Pelquin's Comet

by Ian Whates

  They were only on the Row for a mercifully brief time. Shortly after the gallery they took a turning to the right, giving her senses a much needed break; though at first the stores here seemed indistinguishable from those on the broader street they’d just left. That soon changed, and Leesa realised it only applied to those at the very top, the ones clinging to the Row’s grandeur. Beyond these first few the shops became more approachable and less likely to inspire sensory overload. Leesa found them all the more appealing as a result.

  Bren stopped at one of them and darted inside, saying, “Wait here a sec.” The shop was a vintners of considerable distinction to judge by the window display and the prices. Bren soon emerged with a bottle wrapped in paper.

  Another minute’s walk and Bren took them right again, this time into a narrow street which lacked any of the pizzazz of the Row. Shops had been largely replaced by cafés and eateries, and the stores they now encountered reminded Leesa of those back in La Gossa. The window displays were busy and crowded, presumably adhering to the principles of scattershot marketing: throw enough temptation at the customers and something’s bound to stick; while pulsing lights thrust the latest bargain discount at browsers’ consciousness like a blade; a pretty blunted and ineffectual one perhaps, but the intent was there.

  Leesa assumed their destination was one of these stores, but instead it was tucked just around another corner. She had a fleeting opportunity to take in the crowded window before Bren led the way inside. The window displayed a bizarrely varied selection of goods, from items of clothing – the rugged, outdoors variety – to ornaments and knick-knacks, stopping off at hunting knives and camping equipment – self-erecting tents, water purifiers, instant-light fires etc – and kitchen gadgets. The confused impression only intensified once she stepped through the door. The shop was far bigger than it appeared on the outside and she found herself in a bursting-at-the-seams wonderland of wildly varying goods, which inhabited front-to-back aisles to her left, stood in haphazardly piled stacks at the end of each aisle, and even climbed up the wall to her right.

  Immediately in front of her stood a counter, behind which leaned a tall, slender man. He was handing across a wrapped parcel to an affluent-looking couple who smiled and thanked him, clearly delighted at their purchase. His return smile as he said, “Do call again,” was warm and friendly, though Leesa wasn’t so sure about the gold tooth which glinted in the process.

  She stood aside to let the couple pass. As soon as they had exited, the man came out from behind the counter, his arms spread wide. “Brenda, my dear friend! What a lovely surprise. I had no idea the Comet was back in port.” He hugged the object of his greeting, who didn’t look entirely comfortable with the embrace but endured it stoically.

  “Hi, Mokhy, it’s good to see you, too,” she said. “We just landed.”

  “And who is this delightful creature?” he asked, releasing Bren.

  “This is Leesa. She’s standing in for Monkey on this trip. Leesa, meet Mokhy.”

  “Enchanted,” and the tall man stooped into a half bow, taking and kissing Leesa’s right hand. The gesture, which would have irritated the hell out of her from most people, struck her as charming coming from him. He had kind eyes, she decided, and found herself smiling.

  “So, it’s just you two? Pelquin too busy to call on an old friend, is he?”

  “He sends his apologies – we’re not stopping long – but he did ask me to give you this.” Bren held out the bottle.

  He took it eagerly, pulling aside the paper wrapping. His smile broadened. “Ah, Tarkhillan brandy! What a gentleman Captain Pelquin is. Come, come, you must sample this with me.”

  “That’s very kind, but I’m not sure…”

  “I’ll not take no for an answer, Bren! Tarkhillan should never be drunk alone. It requires the appreciation of friends! Now, come on through, please.” He beckoned them behind the counter and into a cluttered back room. Bren hadn’t resisted too hard, Leesa noted.

  A boy was asleep, or feigning sleep, in one of the two chairs that stood by a small dining table, his head slumped on his chest, feet up on the table itself.

  “Get your shoes off there!” Mokhtar snapped, physically pushing them off at the same time. The boy – in his early or mid-teens by the look of him – jumped to his feet, startled. The lad was scrawny and a little gangly, having yet to fully grow into his frame.

