Dark Run

by Mike Brooks

  The lines on Limberg’s chest moved suddenly, the tiger roaring silently. Drift stared, caught off-guard for half a second by the unexpected electat, and in that half-second Limberg darted forwards with a leaping left hook.

  Shit! Drift back-pedalled hastily, feeling the breeze as the punch cleared his nose by a fraction, but Limberg wasn’t done. He kept moving forwards, that lead left hand pawing at the air, and Drift remembered just in time what Maiha had said: with his power hand advanced Limberg would have a potentially knockout jab, while his weaker right would get a full wind-up behind it. He backed off again, then suddenly became aware of the cage behind him.

  ‘Circle!’ a voice shouted, probably Micah. ‘Left!’ it added a moment later. Drift obliged, since moving towards Limberg’s left hand didn’t seem like a good plan in any case.

  ‘Fuckin’ hit ’im, bro!’

  That would be Apirana, then.

  Limberg had eased off his pursuit since his initial straight-line rush hadn’t worked, but was still uncomfortably close and looking for an opening, matching Drift’s sideways movements with his own to pressure him backwards. Drift tried to concentrate and get back into a long-forgotten groove as his opponent’s left fist flicked out in an attempt to judge the distance between them. It fell short and Drift jabbed back with his left hand, surprising himself as the hasty punch glanced off Limberg’s jaw. It had no substantial effect on Limberg except to make his eyes narrow in annoyance, but it did wonders to settle Drift’s nerves a bit. He jabbed again; Limberg swayed back out of reach, but Drift could see that Maiha had been right about the reach discrepancy. He pressed forwards and fired off two more jabs, then swung a sloppy haymaker with his right hand which Coach Hernandez would have bawled him out for.

  Limberg had barely watched it whistle by when his kick caught Drift in the ribcage like a gunshot.

  Although actually, some gunshots he’d taken had hurt less than that.

  Nonetheless, he staggered sideways and nearly dropped his guard, only just raising his hands to catch the swift one-two of punches which followed. He flung out his left hand again, jab jab, and Limberg stood back to let him punch thin air, then kicked him again. This time Drift dropped his right arm to block it, and got the feeling of someone sledgehammering his bicep for his trouble.

  He tried to hide the pain by going on the offensive: he kicked at Limberg’s leg but the other man pulled it back just in time, so he tried to rush him. One, two, three punches fired at Limberg’s head, which were either harmlessly blocked or simply avoided, and a swinging elbow aimed at the temple which Limberg ducked under. On his way past, the fighter hammered Drift’s ribs again – a punch, this time – and Drift stumbled face first into the mesh which surrounded them. He turned back with his guard up, but a right hand slid through and glanced off his cheekbone with stinging force. As he retreated along the cage wall he felt a warm wetness trickling down his face, and knew he’d been cut.

  ‘One minute gone!’ Micah shouted. Drift cursed inwardly. His ribs felt like they’d been set on fire, his lungs didn’t seem to be doing their job properly and his opponent was barely even sweating. There was no way he could survive another four minutes of this. He was a starship captain, not an athlete; he might not put on weight, but the only regular exercise he got was in the beds of beautiful women. And even that wasn’t as regular as he’d have liked.

  Limberg was holding back for the moment, but he’d start unloading in earnest as soon as he realised that Drift really didn’t pose a threat to him. At that point, no matter how badly Drift wanted the information that Nana supposedly had, all bets were probably off. He didn’t like pain in general, he didn’t like getting punched in the face in particular, and he didn’t think he possessed some sort of magical constitution which would prevent him from getting knocked unconscious.

  He tried to manoeuvre around Limberg, but the other man matched his sideways movements and kept him pinned against the cage, then fired off a one-two at Drift’s face only to put all his weight into another kick which caught him in the ribs again. Drift staggered again, unable to keep his legs in order, but couldn’t get away from another hammerblow of a kick which he took on his arm leaving it momentarily numb.

  Then the feeling came back into it, and it was a feeling he could have easily done without.

  Limberg was studying him, as if sizing him up for the next attack, and Maiha’s words came back to him. He’ll wait for you to drop your hands and then kick you in the head, she’d said.

  But Limberg didn’t know that he knew that.

  Drift let his right arm hang at his side, as though it were broken or otherwise incapacitated – which in fairness, wasn’t that far from the truth. He raised his left hand so the back of it was facing his bloodsmeared right cheek, the desperate defensive position of a battered man fearing a vicious left hook and seeking to ward off the inevitable for a few more moments.

  Limberg stepped forwards and swung another kick, this time with his right leg, aimed at Drift’s ribs on the other side of his body. Drift pulled his left hand back and down in an obviously futile attempt to block it, but it had only ever been a feint; a leaping step which ended in Limberg’s left leg whipping upwards towards Drift’s now completely unprotected jaw.

  Drift ducked then, as the surprised fighter was carried around by his own momentum, tackled Limberg from behind and bore him to the mat.

  The fights Ichabod Drift had been in generally had not consisted of standing in front of a trained fighter and exchanging punches and kicks. Certainly not without the ability to kick them in the testicles or poke them in the eyes. Choking someone out quickly and silently so they couldn’t raise an alarm but you didn’t have to actually kill them . . . ah, that was far more in the Keiko’s playbook.

  He swarmed on the startled Limberg like a spider, wrapping his legs around the other man’s waist and snaking his left arm over Limberg’s shoulder and around his throat. Then he anchored his left hand on his throbbing right bicep, gritted his teeth and squeezed.

  Limberg knew what he had to do, he was simply a little too late to do it; he hadn’t expected to be suckered into the headkick, and he hadn’t expected the apparently incompetent man he’d been beating up to know how to apply such an expert blood choke. His fingers clamped around Drift’s forearm, but he was already a step off the pace and panic made him sloppy. Drift watched his head turn a deeper and deeper red, felt his struggles losing power and urgency . . .

