Sunspire (The Reach, Book 4)

by Mark R. Healy

  “Couldn’t have chosen a place with mattresses, huh?” Roman said good-naturedly.

  Silvestri shrugged. “Everything else in town was booked out.”

  “Nothing wrong with a good hard floor,” Roman said, wriggling as he attempted to get comfortable. “Just like the old days.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to get used to it again,” Talia said. She stared up at Silvestri. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to have a chat to our friend Gernot.”

  Talia sat up suddenly. “What about?”

  “About getting our weapons back.”

  “Do you think they’ll agree to that?”

  Silvestri thought about that. “Hopefully by now they’ve realised that we’re no threat to them. If they’re reasonable, they’ll comply.”

  “And if they’re not?” she said.

  “Then it’s probably best not to push it. They still outmuscle us, after all.”

  “When are we going to cut loose from these guys?” Roman said.

  “In a few hours, after we’ve rested. I figure we’ll just slip away. No need to make a big deal of it. But I don’t want to be heading out into the lowlands without protection if I can help it. Not with the raiders hanging around.”

  “Makes sense,” Talia said.

  “You two get some sleep. I’ll come back and join you soon.”

  “Silvestri?” Talia said as he turned to leave. She held out her hand. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Silvestri smiled, reaching out to gently clasp her fingertips in a reassuring gesture. “Never.”

  He left them there and made his way back through the tavern, locating the steps that led to the upper level. On the second floor, Gernot was in a room by himself, having slid down against a wall. Beside him was a rusted can in which he’d lit a small fire, and now he sat there with his fingers stretched over it for warmth.

  “You should put that out,” Silvestri said, moving over toward him.

  “The windows are boarded up, it’s fine. No one’s going to see shit.”

  “It’s an unnecessary risk,” Silvestri said firmly.

  “Yeah? And I’m cold. The fire stays where it is.”

  Silvestri sighed, exasperated, but realised there was nothing he could do. Negotiations to get their weapons back would not be helped by kicking over Gernot’s fire or by getting into a scuffle. Better to get this done and then leave. That was the safest way forward.

  “Where are your men?” Silvestri said.

  “Out on the balcony. Where do you expect?”

  “Are they reliable?”

  Gernot scowled at him. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How long have they been in your service?”

  “A while.”

  “They’re not going to fall asleep on us?”

  Gernot chuckled to himself. “Those two don’t sleep, as far as I can tell. Ever.”

  “You must be glad to have them serve you–”

  “Is there something you wanted to talk about, mister?” Gernot said cantankerously. He touched gingerly at his bandaged arm. “Because I’m kinda, y’know… worn out by my big day, and I’d like to get some sleep at some point.”

  “Still a long way to go to reach Gardon, yes?”

  “Yeah. Long way.”

  Silvestri nodded. “Very well. Let’s get down to it. I’d like you to give our weapons back to us. The ones you confiscated before we boarded the dirigible. In the event of a–”

  “Nope. Not gonna happen.”

  “What? Why?”

  “My boys are the only ones who are going to be handling guns around here. I don’t know you, buddy. I don’t want a bullet in the back of my head while I’m sleeping, thank you very much.”

  “If I wanted to sneak in here and kill you, I could do it without a gun.”

  Gernot pressed his lips together. “Is that a threat?”

  “No. I’m telling you that there’s no reason not to hand back our weapons. We’re not going to kill you, or your men.”

  “Sorry, can’t do it.”

  “So when do we get them back?”

  “Who knows? Wait and see.”

  Silvestri knelt close to the other man and looked into his eyes in the flickering light of the fire, imposing himself.

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  Gernot grinned sourly. “You wanna push me around, you’re gonna have to get in line, mister.”

  “What?”

  Gernot seemed to find something funny, all of a sudden. “I don’t know what they’re going to do to you in the end, but it ain’t gonna be good.”

  “Who? The raiders?”

  Gernot laughed again and turned away. “Get the fuck outta my face.”

  Silvestri snapped, reaching out and grabbing Gernot by the collar, clamping a hand over his mouth before he could call out.

  “What’s going on, Gernot? Who are you?” Gernot’s eyes widened in shock and he struggled unsuccessfully to break free of Silvestri’s grasp. “You try to call out to your friends and I’ll slit your throat.”

  Gernot nodded vehemently, and Silvestri eased the pressure on his mouth. “Yeah, man,” he croaked hoarsely. “Okay, I’ll spill it. Don’t hurt me.”

  “Talk.”

  “I… I’m a businessman heading home to Gardon–”

  Silvestri gave him a solid backhander across the face, clamping his hand across his mouth again to stifle Gernot’s cry of pain.

  “Cut the bullshit, Gernot. I know your cover story is bullshit. I knew that from the moment it came out of your mouth.”

  “But–”

  “Remember my story, about how I worked in Gardon? There’s no Old Man Donohoe there, no windmill on the southern highway. You’ve never even been there, have you?”

  “Okay, okay, I made it up, but–”

  “Tell me the truth!”

