“That went well.” Kathleen was still staring after Malcangio.
James shrugged at her, noticing that her face was etched with worry. “Don’t worry about it, Kathy. I’ve handled scum like him – and those worse than him – for the last twenty years. He doesn’t scare me.”
“That’s the part that worries me,” Kathleen replied. “He’s unstable, and just competent enough to be dangerous.”
James frowned, his stomach fluttering like a butterfly. “You don’t think he’d do anything, do you?”
Her lips thinned. “I don’t know. Probably not…I wouldn’t put it past him to try, though.”
He nodded reassuringly. “I’ll keep an eye out on him.”
*
“I hate your hair.”
“Yes, so you’ve said about a thousand times tonight,” James said to Troy sullenly, even as he ran a hair through it. “You should have seen it when I cut it, it was half this length.”
Troy wrinkled his nose in disgust as his own hand joined James, as if to pat it consolingly. James batted it away with a disgruntled snort. “Where do you want to go, anyway? It’s Christmas Eve, James, there aren’t that many places open… except for the malls.”
Troy shrugged. The two men had just swaggered out of L’Arc Bastion – whose capacity crowd had made it nearly impossible to move. James had intended to go back home to Jennifer, who was now in the early stages of pregnancy (having gotten knocked up on James’ last weekend visit), but Troy was still intent on hooking up with someone.
“Going home is not an option,” Troy reminded him. His tone was playful, but there was something about him… Troy and James’ relationship had suffered since James had signed up, and though tonight had been Troy’s idea, there’d been an undercurrent of tension between the two men all night. “I haven’t had sex in two weeks. I’m dying, James.”
James smiled ruefully – if what his brother said was true, it was the longest dry spell Troy had endured since he’d discovered what sex was.
“Let’s try Patterson’s,” he suggested lightly. That was a double-storey bar located a few blocks away. It was quiet, had great patrons, and good music.
“Like I’m going to find a guy there, Jim.”
James ignored the use of his much-maligned nickname and pulled Troy along in the direction of the bar. Despite the date and the late hour, the streets of the Citadel were still teeming with life, with thousands of people shopping late, and just as many cramming into the bars and nightclubs of the city. The night sky high above – mostly obscured by the steel-and-glass towers of the Citadel – was mostly obscured by low-lying clouds; the Citadel had weathered a storm earlier in the day, and there was still a dampness to the air.
“If you’re going to keep me away from my wife, Troy, you’ll go where I tell you.”
“Yes, mother.” Again, a playful tone, but there was a trace of the old bitterness behind it that James couldn’t ignore, but couldn’t confront either. Another confrontation wouldn’t solve anything.
James smirked as Troy fell into step beside him as they passed a giant, decorated Christmas tree, its branches – decked out with flashing neon RGB lights – rustling softly in the cool night breeze.
“Speaking of which, what did you get for her birthday this year?”
“I actually managed to get her an authentic Monet.”
James nodded appreciably, somewhat surprised at Troy’s thoughtfulness. Rebecca Gold was a collector of fine art and literature, having a large selection of both, a collection which had gotten underway after securing it after the death of her first husband, a former Supreme Court judge, and got even larger after the divorce from Patrick Hunter.
“Not bad, not bad,” James asked, then frowned. “By any chance, did that come from a collector in Venice, Italy?”
There was the slightest of pauses. “It did, actually,” Troy replied, looking incredulous. “How did you – you were bidding against me?”
“If you weren’t so fucking lazy and had checked, you’d have known it was me bidding against you, fool.” James chuckled as Troy let loose a florid stream of invectives – their private bidding war had resulted in Troy paying half a million more than he should have; James, who had checked who he was bidding against, had purposefully strung his brother along. “As for me, I got her a book.”
“… That’s it?”
“It was a really old one,” James amended sheepishly. It was, after all, what Rebecca had told him to get, after he’d asked her after he’d run out of ideas on what to get her. Shopping for their dad was easy – he didn’t want anything, as he had everything, and refused to accept any gifts bestowed upon him. “Something written in the early 20th, I think. First edition, excellent condition, considering its age.”
“How much?”
“Thirty million,” James answered, and Troy grimaced – thanks to James, he’d paid nearly forty for the Monet before James had given up on buying it, opting for something a bit cheaper and less popular.
They crossed the street alone, passing a trio of scantily-clad revellers – two girls and guy – who seemed intent on braving the crushing crowds of L’Arc. Troy’s gaze followed the guy, who was tall and handsome, and James whacked Troy in the arm to break his concentration.
“Just looking,” Troy simpered.
Within a few minutes Patterson’s was in sight, with a rowdy queue meandering out onto the sidewalk, snaking around the corner. It wasn’t moving.
“Problematic,” James murmured when he saw the queue; it’d take them nearly an hour to get in, he figured, and there was no way he was prepared to put up with a drunk Troy – who wasn’t the most patient of people, even when sober – for that long.
“We’ll be geriatrics by the time we get in there, James,” Troy opined, right on queue.
James rolled his eyes. “We could try Pinnacle…”
“Only lesbians go there, James.” Troy sounded petulant. “And lonely guys who can’t get laid. I am neither of those things.”
