A Fighting Chance

by William C. Dietz

  Except now, due to Vanderveen’s need to reach Sensa II quickly, the boyish officer was about to accompany her down to the surface of a very dangerous planet, a task that was very different from neutralizing mines. Was he up to it? There wasn’t any choice. He had to be.

  The officer eyed her skeptically as First Class Petty Officer Mubu entered the Io’s tiny mess and dumped an armload of weapons onto the metal table. “No offense, ma’am, but are you familiar with small arms?” Sullivan wanted to know.

  “Never seen one before,” Vanderveen deadpanned as she chose a semiauto handgun and released the magazine. Then, with the expertise born of considerable practice, she began to slip cartridges into the clip. “This will do as a primary—assuming you have more magazines for it. But I’d like something smaller for a backup. Plus a decent flick-blade.”

  Sullivan smiled wryly. “Who knew that diplomats were so familiar with weapons?”

  Vanderveen smiled. “It helps to speak softly and carry a big gun. Speaking of which, what have we got for heavy artillery? From what I hear, the people on Sensa II are well armed.”

  “That’s where this bad boy comes in,” Mubu said, as he cradled a pulse cannon in his arms. He had dark skin, broad cheekbones, and extremely white teeth. “I could stop a tank with this puppy.”

  Vanderveen nodded. “I hope you won’t have to. Let’s get ready, gentlemen. The sooner we get dirtside, the better.”

  It took all of three hours to complete their preparations, get the necessary landing clearances, and enter the planet’s frequently turbulent atmosphere. Rather than bring the navy minesweeper down and get the locals all stirred up, Sullivan had elected to use one of the ship’s two shuttles. He had the cockpit to himself, and the others were seated behind him in the multipurpose cargo compartment.

  Heferi was on the dark side of the planet at the moment. And since it was the only city on Sensa II, Vanderveen found herself staring out a viewport into stygian blackness as the tiny vessel leveled out over what she assumed was desert. And that was how things remained until Sullivan’s voice came over the intercom ten minutes later. “I have visual contact with Heferi—and we’ve been cleared to land. Check your harnesses, say your prayers, and don’t soil my seats. You’ll clean ’em if you do.”

  With that cheerful admonition, the shuttle began to slow, dropped down into the valley that lay between two mountainous dunes, and circled the cluster of lights below. As Vanderveen looked out through the viewport, she saw three red tracers blink into existence and curve toward the ship. Target practice perhaps? Or someone hoping to bring the shuttle down so they could loot the wreckage?

  She could only guess as the cannon shells sailed past and vanished from sight. The shuttle seemed to pause in midair as Sullivan fired the repellers, and the ship settled onto a brightly lit “X.” Then, acting on instructions from air traffic control, Sullivan took off again and scooted the boat into a slot between a Thraki freighter and a disreputable-looking yacht. “Welcome to Heferi,” Sullivan said, as the skids touched down for the second time. “I hope we find the Queen quickly. The locals charge two hundred credits an hour to park here.”

  Vanderveen wasn’t too worried about money, having signed for fifty thousand back on Trevia, but she was in agreement nevertheless. The Ramanthian assassins could have been on the ground for a full rotation already. She felt a rising sense of impatience as she came up out of her seat. “Let’s gear up and hit the dirt. We have work to do.”

  After leaving a large cash deposit with the spaceport’s heavily guarded cashier, the threesome was free to leave the facility and enter the dimly lit streets beyond. They were dressed in civilian clothing to blend in with the local population.

  A dozen would-be bodyguards were waiting to greet them as they emerged, along with a bevy of drug dealers, prostitutes, and guides. They rushed to surround the newcomers but fell back when the heavily armed Mubu stepped forward.

  Vanderveen eyed the people arrayed in front of her, spotted a one-legged man on crutches, and pointed at him. “You. Yes, you. We need a guide. I’ll pay fifty credits for the next five hours of your time.”

  The man grinned broadly. His cheeks were unshaven, half his nose was missing, and his teeth were brown. “You chose well,” he cackled. “I know Heferi like the back of my hand.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Sullivan wanted to know. “Why him?”

