Taking a breath, Jennings almost fell off his bar stool and began to stumble his way forward through the crowd of dancers drunkenly. He was passing by Clemmons on the left, moving around the brunette of the two women he was dancing with, when he purposefully lost his balance and fell directly into Clemmons, sending him sprawling.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, man,” Jennings said as he pulled himself to his feet gingerly.
Jennings had pushed Clemmons directly into Fix, who if everything went to plan, hit him with the injector while they were trying to untangle themselves from each other. Clemmons pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his wrist subconsciously. Fix flashed a slight grin as he too got up and vanished back into the dancing throngs.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you son of a bitch,” Clemmons shouted as he cocked his fist back and let his punch fly.
Jennings vaguely felt the punch connect with his chin, the pain reduced by a tough jaw (and Fix’s medicine). Nonetheless, he threw himself backward and cried out in imagined pain.
“Damn man, I’m sorry,” he managed as he pulled himself back up.
Feeling Clemmons staring daggers at him, he made his way back to the bar and signaled the bartender for another shot of vodka. Fix had vanished into the periphery, but Jennings knew exactly where he was headed- the nearest bathroom on this floor. He threw back his vodka, barely tasting the burning alcohol in his mouth as the drug continued to shut down his senses. Spinning on the bar stool, he stared out into the grind, keeping an eye on Clemmons in his periphery. If Fix was right, it should be any moment now.
The young man had one girl grinding in front of him and another on his rear when it struck. Without any hint of anything being wrong, Clemmons vomited violently into the hair of the girl dancing in front of him. His body spasmed and he wrenched his head back, head-butting the girl dancing behind him. Blood blossomed out from her nose as another gut wrenching heave overtook Clemmons and he spewed onto the floor. Furiously clutching at her broken nose with her left hand, Clemmons’s companion took her right fist and brought it up between his legs. Clemmons let loose a cry of pain as more vomit forced its way out, and he collapsed to the floor. The two girls ran away from him, one screaming, and Clemmons took advantage of a twenty second break between heaves to half-sprint and half-limp toward the bathrooms. Laughing quietly to himself, Jennings took a circuitous route through the party, which started back up as if nothing had happened.
The communal bathroom was at the end of a long, poorly lit hallway with a couple of dozen dorm room doors leading off of it. A putrid smell emanated from the door marked BOYS. Perhaps more fitting was the crudely carved phrase Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here dug out of the wood just below the sign. Fix was waiting just outside the door, leaning inconspicuously against the cinderblock wall of the hallway.
“You ready?” he asked.
Jennings nodded in reply, and Fix swung the door inward. “Should be empty save one,” Fix whispered against the sound of more retching.
“You all right in there?” Jennings called as they both stepped into the bathroom.
“Do I fucking sound all right?” Clemmons managed to get out in between gasps.
“Not really,” Jennings answered. “My partner here has something that might help.”
“What are you? Fuckin’ drug dealers?” came the response.
“Ethnopharmacology majors,” Fix replied.
“We’ve got synthetic virulax, one of the best anti-nausea medicines you can get. It comes in pretty handy at these parties,” Jennings said as he stepped out of sight around the stalls.
The stall door flew open and a very sweaty and deathly looking Jacq Clemmons emerged staring vaguely at Fix. “I’ll try anything,” he muttered, accepting the pill and throwing it into his mouth.
“Feel better?” Jennings asked as he came around the corner after a moment to let the pill do its magic.
“Yeah, that’s fast… Wait. You’re…” his voice trailed off as his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed to the ground.
Chapter 8
1
Selena Beauregard was washing the vomit out of the back of her hair and trying to get it out of her dress, cursing silently as she did so. Her long blond hair was matted with her target’s regurgitation and attempting to wash it out in the sink was proving pointless. Her ten thousand dollar black and red party dress was ruined as well. Her plasma pistol was still tucked into her garter on her left leg, and she still had the straight razor concealed in her strapless bra, but they would both be useless now.
Until the vomit incident, she was just one of the dozens of tipsy college students grinding on some random guy. Not anymore- people tended to remember the girl that got puked on. Glaring daggers at her reflection in the mirror, she silently chastised herself for not being professional. She had not anticipated a move from another hunter, as she had assumed that only she had the contacts to figure out that Clemmons was most likely the man who had gotten Michelle Williams off-planet. The two men who had arranged the bump'n’drug were not her caliber either, which made it all the more infuriating. It had been decently well executed she supposed, but it was way too public- especially when a woman with Selena’s skills could have Clemmons tied down to a bed with truth serum injected into his arm before he even realized that he wasn’t getting laid. This was supposed to have been so easy too.
2
One Day Earlier…
God, Selena hated coming to Midway. She found it dreary and depressing as she looked out at the junkyard of ruined buildings that were just shells crumbling away before her eyes. The war-torn landscape had barely changed since the area had been the only part of the Terran homeworld that had been obliterated by the Gael invasion fleet when they began their planetary bombardment. They deemed it a punishment for daring to resist in the first place; then later on, covered it up. To this day, all news agencies referred to the accident that happened in the heartland of the North American continent. Volunteers who knew the truth still scoured the devastated buildings and homes, looking for bodies and bones to bury.
