by Rick Partlow
"Gaia," Andre breathed, visibly effected by what the other man had said. His eyes took on a faraway look for a moment, then focused on the Security Chief. "You've got to track them down. You personally, no more surrogates. You above all should know exactly where he'll go, and who he'll look for." The Director pulled himself closer to the tall man, piercing him with a hard glare. "If he tells anyone what he knows, I'll hold you personally responsible for the destruction of everything my father and I spent the last century trying to bring about. And don't think that what you are will save you, my friend. Progress is a wonderful thing---they're building more efficient assassins every day. Or so," he said, smiling coldly, "I'm told."
"Don't waste threats, Andre," the tall man shook his head. "I've already got a line on this---we have his wife, and that gives us some leverage. Besides, if I fail to kill him, you can bet your sweet ass that he won't fail to kill me. Progress aside, he's still one of the seven most deadly human beings that ever lived." His laugh was sharp and humorless. "Or so I'm told."
Chapter Six
When I was just a kid, I'd viewed a remastered ViRdrama of an old horror story from sometime in the Twentieth Century, called Dracula; and the image of Transylvania---a land of tall, forbidding mountains and ominous forks of lightning crackling out of a perpetually storm-swept sky---had made quite an impression on my young psyche. Standing in the middle of the main street on the largest city on Thunderhead, I was so struck by the resemblance the place had to that mythical home of the lord of the undead that I half-wondered if they'd filmed the whole thing right here.
Built in a narrow river valley, Freeport was surrounded by some of the tallest, most diabolical-looking mountains I'd ever laid eyes on, their jagged peaks swallowed in a roil of dark, cumulonimbus clouds. Fierce forks of eye-searing lightning connected the clouds to each other and to the towering mounds of ebony rock, reminiscent of an orbital space battle as seen from the ground.
The wind from the approaching storms lashed through the open streets between the simple, one-story buildings, howling like a lost soul, tugging vigorously at the loose sleeves of my jacket and whipping through my hair. It slapped me in the face with particles of loose mud from the fusion-formed street and a few foreshadowing raindrops, as if seeking to rouse me from my thoughts and bring my mind back to the business at hand.
I glanced at Kara McIntire, walking purposefully beside me, eyes vigilant for trouble, hand never straying too far from the pulse pistol at her side. Oddly enough, she seemed more at ease here than she had on the ship. I guess this was her element, and she felt more in control.
Despite the weather, the streets were crowded with people, just as the crude spaceport had been jammed with ships---everything from tramp freighters to highly-modified orbital shuttles to what had to be a pirated Patrol cutter. It had been an interesting landing, with no ground control, no customs to clear, and no port security to speak of. We had, instead, paid quite a hefty sum to a gang of well-organized hoods to guard our ship. A rough bunch, but Kara assured me we could trust them. Apparently, a good reputation was worth almost as much as a big gun out here.
I tried to blend in with the mass of humanity milling around us, but we both looked too healthy. It seemed as if every face we met was hollow and sunken, the pallor that was symptomatic of living on the constantly overcast world only adding to the effect. Even those who seemed well-dressed enough to be fairly well off, even those who were visibly armed and obviously dangerous had this diseased look about them. A shudder ran through me as I thought again of Dracula's domain. These people all seemed to be the walking dead. Maybe Canaan wasn't so bad after all.
I expected beggars, just from the look of the town, but I saw none. Oh, there were street peddlers aplenty, hawking their wares in muted monotones, and from any point on the boulevard I could pick out at least a half dozen prostitutes. From the almost omnipresent weapons among those who could afford them, I also assumed that there was an abundance of petty thieves---but no beggars. Maybe the atmosphere here wasn't conducive to generosity.
I was so absorbed with watching the people that I almost missed the subtle transition from the more business-like section of Freeport to the much larger entertainment district. The low, practical buildings gradually gave way to taller and more garishly decorated structures, the glare of advertising holos lighting up the streets, accompanied by the clashing strains of a dozen different styles of music, loudness the only common factor.
