by Mark Wandrey
“Entropy!” Rex cursed. Then took a calming breath. “Fine.”
“Game on,” Sonia said with a smile that would do her Besquith partner justice.
“Hey, Tuco,” Rex yelled down the companionway behind the bridge.
“Yeah?” A reptilian head stuck out of the engine space, and a few fasteners and wires floated away.
“Your contact came through, sort of.”
“Good,” the elSha said, then shook his head. “Guess I should feel guilty about shooting him after he blabbed, then.”
“You can always give your cut to his family,” Sonia volunteered.
“Fuck that,” Tuco said. He snatched up the floating parts and disappeared. “I’ll get the shuttle checked out as soon as I’m done with the RCS,” he yelled, his voice echoing in the ventilation system.
Rex used a long claw to idly scratch his mostly gray muzzle. Human colonies held their own unique risks. Besquith weren’t popular among the Humans. He glanced over at Sonia and nodded slightly. Bringing her and Wil on board continued to pay dividends. In the distance, the brilliant blue ball of Valais spun.
* * * * *
Part II
The Good Life
Chapter One
Valais’ huge red sun was slowly slipping toward the horizon as Murdock cast a line out into the perfect blue water a final time. The tiny drone dropped his line 120 meters out from the skiff, exactly where he’d programmed it to, and returned.
Vincent came out of the skiff’s cockpit, shielding his eyes with an arm as he looked out toward the horizon. “Sun’s setting,” he said.
“Yup,” Murdock replied.
The kid brought him a beer in a glass bottle, the top already popped off for him. Murdock accepted the bottle with a nod, then made a small face as he almost dropped it. He was still missing the pinkie finger. He took the Bongani out of his mouth with his left and took a long pull. It was rich with hops and ice cold.
“Ahhh,” he said and grinned, putting the stogie back in its place and puffing contentedly. Real beer, and in real glass! Beer was all but impossible to buy on Earth, and glass bottles were unheard of in his lifetime. He now believed nothing was better than real beer in real glass bottles. On Valais, the bottles were cleaned and used over and over; something he understood used to happen on Earth as well.
“I don’t know what you like about that stuff,” Vince said, making a face. “It’s nasty.”
Murdock didn’t know if the kid meant his smoke or the beer. Possibly both. “You’ll change your opinion, kid,” Murdock said. “Someday.”
Vince shook his head and took a drink of the sweet soda he’d been enjoying. Murdock found soda just as unpalatable as the kid found his beer. The old merc remembered how much Jim Cartwright liked it, though, and his father Thaddeus as well. He’d crossed paths with Thaddeus and the Cavaliers a long time ago, back when there were two of them briefly running the company. Amazing how things shook out.
The wind was a mere whisper, and the ocean swells gentle as he waited to see if he’d get a bite. The red sun made for the most spectacular sunsets. After five weeks of recovery and therapy following the pirate battle, Murdock was finally starting to enjoy his retirement.
“When we get in, can we do another sparing session?”
“Sure, kid,” Murdock said. He’d tried to avoid such training after they’d moved into the cabin. The kid was relentless, though. He’d do anything Murdock asked him to do for just the smallest amount of instruction, or a little story about merc life. He’d begun to figure it couldn’t really do any harm. Was it any surprise the boy dreamt about being a merc after the life the scumbag pirates had put him through?
The red disk of Gliese 1214 was just touching the horizon when the line jerked, and Murdock hooted in glee. He dropped the cigar in a keeper he had in his vest for just such an occasion. The reel was an older style, popular in the United States for deep sea fishing in the twentieth century, reproduced and sold on Valais for sports fishing. He personally liked the juxtaposition of the robot caster and the hand-operated reel.
Murdock grabbed the handle and started cranking. The fish on the other end gave a mighty jerk and ran for it. Murdock loosened the reel’s clutch and let the fish have some line. His right hand throbbed from the mostly-healed wound, and his left shoulder as well. After a few seconds, the run slowed, and he engaged the clutch to start cranking again.
“It’s big!” Vince said, coming over to splash some water on the reel, cooling the clutch.