  “I’m just a hustler, a fuckin’ con man, okay?” Gernot’s eyes darted to the doorway and back again. “I got a rep in Link, and these bastards came and tracked me down.”

  “Who? The bodyguards?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “A few hours before we met you at the airship place. Honest. I ain’t never seen ’em before that in my life.”

  “Who are they?”

  “How the fuck would I know? They just told me to play the part, pretend that I’m their boss. That was all they wanted. In return, they were going to pay me a mountain of creds.”

  “What did they ask you to do?”

  “Just wait with them there at Bagley’s. Said some people were going to show up looking for a ride.”

  Silvestri reeled away from him. “They… they were waiting for us? Norrey and Kolos?”

  “Yeah, but listen, I–”

  There was movement at the door, and Norrey entered, a .45 equipped with a silencer in his hand. Silvestri whirled to his feet, dragging Gernot with him as a human shield.

  “Mr. Gernot, Mr. Silvestri,” Norrey said calmly as he moved across the room. “Seems I interrupted something here.”

  Kolos came in behind him and stood in the doorway, a rifle in his hands.

  “Now, uh… listen, Norrey,” Gernot said. “I didn’t tell him nothin’–”

  “By the look on his face,” Norrey said, “you told him more than enough.” He sighed and shook his head. “You had one job to do, Gernot. That’s all.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Silvestri said. “What do you want?”

  “This has gone far enough,” Norrey said. “I don’t think we need to discuss it any further.” He started to walk forward, and Silvestri tightened his grip on Gernot.

  “Get back, or I’ll break this guy’s neck,” Silvestri spat. “You know I can do it.”

  Norrey raised the .45. “Let me save you the trouble, Silvestri.”

  He pulled the trigger, and the bullet ripped through Gernot’s left eye socket, splashing warm blood across Silvestri’s face. He dropped to the grou
nd, dead, and Silvestri gasped in shock, stumbling backward. Norrey walked forward and stood over the dead man, looking down at him impassively.

  “I would offer a prayer for this unfortunate soul, but I fear it would be wasted on the likes of him.”

  Silvestri stood for a moment, stricken, before his well-honed survival instincts kicked in. He moved forward and barrelled into Norrey, sending him sprawling backward, but Norrey recovered quickly, twisting his body and sending Silvestri spinning away again. From the corner of his eye he saw Kolos coming at him and countered, delivering a blow to the sternum that would have dropped most men.

  Kolos grunted and fell back slightly, but seemed otherwise unhurt.

  Who the hell are these two? he wondered briefly, before Norrey came at him from the other direction, clouting him on the back of the head and sending him skidding across the floor toward Gernot’s body. He went to his knees, his vision blurry.

  Get up! he told himself, shaking his head. As he got back to his feet, he found that Norrey was pointing the .45 at him. Silvestri looked about the room, panicked, searching for some way out of this predicament, but there was nothing. They had him dead to rights.

  “And what of you, Silvestri?” Norrey said. “Will the light guide you in the next world, do you think?”

  Silvestri opened his mouth to scream a warning to Talia, but the words never left his throat.

  Norrey pulled the trigger. Silvestri felt no pain, just the gentle whisper of some unfathomable emptiness as the bullet passed through his head, tearing into the innards of his skull and splashing his brains across the tavern wall behind him.

  25

  Duran crossed the threshold of his father’s house and moved inside, his instincts as an Enforcer taking over automatically. He’d conducted plenty of raids in his time, many of them involving hostages, so this scenario was all too familiar.

  The only difference was, none of them had ever involved a loved one. None of them had involved his own father.

  On the positive side, he knew the place like the back of his hand. He’d lived here for many years, so he knew the layout. He knew the angles and the ways in which the rooms intersected.

  That had to count for something.

  The voices were still coming from deeper within the house. By the sounds of it, they were in the living room. Duran listened for his father’s voice, for any hint that he might still be all right, but neither of the voices that he heard were familiar to him. There were two men that he could identify, and oddly enough, the tone seemed conversational.

  Suddenly the conversation broke off, and a female could be heard.

  “That was Administrator Ji from Mars Consortium, speaking with our correspondent James Welsh–”

  Duran realised what was happening and straightened, feeling incredibly foolish. He moved forward quickly, proceeding into the living room, where a television panel on the wall was displaying a news broadcast.

  Zoe appeared in the kichen doorway. She made a signal to indicate she had found nothing.

  Duran holstered his .38 in disgust. “We’re clear,” he said. “It’s just the goddamn TV.”

  A bemused smile appeared on Zoe’s face. “Well, that’s embarrassing.” She glanced around the room, her smile fading. “Looks like someone beat us here.”

  Duran turned in a slow circle, taking in the state of the place. It had been ransacked, that much was clear. The coffee table had been kicked aside, drawers in the bureau pulled open, their contents dumped on the carpet. Muddy boot prints had been tracked everywhere, across discarded papers and documents and the carpet itself. They led into the kitchen and the adjoining dining room, and also to the stairs that led up to the second floor.

  That was where the bedrooms were located.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll check upstairs.”

  He pressed his lips together, then decided to move, but for some reason his legs remained motionless.

