked over the ship he became aware of light footsteps that rang out along the walkway. He turned to see a tall, dark-skinned being walking towards him, the long eyes and low mouth marking him unmistakably as Gorohai. He wore white coveralls, a uniform that would once have been worn by a Gorohai pilot, but there were no military insignia to be found. As he drew close Knox noticed that the fabric looked old and worn.

  "You Knox?" said the Gorohai, but didn't wait for an answer, "I'm Dolon. Goro Dolon. That's my ship out there."

  Through the panels Knox could just make out on the ship's flank faint traces of the letters ICSS and the emblem of the Confederation. Little more than a shadow. All that remained was the name.

  "Fool's Gambit," he read out loud, "Looks like an old Fed 'vette."

  "She was. She got tangled up with the Swarm, and I guess she was no use to the Feds all burnt up and punched full of holes. So I got her on the cheap and patched her up."

  Knox craned his neck to examine the rear of the craft.