It wasn't too much longer before we could see it: the biggest, loudest and brightest of all the bars and casinos on the strip, topped by a brightly colored holographic sign that announced we were approaching the Lucky Bastard hotel, bar and casino.
"I'll say this for Deke," I muttered to Kara as we came up to its vaulted main entrance, "his tastes haven't changed much since the war."
We stepped inside and were instantaneously immersed in an ocean of visual and aural stimulation that threatened to overload our senses. Lights from flashing holos seemed to come from everywhere, assaulting us with visions of the gambling, drinks and various erotic services available to us in the establishment. A throbbing, highly sexual beat of a style of music at least ten years old pulsed out of the walls, trying to take control of our heartbeats and raise our level of unconscious excitement.
Here there was more of a mix of locals and offworlders, I saw from the healthier complexions scattered through the pack of customers. This was the hangout for those who were only here on business, auctioning their illegal shipments of weapons, drugs or black market ViR, or arranging for the movement of pirated cargoes. There were probably at least two or three DSI and Patrol spies among the crowd as well, from what Kara had told me. Hopefully, they wouldn't know about us yet.
The Bastard was a pretty big place by colonial standards, a sprawling, three-story building with a first level devoted entirely to a huge dance floor, with a well-stocked bar at its center. Gaudily clothed merchants and rough looking smugglers danced with prostitutes---male and female---to the outdated music, often having to step over the unconscious forms of those who had imbibed a bit too much. We wormed our way through the undulating patrons, along the way counting about ten different dances being performed to the same music.
I'd already tried to contact Deke over his neurolink, but the electromagnetic interference was so strong that microwave commo was nearly impossible. We'd have to do this the old-fashioned way.
We ambled slowly to the bar, taking it all in. Nobody'd asked us to check our guns, which meant almost everyone would be armed, some of them possibly with implant weapons. Even the most jovial-looking merchant could have a bionic weapons mount for a small dartshooter or a single-shot laser, though I didn't expect to see anything on the level of Kara's multi-shot, rechargeable weapon. It made for a host of possible threats and too damned many targets.
"Beer," Kara ordered from the bartender---yes, they actually had a live bartender, anachronistic as that might seem. He was a tall, balding fellow who was obviously native to a world with much lower gravity.
I sat down at the bar. "Gimme' a Margarita."
The long drink of water brought us our glasses, and I handed him about twice the price of our drinks in Tradenotes. Longdrink's eyes opened wide.
"Lookin' for a friend of ours," I told him, sipping my drink. "About a meter-eight, brown hair, mustache and sideburns. Gambler named Deke Conner."
"Gambler, eh?" The bartender arch an eyebrow. "Well, I think I might've heard of him. Upstairs," he told me. "Second floor poker game."
"Thanks." I saluted him with my glass, taking one more swallow before setting it down half-finished. Kara downed what was left of her beer in one gulp, slammed it down on the bar and followed me up the stairs, brushing past a group of foul-smelling locals cursing their luck.
On the second floor was a gambler's paradise. They had everything---blackjack, Tracer, Mono...but no poker to be seen. Then Kara nudged me, nodding to a doorway on the far side of the room. We moved over
to it, and I pulled it open, stepping inside...and found myself looking directly into the not-insignificant bore of a large Gauss pistol.
It took me a moment to change the focus of my vision from the end of the gun to the face of its owner. It wasn't a pleasant face---it was hard and blocked, with a broad nose, deep-set dark eyes, short-cut black hair and a perpetual frown.
"Hi," I said, grinning weakly. A glance to my right showed that Kara had also walked into the barrel of a handgun---a compact pulse pistol held by a particularly attractive female prostitute, her flaming red hair treated to sparkle with the light, as if it were ablaze with some supernatural fire.
"Well, if it isn't Cal Mitchell," I heard a very familiar voice say, and had to look past the goon in front of me to identify its source.
He was all crooked grin and swept back hair and style; trim and fashionable in a black jacket and jumpsuit covered with holos of sinuous green dragons crawling up his arms and legs. Even the handcrafted leather gunbelt at his waist looked fashionable. Deke always wore his sidearm low on his left hip to facilitate a fastdraw. I breathed a sigh of relief.