  Zoe moved to his side. “I can do it.”

  “No. This is something I have to do.”

  She lifted her hand to his chest. “I’m not sure there’s anything to find.”

  He squeezed her hand, then gently lowered it. “Just wait here.”

  Duran moved forward, taking the steps slowly and deliberately, not really wanting to find out what was waiting for him at the top, but knowing that he had to go anyway. He remembered running up and down these same steps countless times as a kid. Bounding down three at a time when his mother called him for breakfast; scampering upstairs while playing hide-and-seek with neighbourhood kids; descending for the final time as he’d left home, the few belongings he’d decided to take with him to the Reach stuffed in a duffel bag.

  It all seemed like a different life, like he’d somehow been a different person.

  He reached the landing at the top, and stood there for a moment. The muddy tracks continued up here as well, leading along the corridor and into each room. There was no sign of blood or violence, at least.

  “Dad?” Duran said again, more softly this time. “You here?”

  Nothing.

  He took a few steps forward. The first room on the right had belonged to his parents.

  He stopped in the doorway. Like the others, this room had been ransacked, the wardrobe flung open and its contents spilled across the floor.

  There was someone lying in the bed under the doona.

  “Dad?”

  Duran moved into the room and went to the bed. Sticking out from the top of the doona was a tuft of grey hair, and when he drew it downward, he could see that it was indeed his father beneath. Duran placed two fingers against the side of the old man’s neck, but there was no point searching for a pulse.

  His father was cold and lifeless. He was too late.

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” he whispered, blinking back tears. “I’m so sorry.”

  He glanced at the bedside table and saw an empty bottle of pills, picked it up. Prescription drugs. He stared at the label for a moment, then flung the bottle across the room, enraged.

  “Goddammit,” he hissed to himself, his fingernails digging into his palms. “Goddammit.”

  The tears were welling in his eyes now, and he wiped at them angrily with the palms of his hands. He looked down at his father’s peaceful face where it rested on the pillow. He hadn’t been dead long, by the looks of it. Less than twenty-four hours.

  If you hadn’t been fucking around chasing Knile across the Reach, you would have made it here in time. You could have saved him.

  He wondered about the desolation, the emptiness and the fear that must have gripped his father at the end, the helplessness that must have driven him into taking his own life. He hadn’t deserved to die like this.

  “Alec?” He whirled to see Zoe standing in the doorway, concerned. “I heard something.”

  “It’s okay.” He turned away, hoping to hide the tears in his eyes. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”

  “Did he go peacefully?”

  “I think so.”

  “We can be grateful for that, at least.”

  “Yeah.” He waved at her without turning around. “Go back downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  He heard the whisper of her boots on the carpet, and then he was alone with his father again. He wondered what he should do now. Was there something he should say? Was there any point in that? He doubted there was. Not now. His chance to do something meaningful had long since passed.

  He looked down at the bedside table, noting a few personal artefacts: a white handkerchief with a butterfly embroidered in one corner that his mother had always carried with her; a photograph of the three of them sitting together on the sofa when Duran had been a young boy; and underneath, something else. A note of some kind with another photograph attached.

  Curious, he gently extracted the note, recognising his mother’s handwriting immediately.

  The note was simple, short, and as he read it, Dur
an felt a lump forming in his throat.

  Alec, we’re so proud of you today. Keep standing up for the Jeremy Longs of the world.

  Duran lifted the photograph. It was a picture of himself, dressed in a familiar black uniform. He remembered the day well. It had been the day that he had left for the Reach, the day he had joined the Enforcers.

  His mother had written this note for him to take on his journey, but, in the end, he had decided to leave it here. For some reason he’d been worried that one of the other Enforcers would ridicule him for carrying around notes from his mother, so he’d deposited it in one of the drawers in his old bedroom.

  Jeremy Long.

  That was a name he hadn’t heard in ages. He still remembered the guy; a scrawny, scruffy-haired boy who had knocked around the same neighbourhood as Duran when they’d been kids. For many years, Jeremy Long had been the subject of merciless bullying and degradation by local kids. They’d held him down and shaved strips off his head, dumped a bag of wet shit down the back of his shirt, and worse. And why? Because he was the easy target. The pushover who couldn’t defend himself.

  One night Duran had been telling his parents about the latest Jeremy Long prank over dinner, laughing about how the kid had been covered in mudballs as he’d tried to walk home from the market. Duran’s father had sat there, stony-faced, until the story had concluded. Then he’d carefully set down his fork and looked directly at Duran.

  “You think that’s funny?” his father had said.

  Duran had been startled by the intensity in his voice. “Huh?”

  “Do you think that’s funny, Alec?”

  “Uh, well… kinda.”

  “What’s funny about it, exactly?”

  Duran had looked away uncomfortably. “I dunno. It just is.”

  “Because it’s happening to someone else, right?”

  “Hey, don’t get upset with me. I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m upset about, Alec. You stood there and watched. You didn’t do anything.”

  “Huh? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Stand up to the bullies. Someone has to.”

  “Me? I can’t do anything. Not against those guys.”