“They’re called the Chendoah,” Stan said. “Nobody knows where they come from exactly, just that they possess a heightened sense of intuition, which gives them keen insights into the mindset of those they interact with.”
“They’re psychic,” Taylor deduced.
“Not that heightened,” Stan said. “The Chendoah can’t read thoughts, per se. It’s more like an augmented awareness of another’s emotions, predispositions, and internal tendencies. This makes them extremely effective negotiators.” He grinned. “It also makes them highly adept at certain other occupations that center on the wants and desires of their clients.”
Taylor made a slow turn toward his officer. “Psychic hookers? That’s your plan? You’re gonna lure the Dutya out into the open with…psychic hookers?”
“Why not?” Stan rocked back and forth. “Aliens or not, they wouldn’t be the first wayward sailors to crave a little tender loving care after a long trip at sea, right? Besides, we’re thin enough on manpower as it is. Why risk what numbers we have in a firefight when we can just as easily sit back and wait on these slime-bags to get good and liquored up, then snatch them on their way to their ship before sunup?”
Taylor blinked. “How did you—”
Stan brandished the slate he’d been reading when his CO walked in. The screen featured an ad depicting a nude Sirra’Kan in a seriously suggestive pose alongside the words “call for a good time,” which the device had translated into Earth Common.
“Every starport in creation has a companionship market, Chief,” Stan said, “even a shit heap like Siler City. Ya just gotta know where to look. And have the credits to spend, of course.”
Taylor stifled a laugh and keyed his pinplants. Meanwhile, three giddy Dutya including Scarface piled into the transport carrier with their escorts. “Osyrys. Mark target and engage tracker.”
A green dot flashed in Taylor’s vision. This signified that the Ryley Osyrys nav system had painted the transport carrier for surveillance and created an uplink to Taylor’s pinplants for remote monitoring.
“Round up Jack, Genovese, and Frank, then meet me in Cargo Bay Bravo to roll out in five minutes,” Taylor said. “Assumin’ the Lumar don’t get involved, that should give us the numbers advantage at five to three when we jump these guys.”
“Ayew.” Stan tipped his hat then turned for the exit. “See you in five.”
* * * * *
Chapter 9: Pretty Woman
Once assembled in the Osyrys’ cargo bay, Taylor and the others boarded the utility hauler the crew kept in service there, then used it to tail the Chendoah transport carrier to the far side of the dockyards. Turned out Stan had been right. Even in a dive like Siler City, there was still room for commerce, as evidenced by the loose string of transport lights headed to and from the dusty checkerboard of storefronts located due south of the starport. In many respects, the area reminded Taylor of Cocktail Junction back home, only grimier and several centuries older.
“Look alive, gents,” Frank said from the driver seat, his breath showing in the chilly night air. “It would appear the party train is entering the station.”
A neon sign missing half its lights cast a pink glow onto a dilapidated shopfront ahead. To all indications, the place looked mostly abandoned, as two of its three tenant spaces were empty. One of those, Taylor noted, had apparently been a cantina of some sort, judging by the smattering of table and chair pieces piled out front. The building’s center space, however, was anything but unoccupied.
“Huh,” Jack said, eyeing the various species beyond the plush drapes inside. “I reckon they don’t call prostitution the galaxy’s oldest profession for nothin’.”
“You have no idea,” Genovese noted from the back.
Taylor studied the establishment’s name on the sign out front—The Essence. Trendy name for a whorehouse.
“They’re pullin’ in,” Frank said.
The Chendoah transport veered off the highway into the gravel lot behind the storefront and rolled to a stop.
“What now, boss?” the Buma asked.
Taylor pointed to a group of darkened structures down the block. “There. We oughta have a clear line of sight to the brothel from that first warehouse on the corner.”
“Copy that.” Frank watched his speed until the Chendoah had entered the building with Scarface and the other Dutya, then guided the hauler past The Essence until it came to rest inside the warehouse’s damp, two-story interior.