  “Now go and make yourself useful by minding the shop, eh?” Mokhtar said. “Can’t you see I have visitors?”

  The lad scurried out without speaking, though casting an inquisitive look in their direction. Mokhtar watched him go and shook his head. “My sister’s boy,” he explained apologetically, turning back to his guests. “About as much use as an unperforated sieve, but he’s family; what’s a man to do? Sit, sit!” He gestured towards the two dining chairs.

  Following Bren’s example, Leesa sat as instructed; she wouldn’t have dared do otherwise in the face of Mokhtar’s earnest imploring. The man himself hastily removed a biscuit tin and a small pile of folded sheets from an armchair, placing them on the floor before pulling the chair forward. He then took three small tumblers from a head-height cupboard, holding each up in turn and examining it critically against the room’s single light. He then plonked the three glasses down on the table and himself into the armchair, which he shuffled forward a few steps in order to reach the table.

  Having done that, he picked up the bottle of Tarkhillan, broke the seal, and pulled out what looked to be a genuine cork stopper, which he sniffed with great dignity, declaring, “Nectar!”

  Three generous measures of caramel-brown brandy were then poured into the glasses. They each took one. Mokhtar held his up in salute, saying, “To the crew of Pelquin’s Comet. May her stardrive never falter and her shower units never pack up mid-journey.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Bren agreed.

  Cold fire hit the back of Leesa’s throat as she joined in, while her mouth filled with the tastes of caramel and alcohol. The whole experience was powerful but inexplicably smooth; there was fire here, but it was fire that had been tamed. “Wow!” she said, holding up her glass to look at the brandy that remained within. “That’s fantastic.”

  Mokhtar grinned. “Isn’t it?” He turned to Bren. “I see why you let this one on board, Bren. We have here a lady of discerning taste. You should carry a bottle of Tarkhillan with you and use it, sparingly of course, as part of the interview process for new crew.”

  “Not a bad idea. I might recommend it to the captain.”

  He laughed, and topped up their glasses.

  After another refill, Mokhtar’s demeanour turned more serious. “So, you’ve come here just to catch up with an old friend, or is there something I can do for you?”

  “Actually, there is something…”

  “I thought so,” and he wagged a mischievous finger at Bren. “What is it you’re after, Brenda? Something difficult to get hold of, something not available over the counter, something a little… illicit, perhaps?”

  “Sorry, Mokhy, I’m not looking to buy anything as such. Pel sent me to collect an item he left with you for safe keeping; told me to say that he’d given it to you against future need and that the need is now.”

  Mokhtar’s expression turned even more serious. “Did he now? And what exactly is this object you’ve been sent to retrieve?”

  “No idea. I was assuming you’d know.”

  He nodded, slowly, his gaze never leaving her. Then he stood up, walked across to a sink unit which occupied the wall behind him, and knelt down to open the door of the cupboard beneath. Various tins and cartons were pulled out and left haphazardly on the floor so that Mokhtar could reach all the way to the back. He then took out a large white tile, presumably from the wall itself, which he placed down with greater care, and, seconds later, drew out a long leather box, which he brought across and placed on the table. It reminded Leesa of the fancy case a piece of expensive jewellery might be presented in,
but larger.

  Mokhtar stood there, both hands resting on the table, leaning forward and staring first at Leesa and then at Bren.

  “Do you have any idea what this is?”

  “No,” Bren said, “and I don’t need to know.”

  “Oh, but I think you should,” he said. “Nobody should deliver something like this without knowing what it is they carry.” With that, he opened the hinged lid of the case and, taking almost reverent care, lifted away the cloth beneath to reveal the most beautiful weapon Leesa had ever seen. It resembled an old-style pistol, though with a greatly elongated barrel – half a metre and then some. Three quarters of the way along that barrel a small ridge of metal disfigured its underside: the stand, for resting on a wall or table or other convenient surface to steady the gun and ensure maximum accuracy. Another difference was that the gun’s two sights, both front and rear, were clustered just above the handle, close to where the rear sight would be on a standard pistol; in this instance they were merely the frame for the virtual sighting system that would appear when the gun was activated.