“Sure is,” Murdock said. After some weeks fishing, he’d learned a lot about both common and uncommon fish in the seas surrounding his new island home. This strike held all the hallmarks of an uncommon one.
“I think it’s just a krill shark,” Vince said.
“I don’t think so,” Murdock said. “It’s a kraken.”
“No fuckin’ way.” Vince laughed.
“Language, kid.” Murdock growled.
“Sorry, sir.” Sure, Murdock used much worse ten times a day, but he was trying to civilize the former slave. An effort yielding admittedly mixed results.
He fought the fish for an hour as Gliese slid into and merged with the distant horizon. His right hand and left shoulder throbbed with the effort, and his left hip ground painfully every time he used the footboard to leverage the pole. The chair was mounted into the pintle, which had previously supported a crew-served chemical laser. It served the purpose of a sports-fishing chair pretty well in its new life, just as the former pirate skiff it was mounted to served him as a fishing boat. He was the only retired merc on the planet with a fishing boat that could exceed 200 kph! He thanked the dead fuckers every time it rose up on the hydrofoils and headed out to sea.
The sunlight was waning, and he was beginning to think he’d have to give it up. You didn’t want to be fighting a big fish into the darkness, there was too much risk of going overboard. Vince was a good kid, and smart, but even after weeks of feeding and good muscle work, he was still plenty scrawny for a ten-year-old boy. You needed bulk muscle to fight a fish, and wily wits to do it at night. All those years in zero gravity without proper exercise meant the boy had to work hard to catch up.
Just then his adversary broke the water with a huge splash, and black scales caught the fading light, reflecting a tinted rainbow.
“Hah!” Murdock cried. “Like I said, kraken.”
“Whatever,” Vince said, but Murdock still saw his huge grin.
The kraken was one of the few native fish on Valais worth the time to catch. It was also managing to hold its own against the Earth transplants. The problem was, they tended toward fifty meters in length.
“Looks like five meters,” he said as it broached again. The biggest you’d want to tackle, for many reasons.
“Better hope its small,” Vince offered.
Pull back on the rod, crank the reel like crazy, pull back on the rod. It went on for minute after minute until the kraken was even with the boat. Fish and fisherman were both exhausted by the time it was close. It was Murdock who had the advantage. He was a human being with a four-chambered heart and warm-blooded metabolism. His body was able to recover from exertion faster, despite pushing eighty. He was better suited for long-term exertion.
“Don’t forget your gloves!” Murdock snapped as the kid reached for the shining steel leader. He’d turned on the skiff’s floodlights with a foot control several minutes earlier, highlighting above and below the water to show the meters-long dark shape of the kraken now floating half on its side. Murdock racked the reel as the kid slid on chainmail gloves, deftly snagged the thin steel leader, and wrapped it around a deck cleat. “Good job,” Murdock said, and Vince beamed at him.
Leaning over the gunwale, he examined the fish. Like a dinosaur come to life, the kraken reminded him of a northern pike, except with a mouth resembling a salmon during mating season, and a pair of long tentacles under the jaw. They were deep sea predators; they only lived in the upper regions while young. T
he simple light-catching eye was as black as the body. It used the tentacles to hunt near the surface just before dark.
“It’s ugly,” Vince said.
“Yeah,” Murdock agreed. He pulled out the cigar and relit it before drawing his Ctech HP pistol and aiming at the huge fish’s head. Vince covered his ears. “But they’re damned tasty.” He fired.
* * *
The skiff’s hydrogen engine labored as it came around the jetty of Margarita Bay. The corpse of the kraken was lashed to the gunwale, forcing them to come in without the hydrofoils. The skiff was a pig at low speeds, and they’d taken three hours to get back. The little automated light at the jetty end flashed around and around, illuminating Jimmy Kelso in his lawn chair, with a brace of rods in the water.
“Ho, Murdock!” the ancient retired merc called over the water.
“Ho, Kelso,” Murdock replied.
“Catch anything good?”
“Just a five-meter kraken,” Murdock said, certain his grin was visible a hundred meters away where the old man sat.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Murdock said and roared with laughter. “We’re firing up the grill, get your skinny old ass over. Say, two hours?”