“Stan, you’re with me,” Taylor said, bailing out in a camo jacket and his Generals cap. “Jack, there’s an old maintenance bay across the street that should give you a clear bead on the brothel’s rear. Take your gear and post up there in case these guys try to jackrabbit through the back door.”
“Ayew,” Jack said.
“How about us?” Frank asked.
Taylor spotted a catwalk with stairs and a skyward hatch on the warehouse’s north wall. “Frank, I want you and Genovese to head topside and keep a bird’s eye view of the surroundin’ areas from the roof. Something tells me the Chendoah don’t provide roundtrip transit service for their clients. If that’s true, the Dutya are gonna need to thumb a ride back to their ship. I want a heads up before it arrives.”
“Ayew,” the Buma said.
“What about the Lumar?” Genovese asked. “This could get real dicey, real quick if those big bastards opt to intervene.”
Stan checked his rifle, then propped the weapon on the shoulder of his trench coat. “The Lumar work security for the Chendoah, not the Dutya. Once the slugs leave the brothel, the Lumar will have no stake in what happens to them. Ergo, I expect they’ll stay out of it.”
“Agreed,” Jack said.
“Everyone clear on their assignments?” Taylor asked.
“Ayew,” the group answered.
“Cool. Comm checks at setup, then every 10 minutes afterward. Let’s move out.” Taylor scooped up his rifle and ruck from the hauler’s front seat and tossed the latter over his shoulders. From there, he hustled across the grease-stained concrete floor with Stan and took position just inside the north entrance facing the brothel. “Tomahawk and Rebel are in position. Sooner, take us around the horn.”
Everyone took turns reporting in, concluding with Frank from the roof.
“Ayew,” Taylor said. “Next check in 10. Triple squelch if you can’t talk. Tomahawk, out.”
* * *
Hour one from the warehouse ticked by with almost no activity, save for the foot traffic coming in and out of The Essence. That began when a Besquith flashed a stack of credits at the door, then gave a quick side-to-side study of the street before heading inside. After that came a XenSha, then a Sidar, then a trio of Cochkala. Eventually, the hour ended when a pair of visibly nervous Altar exited the brothel—eyes, heads, and antennae down—then abruptly went their separate ways.
That looks awkward. Taylor keyed his pinplants. “Sooner, gimme a sitrep.”
“Still clear,” Jack answered from the garage across the street.
“Birdman?” Taylor shifted.
“Nada, boss,” Frank said from the roof. “We got no action inside the target or in the immediate vicinity. It’s all status quo.”
Taylor donned a set of goggles from his ruck and peered across the street. As expected, the brothel lights inside were still dim, the music was still blaring, and an amalgam of the strangest silhouettes he’d ever seen went on writhing behind the drapes of the far-right upstairs window like something out of a misfit horror show.
Yep. I’ll never be able to unsee that. Taylor put aside his goggles, then rubbed his hands for warmth. “There’s something I been meanin’ to ask since we left the bridge.”
Stan looked up from his corner.
“How’d you know the Dutya would take the bait with the Chendoah?” Taylor asked. “For all we know, the slugs self-fertilize to reproduce.”
“Trust me, that ain’t the case.” Stan grunted. “Dutya males are notorious for their
love of a good time. Hell, the fargin world could be on fire, but throw in some scantily clad tush and the reasonable expectation for some action, and they’re all in. They even bring their own lubricant.”
Taylor grimaced. “How do you know all this?”
“I don’t know anything,” Stan said. “Hang around a crew full of mercs long enough, though, and you hear things.” The old man shifted onto a knee. “A while back, the Dutya applied to become a merc race, but were denied status by the Mercenary Guild.”
“How come?” Taylor asked.
“Basically, they couldn’t be trusted to hold up their end of a contract,” Stan said. “If you faced the slugs in combat, all it took to get them to stand down was a better offer than they already had. That’s it. The Dutya had no integrity and cared about nothing but credits.” He paused. “And chasin’ skirts, of course.”