The Resistance loved this area because everyone except for the grave diggers avoided it. On top of that, the residual signature of the Gael energy weapons played havoc with anyone trying to get a sensor reading on the place, and in Old Chicago, there were miles upon miles of tunnels that went back hundreds of years. Only the Resistance knew the ways in and out, and they had more emergency egresses and contingency plans than the Gael could imagine. Factoring in sub-levels and old underground rails that connected several cities, the Resistance was hiding in a place roughly the size of France. It would take legions of Gael troops a year to search the place, and they still might not find a single cell. Suffice to say, the Resistance valued their privacy.
It had not been particularly difficult for Selena to sign up with one of the charity groups that wandered out to the wastelands, and was even easier for her to lose her companions. People generally understood why someone would want to be alone in the face of so much death. The buriers were going to be wandering from dawn to dusk, so she had plenty of time to make her way to an old subway station entrance and head down the cracked and crumbling stairs into the darkness without anyone missing her.
Within fifty feet, the darkness completely overcame her, but Selena kept walking forward. The stairs flattened out into a platform and her footsteps became more tentative now, then stopped. She could tell she was no longer alone.
“That’s far enough,” a nearly imperceptible voice whispered from behind her.
The gentle caress of a standard issue T-Fed plasma rifle kissed the back of her neck, and sent a deliciously pleasurable shudder down her spine. “No need for that,” she replied smoothly. “I was requested.”
“Turn around,” the voice commanded.
Selena did so and immediately felt a burning sensations in her eyes as a red light flashed into them from somewhere in front of her.
“Apologies, Ms. Beaur
egard,” the voice whispered. “Your identity is confirmed. We were expecting you. Kindly follow me.”
“How do I…?” she started before feeling a pair of what felt like glasses pressed into her hands.
Putting them on, nothing changed, so she searched along the frame and found a small button. She pushed it, and the world became visible in a brilliant emerald hue. She was standing on an old underground transit platform only a few feet from a drop onto the tracks. A destroyed locomotive was rammed halfway up onto the platform only ten feet from where she stood. It was a mesh of twisted and contorted metal. Her escort was waiting for her to acknowledge that she could see him, or at least his silhouette. He was dressed completely in black, armored from head to foot and wearing a black battle helmet with a mask pulled down in front of his face. He beckoned for her to follow him as he leapt from the platform to the track below and took off at a stiff-paced march past the crashed train and into the tunnel.
For the better part of two hours, she followed him as he led her in silence through subway lines, utility tunnels, part of the sewer system and through God knew what else as they trudged through the bowels of the wasteland. Every fifteen minutes or so, they encountered a new checkpoint where they were confronted with more men with plasma rifles before her escort provided a password and identification. She wondered if he were leading her in a winding pattern on purpose so that she would not be able to remember how to get there, or if the Resistance really were this spread out in their underground metropolis. She thought the former more likely and more annoying. She had no desire to come back to this place.
At last, they arrived at a large tunnel with a pressure door on one end that looked like something from an old fashioned bank vault. There were two soldiers standing guard outside of the door and another dozen or so milling about, smoking cigarettes in the dim light afforded by a few electric lanterns.
“New recruit?” one of them called out as they approached.
“Just a visitor,” her escort replied as he pulled off his helmet, allowing the others to confirm it was really him.
Beauregard was surprised by his appearance as he could not have been more than sixteen years old. He must have noticed because an arrogant smirk crossed his face, and he tossed his helmet toward one of the tables that had been set up in the hallway.
“Major’s on the other side of the door,” her escort said. “Let her on through,” he added as an afterthought to the two guards before collapsing into an office chair and leaning his weapon against the wall.
One of the two guards swung a large handle around in a circle until the door unlocked and he swung it open. “Up the stairs and to the left,” he said as she stepped through and heard him begin to close the door behind her.
She was in a strange room with row upon row of locked compartments, each with their own number. It looked like a morgue almost but the compartments were too small. Some kind of private storage, she thought to herself. The whole thing was lit eerily by orange lantern light and she moved quickly through the room, heading up a flight of marble stairs and turning to the left like she was directed.
This room was larger by quite a bit and was quite ornate, or had been at one time. Chandeliers on the ceiling had been wired with cheap electronic torches. There was a beautiful marble parquet on the floor and the furniture that had been pushed up against the wall looked to be antiques of some type. The furniture had been replaced with row upon row of bunked beds stacked three high. Many were occupied. She turned her head around to the sound of some muted noise coming from behind her. There were a couple of soldiers in tank tops playing billiards and a few were sitting on couches watching vid-screens.
Turning her back on the recreation room, she continued her way forward, passing the beds. A few people stirred as she passed, but no one said anything to her. At the end of the long line of bunks there was a crude curtain partition that had been strung up to give the sleepers some privacy from what lay on the other side. Selena stepped through and into the command center for this cell, immediately spying her contact: Major Geoff Paulsen.
