Even before Burns pulled him in for questioning Chumly hadn’t been enjoying the best of days. Sam had been in a foul mood about something – perhaps his gout was playing up again, or maybe it was his piles or maybe both. Then he’d been summoned to Mr. Hobbs’ office and hauled over the coals for roughing up a punter the night before. Yes, everyone knew that the punter in question was a smart ass punk, but this particular smart ass punk was also the son of the deputy mayor, a man with whom the Cascades Club enjoyed a certain symbiotic relationship and one that wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason. Then no sooner had Chumly returned from his interview with Burns than Hobbs called for him again, wanting to know how he’d been stupid as to allow himself to be identified by the police. Didn’t he know the first thing about field-craft? How Hobbs had gotten the news so fast was anyone’s guess.
By the time he finished his shift he was in a mood to kill someone. He made straight for Delaney’s Bar where he drank himself half senseless. He would have completed the job had Delaney not told him to go home and sleep it off. Any other bar and Chumly would have burned the place down with the owner nailed to the doorpost, but Delaney had been making a name for himself in the Delph when Chumly was still in diapers. That demanded respect. Chumly paid his bill and walked out into the night. He could have gone home – he should have gone home – but half an hour later he found himself climbing the stairs to Alice’s apartment.
As soon as she opened the door, Alice could see that he was drunk and cantankerous. It was a mood she knew well enough. He was angry at someone, something or just the whole rotten world in general. By now he’d probably taken his anger out on an innocent bystander and was here looking for someone to massage his shoulders and then do a similar job on his ego.
Chumly went straight to the drinks cabinet and took out a bottle of whiskey; if things ran to form he’d knock back a few doubles, get amorous and ten minutes later he’d be snoring fit to wake the dead. Then he’d wake up next morning with the obligatory headache and only a vague memory of what had happened the night before.
This time things didn’t run quite to form. Chumly threw himself down on the couch, flipped open the whisky and took a slug straight from the bottle. He poured another shot into a glass and muttered something about the Atlas Police Force, roundly cursing someone called Burns. Alice generally ignored him when he was in this kind of mood – he tended to burn himself out before long.
Only this time he didn’t. After knocking back another slug of whisky he told the world in general – he wasn’t actually talking to Alice any more – exactly what he thought of Chief Inspector God-damned Burns. Alice didn’t expect it to be complimentary but Chumly outdid himself, for some reason reserving the few unused expletives he still had in the locker for Sam and Jack Hobbs. Finally, he rounded everything off with, “And all because of that little shit Jimmy Franks!”
Alice hadn’t been paying much heed to Chumly’s ranting but that last comment got her attention. What on earth had poor Jimmy Franks got to do with anything?
“What do you mean? All because of Jimmy Franks?”
“Because he was a damned rat! Went squealing to the cops, didn’t he?”
“About what?”
“Never you mind,” warned Chumly.
“What happened to Jimmy?”
“Like it said on the news. Fell under a train.”
“Was it an accident?”
“The guy had it coming.”
“Was it an accident?” she said accusingly.
“What’s it to you?” said Chumly, finally losing his temper. “Look, the guy was a snitch and he got whacked. So what? I’d do it again tomorrow.”
“You did it?” said Alice, aghast. “He was just a regular guy… he was sweet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean... he was sweet? Was there something going on between you?”
“If there was, it would be my business and not yours.”
“Oh yeah? So how much did he pay you for the privilege?”
Alice picked Chumly’s coat from the where it was lying and threw it at him.
“Leave,” she said.
“Didn’t plan on staying anyway,” said Chumly, stuffing an arm into the sleeve of the coat. “Jeez… you and a loser like Franks. Whoever would have thought it?” he sneered.
Alice walked straight up to Chumly and slapped him across the face. She aimed another blow but Chumly batted it aside and then backhanded her so fiercely that it sent her tumbling backwards over the coffee table, scattering whisky and glasses as she went. Chumly glared as she rose shakily to her feet, her lip split and blood gushing from her nose.
“Get out,” she shouted. “Get the hell out of my house.”
Chumly still had a wild look in his eyes and Alice feared what he might do next, but then he turned abruptly on his heels and stomped out, slamming the door so hard that it bounced back against the wall and swung to and fro in the hallway. Alice stumbled over to the door and pushed it shut, dropping the deadlock and closing the bolts.
“And don’t ever come back,” she cried to herself.
* * *
Orbital One
Chuck waited patiently as the airlock tunnel pressurised, three green lights and a small ‘beep’ indicating that it was safe to open the inner door. As it slid open the corresponding door at the other end of the tunnel opened to reveal D.C.I. Burns waiting inside the shuttle.
“Hi, Chuck. How’s it going?” said Burns as he walked along the tunnel to shake him warmly by the hand.
“Good question – I’ll let you know when I figure it out… How’s the detecting business?”
“Let’s just say that Mullins and I are being encouraged to earn our pay.”
“That figures. Commander Jacobs is waiting for us up in his office. Remember the way?”
“Up to the Deck 2, turn left at top of the stairs then three doors down from the crew room, if memory serves.”