Taylor aimed a quick glance at the street. “So they’re pretty much scumbags.”
“Lowest of the low,” Stan said. “The Dutya will fight, though, hence their rise in the freighter ranks as low-rent smugglers and contraband runners. They’re not fierce enough to make good pirates. Still, they’re not afraid to spill a little blood if they believe there’s easy money involved.”
Taylor cocked his head. “And if they see us as an obstacle to their payday?”
“I expect we’ll know that soon enough.” Stan shrugged. “Again, the Dutya will fight if they think they can win. The trick is to make them doubt that assumption. A strong show of force out the gate can go a long way toward makin’ that happen.”
Static crackled on the comm.
“Heads up, gents. We got a problem,” Frank announced.
“Report.” Taylor snapped alert.
“We got another transport carrier inbound with four more Dutya,” Frank said. “All armed.”
“Sounds like our friends inside hailed their cab,” Stan grumbled. “So much for our numbers advantage.”
Taylor removed his Generals cap and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. “It’s all right. We’ve got surprise on our side, so this can still work. Birdman.”
“Sir.”
“You said you counted four armed Dutya aboard that carrier,” Taylor said. “How armed are we talkin’ here?”
The Buma paused, presumably for another check. “It looks like…all four have laser pistols, but the two slugs riding shotgun in the back have rifles to boot.”
“Sooner, any sign of our passengers?” Taylor asked.
“Negative, Tomahawk,” Jack said. “The back door’s still clear.”
Taylor chewed his lip. “We can’t afford to let the Dutya get the drop on us. I say we neutralize them first.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Genovese muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Tomahawk, but are we talkin’ about a coldblooded shoot here?” A hint of alarm registered in Jack’s voice.
“Negative. That’s not our style,” Taylor said. “I’ll jump out and warn them, but if things go bad—shoot first. Ayew?”
“Ayew,” the group answered.
The music inside The Essence descended in volume as the lights in the upstairs window came up. A moment later, Scarface emerged from the brothel, flanked by his two lieutenants.
“I have a visual on the targets,” Frank said. “ETA to pick up, 30 seconds.”
The incoming carrier’s running lights expanded in the night as the hard-topped craft roller-balled into view.
“On my signal.” Taylor got to his feet, rifle ready. “In three… two… one.”
Taylor darted into the open as the carrier halted in the Essence parking lot. “Hold!”
Pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop.
So much for that!
A wash of laser fire smashing the pavement at Taylor’s boots sent him scrambling for cover behind a treaded flatbed some 30 paces away. Immediately, the other Eagles returned fire.
Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Stan shouted past the chaos via comms. “I swear I’ve hit that starboard gunner three times, but my lasers are bouncin’ off his skin like pellets off a tin roof!”
“Same here,” Frank announced. “Even from on high, we got no shot!”
Taylor snarled a curse. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here, Reb, and guess they didn’t cover this part about the Dutya anatomy in your merc pit rumor mill.”
“Nope!” Stan shouted back. “But I’ll know for next time, now won’t I?”
A torrent of laser fire sizzled the air over Taylor’s head as he peered out from behind the flatbed. The Dutya on the transport carrier were laying down cover fire, while Scarface and the others boarded the vehicle. “They’re about to get away!”
“Not on my watch, they’re not!” Michael Genovese rose to a shooter’s stance atop the warehouse across the street and deliver a perfect strike to the carrier’s portside capacitor housing. A plume of fire and debris billowed from the section, silencing the engines.
“Hell, yeah!” Jack whooped. “Nice shootin’, Yankee!”
The old man’s jubilant reply was cut short when the two Dutya with rifles burst into view and unleashed a wave of laser fire on his position, while their peers wriggled to safety behind a steel trash collector near the back of the lot.