Paulsen was no major in reality, having been a corporal in the real army during the war, but he had joined the Resistance early after the Terran surrender and had shot himself up through the ranks because of his willingness to do anything to inflict damage on the enemy. He was short and wiry with buzzed down brown hair with the beginnings of a bald spot setting in. He rarely smiled, which most considered good, as he without a doubt suffered from a horrific case of English teeth. She had worked with him twice before, both times when members of the Resistance had failed to get something done. Selena had succeeded each time. She supposed Paulsen trusted her as much as a man of principle could trust a hired gun.
There was a semicircle of control stations with portable computers arranged around a series of large vid-screens mounted onto the wall. The screens displayed everything from patrol routes, sensor readings, a news ticker, and a giant map of their sector of the underground labyrinth. Paulsen was standing behind one of technicians whispering something to her, when he sensed Selena approaching.
“Madame Beauregard,” he observed in his rough North London accent.
“Major,” she nodded her head slightly. “You sure know how to pick a meeting spot.”
“Humph,” he snorted. “Follow me,” he added, beckoning with his hand.
“What was this place?” Selena asked as she fell into step behind him.
“Bank for rich pensioners,” he replied. “Treasury vaults below for valuables, large reception area up here so they could check on their wealth without being disturbed by the middle and lower classes.”
She did not reply as he led her into a small office and waved her into a chair in front of his desk. A small halogen light flickered above them, casting a sterile glow. It was better than the darkness of the world outside the door with its dim orange halos barely permeating the blackness.
“You want a drink?” he asked, as he poured himself a whiskey.
“It’s still morning,” she replied.
“Not down here,” he answered and swallowed back a mouthful of the dark brown liquid.
“No, thanks,” she replied.
“Always business,” he said with a satisfied smile, showing his teeth. Selena tried not to think about them as he said, “You’re probably wondering why I sent for you.”
“No, you have a job for me,” she replied. “Now, why I had to come to this God forsaken place… that is a good question.”
“That came on from down high,” he answered. “The only reason the brass are letting me touch this is because they wanted you and we’ve had cordial business relationships in the past.”
“I’m always happy to provide a service,” she said, trying to hide her sarcasm as much as she could. “What’s so important that it necessitated me coming down here?” she demanded.
“They wouldn’t trust putting this on normal communications even as good as our encryptions are,” Paulsen sighed. “Especially considering how delicate and severely fucked the situation is, brass wants this run by the numbers. No more mistakes.”
Shaking her head, Selena said, “Look, just start at the beginning and tell me what the fuck you want from me.” She paused, smiled and then added, “And how much you’ll pay me to do it.”
“Ten times our last transaction,” he replied quickly. “That’s the easy part,” he added as Selena’s eyes popped open and she began spending money in her head very quickly.
“Here’s the target.” He tossed her a tablet and she scanned it quickly.
“If it’s a simple kill order, why the theatrics of bringing me here?” she demanded.
He eyed her appraisingly for a moment. “It’s because of Aurora,” Paulsen said at last.
“What’s Aurora?” she asked.
“It’s a list,” he answered curtly. “A list with one hundred and eleven names on it. The Gael have arrested one hundred and ten. She is the last.”
Selena loo
ked surprised. “Are they your people?” she demanded.
He shook his head and poured himself another drink.
“Then why are they arresting them?” she asked.
“The Gael, of course, claim that they are Resistance members and make up crimes for which they are arrested,” Paulsen said. “In truth, we have no idea why the Gael want them. They’re not ours. They’re not spies. They come from all walks of life, political affiliations, some military service, some not. That one there is the daughter of two of the largest collaborators on the planet.”
“If they’re not compromised agents or Gael spies, why do you want them dead?” she asked.
“Because the Gael want them alive,” he responded quickly.
That seemed pretty brutal to Selena but she did not say anything. Brutality was just part of the game in her line of work.
“Look, we sent in one of our own to take care of this,” Paulsen said. “He got sloppy and killed the wrong person. A second chance came his way and he got himself blown apart by a bloody copper. There’s heat on all sides of this thing now. The Gael have posted a huge reward, so every lowlife douchebag in nine systems is going to be looking for her. I need you to find her and make her go away. Permanently.”
“All right,” she replied after a long moment. “You know where to put the money once you receive confirmation.”
He nodded and stood up, gesturing toward the door. “Oh,” he added as he opened it for her, “She’s most likely not on-planet any longer. Included in the data is her most likely contact for getting off world. Intel has been working all week on that.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Head back to the portal,” he ordered. “I’ll signal ahead that you’re coming and that you’ll need an escort back to the surface.”
She nodded, thanked him and headed back toward where she had come from. One last question sprang to mind and she turned to face Paulsen. “You have no idea what this Operation Aurora is all about then?” she asked.
111 Souls (Infinite Universe) Page 8