James sighed openly. “Then I guess we go home,” he said, moving to turn on his heel, but Troy grabbed him by the elbow and stopped him in his tracks. “You got a better idea, Troy?”
“Let’s just line up, I’m thirsty, and tired of walking.”
James relented, privately wondering just what kind of thirsty his brother was, and traipsed a step behind his twin as they crossed the deserted road and headed towards the back of the queue, when something caught his attention, and caused his stomach to drop.
“Oh, that’s just fucking great.”
“What?” Troy asked, confused.
James thrust his chin in the direction of his ire. Gordon Malcangio, and a quartet of his drinking buddies, were standing in line further up, a huddle of brutish thugs with too much testosterone and too little brains.
“Trouble,” James muttered, turning to leave as he grabbed Troy by the arm.
But it was too late.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
James sighed, rolling his eyes as he spun on his heel to face his tormentor. Malcangio was dressed modestly, his most expensive item being a leather jacket – a real leather jacket, not a cheaper knock-off like James had expected. His compatriots were dressed likewise – dark jackets and pants, all of it reasonably decently priced.
“Jesus, there’s two of you?” Malcangio continued as he stepped out of the line and approached the twins, his hands flexing into fists as he spoke. “Your parents must really have been unlucky to have two failures.”
Predictably, Troy balked. “James, who’s this cun–”
James held up a hand, and Troy fell silent, his penetrating stare seeking to bore a hole into Malcangio. “It’s a free world, Malcangio. I go where I like, I don’t answer to you.” James straightened himself up, crossing his arms.
“I don’t think there’s anyone or anything your crime family does answer to.”
“Crime family?” snapped Troy, immediately incensed, his nostril
s flaring as his lip curled – if he’d been a dragon, Malcangio would have been a cinder by now. Troy could stand being insulted over just about anything, except his integrity. “Just who the fuck do you think you –”
“Stow it, Troy,” James said, grabbing his brother by the arm and turning away. “Let’s just go… I don’t want to be seen in any place where this guy can be found at.”
James only managed a couple of steps, however, when Malcangio baited him. “Bloody typical. You’re so quick to back down from a challenge, Hunter, makes me wonder why the fuck you even signed up. There’s enough cowards fighting for the Commonwealth as it is, we don’t need any more.”
For a reason that escaped James, his temper flared, a surge of hatred – not anger, or rage, but pure, unadulterated hatred – coursing through his body like a jolt of adrenaline. He ground his teeth, releasing his grip on Troy’s arm as he turned around – slowly, as menacingly as possible – his virtual-array powering up his cybernetic systems, augmenting his genetically enhanced reflexes and physique even more.
Being so much taller than Malcangio – who, he’d learned, had had only the most necessary genetic tailoring done to ensure a healthy, long life – he knew that raising himself to his full height made him an intimidating presence, and his change in posture was rewarded with a subtle flinch and a step back.
“Why would someone as small as you sign up, Gordon? The N’xin would stomp on you like an insect…” James arched an eyebrow, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Then again, you are a bug.”
The response to his quip was a punch, aimed at his chin, but James’ combat upgrades to his cybernetics made the movement appear sluggish, as though Malcangio was throwing the punch through water. James shifted his weight, took half a step back on his right foot and twisted with the blow, the clenched fist brushing past his jaw with barely any contact.
James responded by bringing his right knee up into Malcangio’s stomach, getting great satisfaction upon hearing the wind knocked out of him. James grabbed the man – who was doubled-over and winded – by the scruff of the neck and drove his knee up. Crunch. The nose broke, and blood spurted out like a water from a fire-hydrant. A pang of regret hit James – he’d just ruined his own pants.
“James, what the fuck –” Troy shouted, taking a step back, but James ignored him as he gave Malcangio a great shove into the arms of his gang of thugs - all of whom James recognised from Basic. A great flurry of excited chatter rippled throughout the crowd as everyone turned to face the commotion.
“You’ve never seen a fight, Troy?” James asked sardonically. “Join in, or start making bets.”
Before Troy could respond, James had waded in to the cluster of Malcangio’s buddies, and there was a flurry of fast and furious movements, curses, and the sounds of broken bones and bodies hitting the pavement.
Within two minutes, it was all over, and James was being shoved violently into the back of a police car, handcuffed, and with a seat next to Troy, who had, despite being inebriated, announced himself as James’ counsel… as well as the winner of the impromptu betting pool.
Two of James’ attackers were shoved into the back of another police vehicle, barely able to stand upright without being supported.
The other two shared an ambulance with Malcangio, who was taken to the ER with, among other things, a broken jaw and a very bruised ego.
*
“This is some Christmas present, James.”
If Troy was annoyed with James, then Jennifer was livid, her left eyebrow twitching. Troy and Jennifer were locked in the cramped, sterile interrogation room with James – Troy had insisted the lights be turned low while he sobered up, a process helped along by his own cybernetics.