Slugs or not, these little jerks are fargin quick. Taylor fired off two shots with his rifle, striking one Dutya center mass. As before, both shots deflected wide. “Okay, boys. We’ve got ‘em pinned, but as sure as the day is long, Scarface over there is callin’ for backup. We’ve got to find some offense before the slug cavalry arrives.”
“I might have an idea,” Jack said. “Everybody, cover me!”
A barrage of Eagle lasers blistered the trash collector as the silver-haired cowboy raced out of the garage into the street. He cut left, then right, then left again versus the enemy’s fire before crashing hands-first through the side entrance of the old cantina.
“What in the hell’s that crazy old fool doin’?” Genovese barked.
“I expect we’ll know momentarily,” Taylor answered. “Just be ready to cover his egress when he comes out!”
As if on cue, Jack sprang from the cantina and darted past streaks of weapon fire to join his CO behind the flatbed treads.
“What was that all about?” Taylor asked over the uproar.
Jack panted to catch his breath, then reached into his denim jacket and pulled out a pair of small glass globes filled with white powder. “I’ve got a theory about—”
Pop, pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop, pop.
“You were sayin’?” Taylor asked when the barrage ended.
“Heads up!” Frank announced. “We got a runner!”
A lone Dutya wriggled into the open and headed for something in the mangled carrier as the Eagles opened fire. Again, the shots had no impact.
“Ah, to hell with this.” Jack leapt to his feet and tossed one of his globes in a high arc toward the alien’s feet, where it struck with a crash. The Dutya screamed in anguish, then shrank into itself like some sort of natural defense.
“What the hell’s in that?” Taylor pointed to the other globe in the cowboy’s hand.
“Salt,” Jack said. “I figure the Dutya look like slugs, right? Maybe they got the same allergies.”
Taylor couldn’t help but laugh at the simplicity of the idea. “Nicely done, Commander Bowyer.”
“Thank ya, Chief.” Jack grinned and extended his hand. “Would you care to take a pass?”
“Why yes, I believe I would.”
The duo took turns lobbing saltshakers at their adversaries, who answered not with laser fire, but howls of agony into the night. They threw again and again and again until eventually Taylor halted the exchange with a raised palm. “This is Chief Taylor Van Zant, commanding officer of the Earth mercenary group Swamp Eagle Security. We just wanna talk. If you come out now and drop your weapons, you have my word you will not be fired upon.”
A chor
us of angry hisses preceded fresh laser fire against the opposite side of the flatbed’s treads.
“Hit ‘em again,” Taylor said.
Jack hurled another globe skyward, and the onslaught ended.
“We can do this all night,” Taylor called. “What’s it gonna be?”
Scarface gave a quick peek into the open, then retreated back behind the steel bin. “Save your threats, human! Our reinforcements are on their way. You can still save yourselves if you run now.”
“Seems to me that’s a long time to wait,” Taylor said. “It took us, what? Fifteen? Twenty minutes to get here from the starport? In the meantime, me and my partner have a sackful of these grenades ready to go, and clearly we ain’t afraid to use them.”
Jack tapped his CO’s shoulder then extended a palm. He had two shakers left.
Okay, so not a sackful. Taylor rolled his eyes.
“The trick is to make them doubt their assumptions,” Stan had said earlier. “A strong show of force can go a long way toward makin’ that happen.”
Taylor heaved a sigh. Sometimes you’ve gotta know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. “Hit ‘em again.”
Jack lofted another shaker.
Crash!
More screams.
“Again.”
Jack did a double take.
“Just do it,” Taylor said.
The cowboy nodded reluctantly, then reared back with his final projectile and let fly. The result was a crescendo of anguish that could’ve peeled paint of a barn door.
“Please!” Scarface begged. “Please, no more salt!”
“Does that mean you’re comin’ out?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, yes!” the alien captain whined. “Please, hold your fire!”
Stan trotted out from the warehouse to join Taylor and Jack in training their rifles on the dumpster. Meanwhile, all seven Dutya wriggled out into the open and threw down their weapons.
The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Page 8