“Right first time,” said Chuck.
“I guess you know why I’m here,” said Burns, once he and Chuck were seated in Commander Jacob’s office.
“We presume it’s about Jacks,” said Jacobs.
“That’s right. It’s still unclear how he managed it, but he got clean away.”
“Not really what I wanted to hear,” said Chuck.
“I can imagine. Are you worried?” said Burns.
“Should I be?”
“That’s another good question but I’m not sure if I can give you a good answer. As I recall, his parting shot was a warning that you’d be seeing him again.”
“That’s right,” said Chuck. “When the military police escorted him off O1, he said he’d be coming back to pay me a visit. Forgive me for mentioning it but at the time, you told me not to worry on account of him spending the rest of his natural life locked up jail.”
“Sorry about that. It’s not that I didn’t take the man seriously but I never dreamed he’d actually be able to escape.”
“I did, but they were nightmares rather than dreams,” said Chuck gloomily. “Do you think he’ll try something?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. What I do know is that the man is intelligent, capable and resourceful. On the other hand, he is also vain, arrogant and vindictive.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“He would be taking a big risk by coming back to the Atlas system… but he might be cavalier enough to try.”
“What do you suggest? Think I should go into hiding?”
“You could… if that’s the way you want to go but personally I think it might be better to stay here on O1.”
“You think?”
“It’s probably the safest place. Security has been tightened up all around since Jacks caused all that trouble both here and on Phoenix. Is O1 still closed to normal traffic?”
“Not completely,” said Jacobs. “If you remember, the outer ring of O1 is divided into six sections – Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo and Fox. O1 personnel are billeted i
n Alpha, and Delta has been leased to the Titan Corporation who are using it as a parts and distribution centre for their heavy lift operations. The good news is that Delta Section is pretty much self contained and they have their own security team.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. We’ve recently opened up part of Bravo Section. It’s been converted into units for small, independent businesses.”
“What kind?”
“Storage units, mainly, though there are a couple of flight repair and maintenance shops. The guys who work there use the facilities in Alpha Section – the canteen and so on – but they have to go through a security door to do so.”
“And all the other sections are closed?”
“That’s right.”
“Makes sense to stay here, Chuck,” said Burns. “At least for the time being.”
“I agree,” said Jacobs. “I can also request a squad of marines. There’s a full company stationed over on Phoenix along with a frigate and a pair of patrol craft on permanent attachment. Jacks might think twice about coming aboard if he sees a gunboat moored alongside.”
“Good idea,” said Burns. “That make you feel any better, Chuck?”
“I guess…”
“And how about Lieutenant Primrose and Cadet Parker?”
“Dolores was transferred to a fleet transport – she’s not due back for months. Penny’s still on the frigate Lancelot but her work experience tour will finish in just a few days. After that she’ll return to Space School for her graduation.”
“By the way,” said Burns, taking out his data pad and passing it over to Chuck. “Do you recognise this man?”
“Yes… yes, I do. He was with Jacks on Brannon’s Wharf last year. He’s the one we tied up when we got Hector back.”
“Don’t take offence, but are you absolutely sure?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Ok. Well, his name is Fletcher, a former master sergeant in the Defence Forces. About fifteen years ago he was transferred to Fleet Intelligence. A lot of what he was doing was classified but we know that for at least some of the time he worked under Commodore Jacks. As far as we can ascertain, it was Fletcher that helped him to escape from the prison ship, killing the prison guard in the process. Seems Jacks and Fletcher go back a long way.”
“Any idea of their whereabouts?”
“Unfortunately, no. Let’s face it, they could be anywhere by now. At least we know what kind of ship they have and the fleet have put out an all points alert. If they show up in any of the major systems there’s a good chance they’ll be spotted.”
“I somehow doubt Jacks will be so obliging.”
“No argument there,” said Burns. “All we can do for the present is keep our eyes open and wait for him to make a move. In the meantime, Chuck, keep your head down. After all you’ve been through it would be a shame if you got it shot off now.”
CHAPTER 5: The Bastard
Charnak 3 Mining Colony
One thing that most people agreed on was that when Bruno Tully was in a bad mood it was best to give him a wide berth. The other thing that most people agreed on was that the only time Bruno Tully wasn’t in a bad mood was when he was either asleep or in a drunken stupor.
On this particular night, Bruno was sitting in his favourite seat in the corner of The Last Spike, his most recent hostelry of choice. There had been others before but there were few places where Bruno had not outstayed his welcome. In the fullness of time The Last Spike would no doubt be added to the list but while none of the bars or eateries that populated the outskirts of the mining camp could be considered up-market, The Last Spike was rougher than most, the moonshine rougher and the clientele roughest of all. Bruno fit right in.
Shabbily dressed in a grimy, oil stained worker’s outfit, he sported an unruly mop of greasy hair and an unkempt beard. Not the largest man to grace the establishment, he wasn’t even the meanest, but what weight he carried was all lean, hard muscle. He was also quick, agile and – so the rumour went – as fearless as they came.