“You betcha, pirate killer!”
Murdock continued laughing and shook his head. “Pass the word,” he yelled as they moved away into the bay, “price of admission is a six pack!”
“You got it,” Kelso said, already reeling in his lines.
Kelso was better than the planet’s AetherNet. Murdock knew by the time they docked, the whole of Tahiti would know about it. Now that they were close enough to the island, he grabbed his slate and sent an instant message to Atlantis.
“We got a kraken, hungry?”
“Really? How big?” was the immediate reply.
“Five meters.”
“You tell Sharp yet?”
“No. I’ll take a Tri-V before cutting it up. You wanna come?”
“It’s already nine,” she said.
“So what? Come on, I haven’t seen you in days.”
“Okay, fine.” she sent. “Be there in an hour.”
He put away his slate with a grin. Vince saw him and scowled.
“You called that fisherwoman?” he asked. Murdock knew he didn’t like Sheela. The kid considered her competition for his time. While true, and Murdock did have affection for the kid he’d saved from the slaving pirates, he wasn’t a cute forty-five-year-old woman. Murdock guessed Vince would figure it all out for himself in a few years.
“Yeah, I did,” Murdock told him, “and you better not accidentally spill salad on her again. You get me?”
“Yes, sir,” Vince said, and went forward to get the bow lines ready. There had been a certain gleam in his eye. Murdock made a mental note to keep an eye on the rascal, just in case his resolve slipped.
Margarita Bay was just three kilometers across, situated leeward of Tahiti, providing excellent protection from seasonal storms. Of course, it was listed as “Horsehead Bay” and “Calmway Island” by the government of Valais, but nobody who lived there gave a shit about what the government called it, especially Murdock.
The land was rocky with little vegetation, and thus of little use to any real industry or settlement, but it had proven suitable to retirees who’d moved to Valais. When Murdock found out the island was home to other retired mercs, he’d planned to look into it. Then he got shot to shit killing a bunch of pirates, and was gifted a cabin there as a form of thank you from the fishing fleet. When he’d arrived, the twenty-two residents went and elected him mayor.
“You old fuckers are insane,” he’d complained. Kelso summed it up for the residents. “You’re the only one of us to ever be a Horseman. Besides, you kicked those pirate assholes’ asses, so you’re in charge.”
“Swell,” he’d grumbled. It wasn’t like the job was more than a funny hat, anyway. He sent a once-weekly report to Atlantis, the planet’s capital, on the island’s situation. Included was the condition of the little fusion plant that provided their power, and whether any assistance was needed by the aging islanders. With only twenty-four residents now, they didn’t warrant any medical infrastructure. As mayor, his cabin held the communications and AetherNet link, and the medical facilities. The latter included two nanite medkit dispensers, an automatic defibrillator, and various first aid items.
Most of the island’s residents were so old they’d probably be room temperature before he could get there to help them, and most would prefer that to be the case anyway. They were a surly bunch of old merc fuckers, for sure. He loved it. He’d met a couple in years gone by.
His personal dock extended fifty meters out into Margarita Bay. A flashing blue-green-blue marker on the dock led them in safely. The surf was a bit choppy, and the big kraken’s body made it a bit tricky. All along the rim of the bay, lights glowed from the various cabins occupied by Murdock’s citizens. He mentally chuckled. As they closed in, he could already see lights moving closer to the jetty, evidence Kelso was doing what Murdock expected.
As Murdock reversed the engine a meter from the dock, Vince exercised his youthful exuberance and leaped. Murdock cringed as the less-than-fit boy sailed across the open. He landed well, quickly looped the rope over a cleat, and used the leverage to pull the skiff close. The kid was learning quickly and building strength. He had natural physical grace born of years in zero gravity and wasn’t afraid of anything. Despite himself, Murdock found he was growing fond of him.