James, himself, was developing a headache, and no matter what his implants tried, it wouldn’t go away. Unlike Troy, he hadn’t been drunk when the fight had started, but the enormity of his situation seemed to be driving his pain – certainly it wasn’t any injury he had sustained. None of his opponents had dealt him significant blows.
The same cannot be said for me.
“No, really, I don’t know what to do with this mugshot…maybe I’ll hang it in the lounge room, show it off to all my friends when they come over. Their husbands don’t have mugshots.”
“Very funny, Jennifer,” James grimaced, sighing. “I wasn’t exactly looking for a fight when I went out tonight, Jen. I was looking to get drunk, and then come home and get laid.”
Jennifer barked out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, you can forget about that, horny toad. You’re not touching these anytime soon.” She made an elaborate gesture to her chest, and then sighed, her left hand reaching up to rub her weary eyes. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last few seconds. “Why didn’t you just walk away?”
He glared at her, his temples throbbing, and chose not to answer. The truth was, he didn’t really have an answer for her. His actions were a complete mystery to him, as were his emotions. Hatred. There were plenty of things he said he hated, but it was really more a matter of dislike, even loathe, but never to the point where it became total revulsion. He’d never hated an individual before, either.
So why was I so keen to prove my fighting credentials? He pondered that, and, not for the first time, his mind flitted back to that fight above Menacor. Could all of this be because I’m out to prove I’m not a coward? He supposed it was possible.
“Is this some sort of macho thing?”
“Of course not, Jen,” Troy said, rather sharply. James was surprised at his brother’s defence of him, but he welcomed it if it meant the two of them were going to reconcile. “James was provoked –”
Troy was cut off as the interrogation door swished open, and Detective Ralph Benson stepped in, closely followed by Jessica Robinette, who was carrying a datapad. James knew both of them reasonably well, having prosecuted several of their cases in the courts. They were both seasoned veterans, Robinette being the more senior of the two.
“Alright, Mr. Hunter… Mr. Malcangio suffered a broken nose and jaw, three broken ribs and a fractured wrist. His companions suffered various cuts and bruises, as well as a couple of concussions.” Robinette gazed at him evenly for a long moment, tapping the datapad against her open palm. “Do you have anything to say in your defence?”
James – confident in his own legal acumen – glanced at Troy, who simply shrugged and nodded. There was absolutely no case here to answer to: even if the police were stupid enough to lay charges, the Office of Public Prosecutions would refuse to take it to a jury.
“It wasn’t me,” James said, refraining from smiling at the disgruntled and annoyed looks the officers were throwing at him. “What do you want me to say? They provoked me, threw the first punch… I defended myself? As the recordings from my VA will attest to.” He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “I can’t help it that they can’t fight for shit, and have inferior genetics.”
“Well, luckily for you… or thankfully… they’re not willing to press charges –”
“Press charges?” Troy almost shrieked, stepping out from the shadowy corner he’d been hiding in, his arms folded in front of his chest like some sort of monk. “Are you fucking daft? Five men attack my brother – and me – and you expect us to be grateful they’re not pressing charges?”
“There is a question of proportionate force, Mr. Hunter,” Benson said pointedly, not looking away from James, and Troy laughed derisively.
“You can question the use of force all day long,” Troy snarled. “There’d be ample evidence from witness VA’s – as well as our own – that will corroborate our claim of self-defence.” He nodded at James. “My client feared for his life – any questions of appropriate force will fall on deaf ears.” Troy sobered. “What about my brother pressing charges? He was the one attacked, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Is that something you wish to do, James?” Robinette asked, arching an eyebrow.
James shook his head. “I just want to go home wi
th my wife, Jess. I’m trusting ol’ Gordon has learned his lesson.”
Robinette looked at Benson, and the younger man shrugged.
“Alright, you can go. There’s a Commander Brady here for you, waiting out in reception.” Robinette nodded at Benson as James stood up, flashing a winning smile at his wife, who was still glowering at him. “Just… stay out of trouble, James. It’s Christmas, for fuck sake. We have enough to do without having to break up petty brawls between drunken soldiers. Save it for the N’xin, they deserve it more.”
James let the jibe about being drunk slide as the two detectives led the way out, escorting the three of them out to the outer reception area of the police station. Well after midnight now, the place was reasonably deserted, with a trio of police officers overseeing a mere four visitors.
“What the hell happened, Hunter?” Brady asked as soon as the detectives were out of earshot. His eyes were narrowed, and the tips of his ears were pink – a sure sign that he was angry.
James gave a brief summary of what happened. Brady was already well aware of the friction between James and Malcangio, so he didn’t sound, or look, surprised at what had transpired (he was probably surprised at the fact it had taken this long to boil over).
He did look disappointed, though, most likely at having to deal with the PR nightmare that was about to unfold. Soldiers brawling in public was never a good look, and the effect this would have on the public’s perception of the capability of the Navy defending the realm would most likely be negative.
“Mr. Malcangio will be out of hospital tomorrow, though he’ll probably be sore for a couple of days,” Brady said, his eyes glowing softly as he read his virtual-vision. “The others are out already, being shipped back to base.” He sighed. “This isn’t a good look, Hunter, you know that right?”
A Call to Arms Page 10