With a glass of rotgut in one hand and a pen in the other, he sat hunched over a betting slip, writing out his wager for the next round of bulldozer races that were Charnak 3’s only indigenous form of entertainment.
As he pondered his choices, another customer stood between Bruno’s table and the single, feeble light that graced that corner of the bar.
“You’re in my light,” said Bruno.
“What of it?” grunted the other, turning to face Bruno. In the confines of The Last Spike that amounted to an explicit challenge – the verbal equivalent of giving Bruno’s face a few hearty slaps with a chain mail gauntlet and then casting it down at his feet. A few of the old hands sitting at the bar gave a small shake of the head and twisted in their seats to watch the upcoming fireworks. Bruno didn’t disappoint.
In a single, fluid movement he put down his glass, flicked the pen to one side and smashed an uppercut into his antagonist’s jaw – and all that without fully standing or spilling even a drop of his whisky in the process.
Some would later claim that both the antagonist’s feet left the floor as he arched gracefully through the air to land flat on his back amongst the mud and sawdust, but for the present, the old hands sitting around the bar nodded approvingly and waited in the faint hope that the antagonist would arise and take the entertainment into round 2.
Alas, they waited in vain. Bruno’s victim lay still until the barkeep dragged him into a sitting position up against the bar, not so much because he was sympathetic to the man’s plight, but rather because the man was blocking the way to the bar and profits were low enough as it was.
By that time Bruno had already returned to his whisky and his gambling slip.
Bruno was the only son of Elisa Tully, one of the most adorable creatures ever to grace the little town of Bromley, a hundred miles north of Atlas Central. Warm and generous, she was a tiny, willowy woman with style, grace and a smile that cast glorious rays of sunshine wherever she roamed.
They said that Elisa could have had the pick of the gentlemen, and if there was one thing that Elisa wasn’t lacking it was suitors, who came from far and wide to try their luck. Most were gently but speedily rebuffed. On occasion, one might manage to pique her interest but rarely did someone truly appeal to her instincts. No matter – Elisa was quite prepared to wait for Mr. Right to present himself, an event that was to occur one spring afternoon as she was walking down by the river on the outskirts of town.
Rounding an old sycamore tree she spied a young man fishing in its shade, whistling softly as he cast his line into the water. Tall and handsome, he nodded a greeting as she passed by.
“Have you caught anything?” she enquired.
“Not yet, but there’s still time.” He drew back the rod in a graceful arc and promptly cast his hook into the boughs of the tree. Elisa fought to suppress a giggle as he shook the rod in vain attempts to free the line. Seeing the laughter in her eyes he gave up his struggles and reached up to cut the line before laying his rod on the ground. That was enough fishing for one day, and in any case, the vision before him was altogether more interesting than whatever might reside in the depths of the river.
Elisa was equally struck and within a few weeks she decided that the fisherman – one Morgan Baird Junior – could well be the man she had been waiting for. Not because he was intelligent, charming and attentive – and he was indeed all those things – but rather because it just felt right, and Elisa had long since learned to trust her instincts where men were concerned.
Which of the two had the better of the bargain was a matter for debate. While Elisa was unquestionably the most attractive woman to walk the streets of Bromley, Morgan was undoubtedly the town’s most eligible bachelor, residing in what was commonly referred to as ‘The big house on the hill’. Almost everyone agreed that it was a match made in heaven and it was only a matter of time before the wedding was announced.
Unfortunately, Morgan Sen
ior had other ideas. He didn’t mind his son and heir playing the field – indeed, he expected him to – but he was damned if he was going to allow some low born, gold digging strumpet to marry his son and heir. He’d let the affair run its course, after which he’d point Morgan Jr. in the direction of one of the Atlas socialites. And after that, perhaps he’d even try a turn with Elisa himself. Why not? He was used to getting what he wanted and like everyone else from down in the valley, she would surely have her price.
Six months later and with talk of their engagement in the air, Morgan Sr. decided that it was time to intervene. Junior was packed off to Earth to look after some of the family interests and instructed to relinquish Elisa or risk his inheritance.
Junior obeyed. Whether it was willingly or unwillingly, Elisa never found out, but within days of his departure she discovered that at least part of Morgan Junior had remained, for Elisa was with child.
Repeated protestations to the big house were ignored until Elisa finally hired the services of a lawyer. The Baird family replied in kind, and Elisa was duly presented with a financial package which while generous, admitted no responsibility, included a confidentiality clause and required Elisa to forgo any future claim.
“And let that be an end to the matter,” said the Baird family lawyer sourly.
Elisa was sorely tempted to tear up the agreement and fling the papers back in his face but with an unborn child to consider she bit her lip and took the settlement, the sick feeling of having been bought and paid for nagging at her heart.
Unfortunately for Elisa, Morgan Sr. wasn’t about to let the matter end there. He hadn’t made his fortune by being soft; it was in his nature to crush people and then grind them into the dirt. In a small, conservative town it was simple enough to spread rumours about the little tart who got herself pregnant by God knows who and then tried to entrap the squire’s son. The seeds of prejudice and abuse were sown and with Morgan Sr.’s backing they soon bore fruit.
The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2) Page 7