  “Because he can’t outrun us,” Vanderveen replied.

  Sullivan gave her an admiring glance as the newly hired guide hopped toward them. His clothes were ragged, and a sour smell surrounded him. Vanderveen wrinkled her nose. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s William. But everybody calls me Billy.”

  “Well, Billy . . . We’re looking for some bugs. Some of them arrived in the last day or so. Ring any bells?”

  Billy shook his head. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am. But that don’t mean they ain’t here. I work nights. It’s cooler then. Maybe they landed during the day.”

  Vanderveen nodded. “How ’bout bugs who have been here for a while? They would be secretive and well protected.”

  “Nope,” Billy said. “I’m not aware of anything like that. But I know where we can find out.”

  “Good. What have you got in mind?”

  “It’s a bar called Homer’s. All kinds of people hang out there. If your bugs are in Heferi, someone knows.”

  “Okay,” Vanderveen agreed. “Take us there.”

  It was only a three-block walk—but a scary one nevertheless. There were no streetlights. Just the occasional internally lit sign, the momentary spill of light from an open door, or the glow of luminescent graffiti. Billy’s crutches made a rhythmic thumping sound as he led the visitors around a corner, past a group of dimly seen men, and toward the sign beyond. The H had gone dark so it read as OMER’S.

  A scattering of locals were standing around outside. Some of them traded greetings with Billy. The rest eyed the trio in the speculative manner that predators reserve for their prey.

  Two heavily armed Hudathan bouncers were on duty at the front door. One of them raised a large paw. “Hold it right there, Billy. Homer wants his twenty credits. You got it?”

  Billy turned to look at Vanderveen, who removed a small roll of money from a pocket and subtracted a twenty. She gave it to Billy, who passed it along. “There,” he said triumphantly. “Billy always pays his debts.”

  “Yeah,” the bouncer replied. “And it’s going to rain beer in the morning. Don’t skip out on your bar tab again. Not unless you want to lose the other leg, too.”

  Billy made a face, waved his clients forward, and entered the bar. Vanderveen felt warm, fetid air wash around her as she and her companions were enveloped by a miasma of stale beer, mixed body odors, and the fumes from greasy food. There were twenty or thirty tables, and about half of them were in use. A brightly lit bar could be seen against the far wall—and a tired-looking stripper was orbiting a pole off to the right. The music had a prominent backbeat and was too loud for comfort.

  Vanderveen scanned the crowd for Ramanthians, didn’t see any, and felt an insect land on her cheek. She slapped and it buzzed way. “Sand flies,” Billy said disgustedly, as if that explained everything. “Where would you like to sit?”

  “In a corner,” Sullivan answered, and Vanderveen nodded. It would be good to put their backs against a wall if that was possible.

  Having located an empty table and ordered a round of drinks, the threesome settled in to watch the crowd as Billy went out to speak with the people he knew. None of whom was likely to share information with strangers. And, because there was a constant flow of individuals in and out of the bar, that kept him busy for quite a while. But eventually he was forced to return to the table with nothing meaningful to report. A few Ramanthians had been seen here and there over the last month, but nobody was sure where they were or why they were in Heferi. And nobody cared.

  So being tired, and with no leads to follow up on,
Vanderveen had Billy take them to a nearby boxtel, where she paid him. In keeping with its name, the hostelry consisted of about fifty lockable cargo modules all stacked in tiers. They were located inside what might have been a Forerunner temple, judging from the vaulted roof, an altarlike structure at one end of the room, and rows of stone benches. Each box had an air vent with a mattress and clean bedding. The last was a welcome surprise.

  Like the other two, the diplomat had little more than a toothbrush with her. So it didn’t take long to get ready for bed and crawl into her “room.” Then, after removing her body armor, it was time to curl up with a gun in her hand. That was when Vanderveen thought about her mother, father, and Santana. A sand fly was trapped inside the box, and it buzzed from time to time. Eventually, she fell asleep.