"God damn, it's good to see you, Slick," I said.
"Don't be so sure, Caleb, m'lad." Deke brushed by the big fellow to confront me nose to nose. "After all, you still owe me twenty bucks."
Then, with a laugh, he swept me into a hug, pounding me on the back.
"It's been a long time, Deke," I told him. "You're looking pretty good." And he was---just as young and cocksure as the first time I'd seen him, except his mustache was a bit bushier, and his sideburns a bit thicker.
"You don't look so bad yourself, bud." He slapped me on the shoulder, then looked past me to Kara. "But Jeez, Rachel sure has changed a lot."
"Uh, Deke, this is..." I let my words trail off as I glanced a bit apprehensively at the others gathered around the poker table. Beside the goon and the prostitute, there were three others---a rough-edged male with the look of a freighter jock, an impeccably-dressed woman who I guessed was a merchant, and weasely little man in drab grey clothes. "This is a friend. We...we got some trouble. We need to talk."
"Sure thing," he said, a cool curiosity in his eyes. "This game's a wash anyway. Let's go to my room." He turned to the goon and the prostitute, their weapons reholstered and out of sight. "Thanks for the backup."
"Call me later, Slick," the hooker said, pressing up against him. "If you need anything."
"You can count on it, hon," Deke said. "I'll see you later." He kissed her, giving her butt a squeeze before we headed out the door.
We followed him upstairs to the hotel portion of the Bastard, which seemed to be mostly a working area for the hookers. No tell-tale moaning, though---I supposed the rooms were soundproofed. Deke led us up a short set of stairs at the corner of the building to an efficiency apartment, locking the door behind us.
He picked a bottle off the kitchen table and began pouring drinks. "So, Cal, you still trying to be a farmer?"
"And Constable," I added, accepting a glass from him.
"Rising up in the world, eh?" He laughed, handing Kara a glass, which she accepted with a nod. Pouring himself a drink, he fell into a chair in the corner of the room, taking a long sip. "Well now," he said, "I hate to sound like a bad host, and it's not like I'm not happy as hell to see you, old buddy, but," he went on, staring directly at Kara, "who the hell are you, and," he finished, looking back to me, "what the fuck's going on?"
"My name is Kara McIntire," she said in answer to the first question, and I saw Deke's eyes widen in instant recognition.
"Holy shit," Deke muttered, rising from his chair, moving around as if to get a better look at her. "I guess I should feel honored in the presence of the most notorious outlaw in the whole Cluster."
Kara smiled, taking a gulp of her drink. "Mother always did want me to be famous."
I sighed, slumping onto the couch. "So, the story's already made its way out here, huh?"
"Story?" Deke looked at me like I'd committed blasphemy. "Gaia's tits and bloated ass, Cal, there's a bounty on her head of over a million in Corporate scrip!"
"Fuck," I breathed. That was some serious money, especially to a Pirate Worlder who dealt in tradenotes---a mil in scrip was at least twenty-five times that in tradenotes. You could buy a fleet of ships for that kind of cash.
"Oh, God." Deke laughed a bit wickedly, shaking his head, staring at McIntire. "God, You are a sadistic bastard." He turned to me, wagging a finger. "Do you know, my old friend, just how long I have waited for the big score? How many of these piss-ass poker games I've tried to turn into a deal, to turn into another deal, to turn into the deal that would finally get me the kind of network I needed to have real power out here? And now, in walks a living, breathing, extremely good-looking pile of money that could set me up as the biggest wheeler-dealer out here, and right beside her is my best friend, saying he's asking me for help."
He laughed again, tossing back his drink. "Well, hell," he sighed in a quietly reflective voice. "A value system can be a terrible thing." He leaned against the table, reached back for the bottle and refilled his glass. "I've heard the official line from the Commonwealth Newsnet...why don't you tell me what really happened?"
"It's a long story," I warned him. "And getting longer all the time." I looked around the room, suddenly suspicious. "Are you certain there's no way we can be overheard?"