  “Now do you know what this is?”

  “I was in the army for five years, Mokhy,” Bren said. “Of course I know what it is.”

  So did Leesa, though she couldn’t have said how: it was a needler. Not the type of thing you’d necessarily wanted to carry into battle – too specific, too tightly focused, too limited – but a formidable weapon all the same. This was a specialist piece of kit; an assassin’s gun.

  “Best sighting system ever invented,” Mokhtar said. “You can see through solid walls with this thing, and shoot through them as well, of course. It allows you to set up multiple targets and take them out in quick succession without the need to adjust or recalibrate. A beautiful tool, isn’t she?”

  “And you’re sure this is what Pel wanted me to collect?”

  “I’m certain. This is the only thing your captain has ever left with me, along with instructions to safeguard the gun on pain of death, torture, and the ruining of my good name – though perhaps not in that specific order.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.” Bren still didn’t look certain, as if she was trying to convince herself. “He wouldn’t want to keep this on the Comet, that’s for sure; couldn’t risk it being found in a customs search. It’d be an instant prison sentence for anyone caught holding one of these and, as I recall, we were the subject of some pretty intense attention from the local pols last time we were here.”

  “Precisely,” Mokhtar said, spreading his hands. “So I have taken that risk, on behalf of my good friend Captain Pelquin.”

  Leesa couldn’t begin to imagine what Mokhtar had demanded from Pelquin in return. On reflection, she probably didn’t want to know.

  “A needler…” Bren shook her head. “Cheeky bastard – no wonder he sent me to collect this rather than Nate. I wonder why he wants it back now.”

  “That, my dear Brenda, I cannot help you with,” Mokhtar said as he replaced the cloth and closed the case. “I can only suggest you ask him.”

  “Don’t worry, I intend to.” Bren picked up the gun case and frowned. “Have you got a rucksack or something I can use to carry this in?”

  “Why certainly! We offer an extensive range of hardy bags of every description. You’ll find them at the far end of aisle two, on the left. Feel free to buy whichever you prefer.”

  Bren scowled at him.

  “…at a substantial discount, of course.”

  FIFTEEN

  Archer took a cab from the space port, grateful to escape de Souza’s presence for a while. The delicate balancing act he was attempting was proving to be more tiresome than he’d anticipated. The aim was to appear just competent enough to remain useful but stupid enough for the Jossyren executive to underestimate him. So far so good.

  The cab carried him beyond the glitz and crowds and into the blandness of the city’s Eastside. As they ventured deeper into a district of tired tenements and seedy cafés, Archer had the driver pull over and drop him off, despite being well short of his destination. In part this was because he was in no great hurry but mostly it was a precaution, to make certain that no one was following him. For a moment he simply stood and observed the passing traffic, watching for any vehicles that threatened to slow down. He didn’t think de Souza was bothered enough to have him tailed or that Pelquin and his crew were alert enough, but it never harmed to be careful.

  After a few seconds he walked on. A man loitering in the doorway opposite took casual interest and stared after him, but this was just a curious local and of no consequence.

  There were a few other people about but not enough to muster a crowd – this was not the sort of district that tourists were likely to venture into let alone linger. Those folk he did pass were too wrapped up in their own concerns to pay him any mind. After several minutes’ stroll he turned left, and then left again, walking without any apparent haste. He paused to scrutinise a shop window, though he couldn’t have said afterwards what was displayed there; his attention focused more on the reflection of the street behind him. Then he strolled across the road and continued, eventually turning into a narrow alleyway of dirty brickwork and rusted fire escapes. Music reached him from somewhere – the tune muffled and leached of tone and passion by the intervening walls, so that what he heard sounded like a dirge.