  When Vanderveen awoke, the air was warm, she needed to pee, and she could hear the pop, pop, pop of gunfire in the distance. After pulling her gear together and crawling out of the box, the diplomat discovered that Billy was waiting on the floor below. He nodded respectfully. “Morning, ma’am. I found someone who can tell you about the bugs.”

  Vanderveen jumped down onto the sand-scattered floor. “How much?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “One hundred.”

  “One-fifty.”

  “One-twenty-five. And that’s final.”

  Billy nodded happily. “Done. But my source will want something, too.”

  “Wait here.”

  Having roused her companions, Vanderveen spent fifteen minutes in a rented shower stall, toweled off, and put the same clothes back on. When she returned to the main room, the others were ready. “Okay,” Vanderveen said. “Where are we going?”

  “To a bar,” Billy announced.

  “I like this job,” Mubu said approvingly.

  The heat fell on them like a hammer as they left the boxtel and entered the streets beyond. Vanderveen could see the lead dune by looking left—and the back dune by looking right. Both had steep slopes and were hundreds of feet tall. The ground shook, and a dull thump was heard. “Tomb raiders,” Billy explained. “Fighting it out somewhere below us. That’s how I lost my leg. Follow me.”

  Sand flies buzzed all around as the foursome picked their way through the debris-littered streets. Empty shell casings lay everywhere. Billy led them around a body at one point, and a horrible stench filled Vanderveen’s nostrils. The city was, she decided, the worst hellhole she’d ever been in. And that was saying something.

  It took ten minutes to reach the ladder that led down into the bar called the Mummy’s Breath. “I’ll wait here,” Billy announced. “Just ask for Kai Cosmo. He’ll tell you what he knows.”

  Vanderveen descended the ladder first and was surprised by the flow of cool air that rose to greet her. The mummy’s Is breath perhaps? Yes, she thought so. The air had a dry, musty quality—as if emanating from ancient chambers far below.

  A human bouncer was positioned at the foot of the ladder. He nodded and pointed Vanderveen toward a rough-hewn passageway. It had been excavated by tomb raiders as part of their efforts to find Forerunner artifacts.

  Vanderveen followed a series of dangling glow strips to a set of stairs that led down into what might have been a rectangular swimming pool thousands of years before. That’s where two dozen tables had been set up. It was early in the day, so most of them were empty. A badly dented one-eyed utility droid clanked over to greet them. “Good morning,” the machine said gravely. “A table for three?”

  “We’re looking for Kai Cosmo,” Vanderveen responded.

  “Of course,” the robot replied. “Please follow me.”

  Vanderveen and her companions followed the machine to a table where a man was in the process of assembling a submachine gun (SMG) from the newly oiled parts laid out in front of him. He had a hard face, a dark tan, and was dressed in military-style body armor. There was an audible click as one assembly mated with another. “Mr. Cosmo?” the diplomat inquired. “My name is Vanderveen. Billy sent us.”

  Cosmo directed a stream of ju-ju juice at a spittoon and nodded. “Have a seat. Sorry about the parts. It’s a good idea to clean your weapons once a day around here. The goddamned sand gets into everything.”

  “You sound like a marine,” Sullivan said stiffly. “A deserter perhaps?”

  “And you sound like a tight-assed navy officer,” came the reply. “And a junior one at that.”

  Sullivan was seated by then. He looked offended. Or tried to. “A navy officer? What makes you say that?”

  “The academy ring on your left hand,” Cosmo answered dryly.

  Sullivan looked embarrassed and began to rotate the face of the ring inwards.

  Cosmo jerked a thumb toward Mubu. “And, judging from the CSN tattoo on Mr. Plasma Cannon’s forearm,” Cosmo continued, “he’s one of your men. Not the play pretty though . . . She’s a civilian.”

  Vanderveen smiled as the merc continued to put the SMG back together. “How so?”

  “You’re wearing your sidearm in a cross-draw holster, your hair is too long, and you smell nice.”

  Sullivan scowled and Vanderveen laughed. “You’re good. I’m impressed. Billy says you have some information for us.”