Murdock jumped to the dock as well, though not nearly as gracefully. His left hip ground and he had to catch himself to keep from falling over the other side of the dock. It didn’t help that the nerve damage wasn’t completely healed. Dr. Tangens in Atlantis had said maybe with some targeted nanite treatment he could mitigate it, but Murdock had refused. It was getting better slowly, and it worked good enough for an old fisherman.
He went to the stern and secured the line, then over to the dock crane, and set to work with his catch. With the kid’s help he had it hung by the tail and took a couple dozen Tri-V images using Vince for scale.
Next he gutted it. With the innards scattered on the dock, he removed several organs and dropped them in a bucket. He let the rest of the offal fall into the bay to feed the plentiful crustaceans that lived around the dock. He cut the tentacles off, put them in the same bucket, and added sea water before going to get his little electric cart. The kraken was closer to six meters, and the cart labored down the dock under 250 kilograms of meat.
It was two hours to the minute when the first of them started arriving. Kelso drove up to Murdock’s little cabin on his own electric scooter, a pair of friends riding shotgun and a couple cases of home brew in a cooler.
“Welcome!” Murdock said to their applause. He had the strings of lights lit and the smell of roasting kraken wafted in the cool ocean breeze. Kelso handed Murdock a brew, and they all toasted the guest of honor—the kraken.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
Music blared over the cabin’s sound system as Murdock tended a pile of huge one-kilogram kraken steaks on the grill he’d built from discarded metal shipping containers. He had a Bongani burning merrily, creating regular clouds of aromatic smoke as he worked. All twenty-four residents of Tahiti were present, including old Major Lacalle, once battalion commander for Triple T (Tom’s Terrible Terrors). He was almost ninety and could barely walk, and was well into his fifth beer by the time the sound of a flyer’s high-pitched scream could be heard over the music and conversation.
Murdock walked out past the circle of lights and looked out into the bay. The flyer was descending to just above the water and braking hard. Amidst an explosion of spray from the six ducted fans, the flyer slid sideways and set down near the dock. When the plastic cockpit slid up, Sheela Dresdin’s long frame unfolded from inside.
Murdock walked down and greeted her with a smile, and she gave him a quite friendly hug. Jerry and Margaret Sharp extracted them
selves from the flyer and carried a cooler between them. Jerry saw the huge grill smoking and spitting fatty meat and frowned.
“I’d hoped you could wait until I got here,” he said, disappointment evident in his voice.
“It goes bad fast,” Murdock said, then handed the man a computer chip, “but I got this for you.”
Jerry Sharp slid the chip into a slate and drew an intake of breath when he saw the images. “Magnificent,” he said. “Incredible! It looks like almost six meters!”
“It is,” Murdock agreed. “I used a tape to be sure. I also got this for you.” He pointed to a nearby bucket. Inside were the kraken’s tentacles with ice heaped on top.
“You are incredible,” Sharp said. “Six meters is the longest specimen we’ve caught.”
“The stomach and the other key organs are in there, too. Unless I miss my guess, there’s Earth-native shrimp in the stomach.” Sharp’s eyes lit up like the Fourth of July. Unable to contain himself, the scientist went to examine his prize. Margaret Sharp stopped next to Murdock for a moment.
“I still think you’re a monster,” she said quietly. “But thank you.”
“Even a monster can be generous,” he said. She scowled and went to join her husband. Murdock had to wonder if there would be a bill to pay with her someday. He detested killing friends, even ones he didn’t like.
The impromptu party went on for several hours. A few of the aging mercs who had wives danced. Then the wives danced with others as well, to share in the festivities. Following instructions he’d gotten from the fisherman on Shell Game II, Murdock cooked the kraken like he would a thick beef steak—rubbed with a mixture of local herbs, marinated in wine for twenty minutes, then cooked on high heat for a minute to sear the exterior, then lower heat to let the meat warm. He served it with potato slices and a fresh salad.
The meat was both rich and succulent, with a flavor somewhat reminiscent of crab with overtones of swordfish. Served white in the center, the cooked meat turned a rose color and was sliced thin to make it easier to chew. Kraken was a true delicacy to the Humans of Valais. It didn’t keep well, even frozen. They gorged, drank, danced, and sang late into the night.