"Hey, it's hard enough to communicate with anyone here when you want to. The only thing that could pick us up is a laser bouncing off the window, and I've got detectors set up for that." He grinned. "Never know when the Patrol or DSI might be interested in one of my shipments."
"Yeah." I smiled, glancing at Kara. "You never know when one of those pesky DSI types'll turn up."
"So," Deke prompted, gesturing with his drink, "spit it out."
"Before I do," I said with a bit of hesitation, "you've got to know that what I'm about to tell you could get you killed---just talking to us could be enough to get you killed. I know it's been a long time since the war, and I don't want to assume anything. If you want us to haul ass out of here, we'll do it right now."
"Shit, Cal," he clucked. "Friends are hard to come by in my business, and a lot harder to trust. In the years since I last saw you, I think I've met three other people I felt like I could trust my life to. You and me---we saved each other's ass so many times, I've lost count. You need a ship or some information, I'll get it for you, no questions asked. But if you need an extra gun, someone to watch your back, I'm here."
"Thanks, Deke." I took a deep breath. Much as I hated to drag him into it, I felt a profound sense of relief that he had agreed to help. With as much upheaval as my personal world had experienced in the last few days, it was nice to know that some things didn't change.
Without further preamble, I launched into a brief narration of the events of the past few days, highlighting the information I had learned from Fourcade. I could see Deke's eyes grow wide as I described the Corporate Council's role in the operation of the Predecessor Cult; and when I had finished with the details of our escape from the Council station, he whistled softly in appreciation.
"Well, you never were one to do things by half, Cal," he commented. Chuckling softly, he shook his head. "You know, Thunderhead is the biggest asylum of clinical paranoids in the whole damn Cluster, but this beats the wildest conspiracy theories I've ever heard poured out over a table full of dead soldiers." His face clouded over, the smile disappearing. "If it were anyone else, I'd laugh them right off this planet; but since it's you, I guess I should be very worried."
"Aren't you a bit of a paranoid yourself, Mr. Conner," Kara asked him curiously, "considering you chose to live out here?"
"I'd prefer to be thought of as a free spirit, agent McIntire," Deke replied with more than a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "Life's a bit too structured for my liking in the Commonwealth. I guess," he sighed, "I should have expected this kind of move from the Corporates, considering their track record si
nce the war. But I'll be damned if I can figure out what they're trying to accomplish with this alien bullshit."
"That's what we've got to figure out, though," I said. "We can't stay on the run indefinitely, and we can't go to the military without a better idea of what's going on."
"So what do you need from me?" he wanted to know.
"First thing, we need another ship," I told him. "A description of the courier we stole is probably circulating right along with the bounty notice on Kara. I've already sanitized the ship's ID, but I'd rather not take the chance. After that, we need to try to contact someone official and make them believe our story."
"That could be harder than it sounds," he reflected, one hand playing with the end of his mustache. "Have you thought about what you're going to do if you can't convince anyone in the government of what's going on?"
"I've tried not to." I ran a hand through my hair, sighing. "I guess we wouldn't have any choice but..."
I was interrupted by the door bursting open and the huge goon who'd held a pistol to my head downstairs stamping inside. Both Kara and I had our guns half out of their holsters before we saw Deke raising a restraining hand.
"It's okay," Deke assured us, turned to the man. "What's wrong, Kane?"
"We got assault shuttles landing at the port," the big man announced---I would say he looked grim, but his face seemed to constantly look grim, so I couldn't be sure. "Corporate mercs are sealing off the town," he said, eyes fixed on us. "They're looking for somebody."
"Son of a bitch!" Kara sprang to her feet.
"How could they have found us so fast?" I wondered.
"Maybe they weren't just looking for us." She peered at Deke, and I wondered what exactly she had in mind.
"Well, hell," Deke snapped, "maybe they were looking for a cheap drunk and a quick lay! Who the fuck cares?" he pulled open a closet door, grabbing a pair of tote bags and tossing one to me---he'd been ready to run. "We've got to haul ass."