  “Maybe,” Cosmo allowed warily. “I led a group of mercs who were hired to guard a complex occupied by some very snooty bugs. One of them was sick and confined to a cagelike apparatus. Sound interesting?”

  “Yes,” Vanderveen replied, as her heart began to beat a little bit faster. “Very interesting. Where are they?”

  “Ah,” Cosmo said, as he slipped a magazine into the SMG. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Let’s talk price.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A ride,” Cosmo said simply.

  “Why?” Sullivan wanted to know.

  “Why not?” Cosmo answered. “Would you want to stay here? I made some money, and I’d like to live long enough to spend it.”

  “You have a deal,” Vanderveen responded.

  “What about sailor boy?” Cosmo wanted to know, as the wad of ju-ju migrated from one cheek to the other. “What’s to keep him and his swabbies from throwing me into the brig?”

  “He takes his orders from me,” Vanderveen replied. “And you have my word.”

  Cosmo looked from face to face. Sullivan scowled but didn’t deny it.

  “Okay,” the merc replied. “The bugs took off for Orb I. That’s a space station in orbit around Long Jump in case you aren’t familiar with it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Cosmo nodded. “One hundred percent. My team and I took the bugs to the spaceport. They had a Thraki in tow. He mentioned the name. And they left on his ship.”

  Vanderveen was about to reply when a buzzing sound was heard and Cosmo made a grabbing motion. “Well, look at this,” the merc said, as he held the object up for the others to inspect. And there, rather than the sand fly that Vanderveen expected to see, was a tiny spy ball. It hummed and began to vibrate in a futile attempt to escape Cosmo’s grasp.

  The diplomat felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Someone had been listening to the conversation. But who? Locals? Hoping to make money off what they heard? Or the assassins who had been sent to murder the Queen? “Come on,” she said grimly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Cosmo stood, placed the spy ball under his boot, and placed his weight on it. Electricity crackled, and there was a crunching sound.

  As they left the bar, Cosmo paused to give the bouncer a couple of credits in exchange for a dusty backpack, which he hoisted up onto his shoulders. “I never sleep in the same place twice,” he explained. “It’s safer that way.”

  The ladder shook as Vanderveen climbed up into the hot sun. Then, having stepped off to one side, she put on a pair of sunglasses. Billy had been waiting in a scrap of shade on the other side of the street. He waved and began to hop his way across the open area. A hundred and twenty-five credits was a lot of money, and he was eager to collect it.
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br />   Then a black shadow slid over him, Vanderveen heard a thrumming sound, and a rocket struck the street. There was a flash of light followed by a loud boom. And when the smoke cleared, there was nothing more than some bloodstains and a blackened crutch to mark the place where Billy had been.

  There wasn’t time to think, much less duck. So it wasn’t until after the explosion that Vanderveen realized she’d been hit by tiny pieces of shrapnel. They stung as she looked up and saw the air car. Cosmo yelled, “Follow me!” and with no one else to rely on, Vanderveen obeyed.

  The merc ran down the block with the others right behind him. Vanderveen realized they were heading in a northwesterly direction, toward the spaceport. The air car’s shadow caught up with her from behind, bullets kicked up puffs of dust all around, and Cosmo turned to fire the SMG at the attackers.

  Then the air car was gone, and Cosmo was leading them through the ruins of a partially collapsed building. People were camped there, making it necessary to zigzag through a maze of tents, clotheslines, and fire pits. Some of the residents yelled obscenities but stopped as the tubby aircraft reappeared, and a stream of machine-gun bullets sent everyone diving for cover.

  “This way!” Cosmo said, as he trampled someone’s meal and ducked into a doorway. The others followed, and Vanderveen found herself on the ground floor of a tower. They were safe for the moment. But she knew that if they ventured out, the car would pounce on them again.

  “Who the hell is shooting at us?” Sullivan wanted to know.

  “The people who sent the spy ball,” Cosmo answered pragmatically. “Hey, you . . . Cannon guy. Are you any good with that thing? Or do you carry it to look tough?”

  Mubu frowned. “You’re starting to piss me off, jarhead. Yes, I’m good with it. What’s on your mind? Assuming you have one.”