  He stopped before a door, its peeling paintwork indistinguishable from any of the others. The choice of unfashionable address was deliberate: all part of a front. No bell or knocker, so he simply rapped on the wood with his fist.

  He couldn’t see a camera but knew that someone would be watching, so he lifted his head to ensure his face was clearly visible. The door swung open immediately and apparently of its own accord. Beyond lay a dark and empty corridor which led to a narrow stairway. So far, everything was in keeping with the squalid, run-down surroundings, an impression dispelled as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. He entered a bright and open living space of polished floorboards and remarkably little clutter.

  Further observation was curtailed as a great bald-headed bear of a man engulfed him in a full-on hug, blocking out the room. “Archer! It’s been too long, brother.”

  “Far too long, Max,” the banker agreed, going with the flow and suffering the hug – there was little point in trying to extricate himself until those massive arms relaxed.

  Once they had, he stepped back and was able to take in the rest of his surroundings. The three other occupants – two men and a woman – were all seated and were all new to him. They were also busy and only one even deigned to look up and acknowledge his presence. Data fields flickered into life before them, to hang suspended in the air for a few seconds – figures and code scrolling across them – before winking out to be replaced by the next. The operators’ fingers wove an intricate dance on virtual controls invisible to the observer and the trio kept up steady conversation in muted tones.

  “Three of the best dealers in the whole of Victoria,” Max said proudly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Archer nodded. He knew this was how the operation was funded but had never seen the dealers in action before. Long gone were the days of executives and politicians rendezvousing with shady characters on street corners to get their fix. No need for them to sully their sharp suits and designer heels by venturing into the rougher end of town these days – life was far more civilised, and chemical narcotics were as passé as dinosaurs. Every aspect of a deal now took place online, with e-hits sold in batches: data-squirts that, when triggered, delivered stimulation directly to specifically targeted areas of the brain. Swift, clean, no-nonsense transactions. And business was clearly booming.

  Max ushered Archer to the far end of the room, where the murmuring voices of the dealers faded to barely audible. “We’ve been busy since you were last here,” he said.

  “So I gather.”

  Max waved a hand to activate dormant systems and a translucent wall flickered to life before them. Thirteen figure
s, first among them the unmistakeable form of Captain Cornische, commander of the Ion Raider and leader of the Dark Angels. As ever, the captain’s face was obscured by a privacy screen, which created a patch of ever-shifting static above the collar of his familiar blue-black uniform. This was typical of how Cornische presented himself to the world, which explained how his identity had remained hidden for so long. There were no known photographs of the man’s face and no credible witnesses. What little they did know, gleaned from detailed analysis of thousands of images, was displayed beside the figure. Height: 1.94 metres; weight: 85 – 100 kilos; hair: dark brown; and that was about it. Archer was unfailingly dismayed by just how little information existed about the man – evidence, should any be needed, of Cornische’s excessive paranoia or commendable caution, depending on your perspective. There was some conjecture, based on analysis of his posture at various times, that the captain had worn inserts in his shoes to disguise his true height, but that was uncorroborated.

  Less open to debate was the variance in height of Hel N, one of the most prominent Angels. She relied on a very different method of anonymity, her skin coated from head to toe in what appeared to be a layer of silvered liquid metal, like mercury. Analysis of her height produced two distinct results, varying by about 7cm. Either two different women had been hidden beneath the Hel N identity, or she too had deliberately disguised her height for a period. As with so much else about the Angels, this was open to debate, since it was based on informed conjecture extrapolated from frustratingly little data.

  Hel N’s second skin was undoubtedly the product of elder tech, and therein lay the reason for Archer and his colleagues’ interest in the Dark Angels. They called their organisation the Saflik – ‘Purity’ – and were bound by the conviction that plundering elder tech for personal gain constituted violation at a sacrilegious level. No one had abused elder tech more brazenly than Cornische and his Dark Angels. The Angels had always fiercely guarded their true identities, which presented a challenge the Saflik were determined to rise to. Their agents were dedicated to tracking down the Angels and meting out retribution.