  The horn sounded.

  Drift let go and rolled off Limberg, who didn’t move. Somewhere in the distance he heard a roar which could only have been Apirana, but his own head was pounding loudly enough that everything sounded like he was underwater. He registered feet running into the cage and someone bending down to check on Limberg, then someone else helped him sit up. He found himself staring into the steady, dark eyes of Maiha Takahara and opened his mouth to express some sort of thanks, but was stopped by a furious widening of her eyes and tightening of her mouth, and an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Her gaze flickered upwards for just a second.

  Right. Can’t let the boss know you spoiled her game. Guess I’d better play my role, then.

  He gave her the finger.

  HOME INSECURITIES

  It was approaching midnight in Prague, and it was raining. In fact, ‘raining’ was possibly an inadequate term; great sheets of water were dropping from the sky until it seemed that the air was comprised more of liquid than of gas, or that the Vltava had risen from its bed and come looking for a night out in the Old Town. Tamara Rourke was more grateful than ever for her waterproof body glove, especially since her coat was definitely getting rather sodden. She flicked the brim of her hat and sent droplets scattering out of the relative shelter of the archway and into the downpour, where they were immediately swallowed.

  Weather. No wonder most of our species left this planet behind.

  Lightning arced across the sky above the city, bright enough to cancel out the advertis
ing holos dancing in the air above the street and accompanied immediately by the tearing boom of a thunderclap. Behind Rourke, Jenna jumped noticeably. Franklin Major and Minor were two of the relatively few planets in the galaxy where terraforming had been completed, but their breathable atmospheres boasted comparatively calm climates. The sort of storm currently breaking over Prague was rare indeed in their skies.

  ‘You alright there?’ Rourke asked over her shoulder. Jenna nodded, but the rain-slicked strands of redblonde hair sticking to her face suggested otherwise. The girl’s lips moved, but Rourke didn’t hear the words over another peal of thunder. ‘What?’

  ‘Why did we have to come outside?’ Jenna repeated, in what would have probably been a whine were it not for a conscious effort on her part.

  ‘Because it’s loud,’ Rourke replied.

  ‘But why’s that important?’

  ‘Because when Ichabod calls me, I don’t want any fancy bugging techniques being able to pick up what he’s saying,’ Rourke told her. Jenna frowned.

  ‘Why would anyone be bugging us?’

  ‘Not necessarily us,’ Rourke said, gesturing up the street to where lit windows threw rectangles of illumination across the ancient, drenched cobbles of the street surface. ‘Bars can be bugged, particularly if someone in government is feeling paranoid. Then there’s Listeners, who are basically walking microphones, loads of subdermal implants. They go and hang around anyone they think looks suspicious and the handlers process the audiofeed, see if they can match it to any surveillance data. A lot of surveillance cameras have directional audio pickups too, and you’d be surprised how accurate they can be.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jenna said slowly. Rourke could see her trying to keep her face neutral, but knew that somewhere under there was an expression indicating that the girl thought Rourke was paranoid. To be fair, Rourke wouldn’t have believed half the surveillance tricks possible had she not used most of them herself in the past. ‘But why would the Captain call you?’ Jenna added. ‘Can’t he just send the data using the cryptkey I gave him?’

  ‘Sure he can,’ Rourke sighed, ‘but if he’s sending us anything it means he’s got a chance to boast about how he got the information, and that means he’ll be calling.’ She grimaced as the thunder crashed again. ‘Good grief.’

  ‘Are you sure it was a good idea to leave just Jia and Kuai on the Jonah?’ Jenna asked suddenly.

  Rourke frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, Kuai wanted to just leave,’ Jenna pointed out. ‘What if he convinces Jia that they should take the ship and go?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ Rourke admitted, ‘but Jia would never agree to it. She wouldn’t try to pilot it without at least someone on comms with her, and given the searches going on for Carcharodon-class shuttles at the moment she’d be mad to take off without a slicer on board. Plus, that girl’s out for blood; I could see it in her eyes.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jenna said, seeming slightly reassured. She appeared about to say something else, but Rourke held up a finger to forestall her as the comm in her ear beeped. She activated the link as Jenna tapped her wrist console, linking her own comm into the conversation.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Rourke answered.

  +He’s in the Olorun System.+

  Drift’s voice sounded weary, even allowing for the slightly distorting effect of the comm signal being encrypted at source, bounced off a satellite or two and then decrypted again, not to mention atmospheric interference. Rourke bit back the reflex to ask what had gone wrong; even with a supposedly secure signal, they didn’t want to give anyone who might be listening any more information than they had to about who they were or what they were talking about.

  ‘I don’t know it,’ she admitted.

  +It’s not inhabited yet. It’s nominally FAS but it’s next to the Perun System, which is Europan. Apparently he hides out in an asteroid.+

  ‘What, like that smuggler base in the Albus System?’ Rourke asked. ‘Do we have any verification on this?’

  +Not for the asteroid. As for the system, the Perun was where I did my last few drops for him; it had always been a different rendezvous before that. If he was already crooked and skimming resources off by that point then the Olorun would have been a suitably short trip to stockpile them out of sight. I think it’s solid enough to move on.+

  Rourke nodded reluctantly. ‘I’d like more, but I have to agree with you. Are you sure you want us to go ahead with our part?’

  +Are you?+

  The question took her off-guard, which was a surprise in its own way. Until that moment she hadn’t realised exactly how uncertain she was about the whole business. She thought it might be an echo of what Drift himself had gone through, although inverted; he’d abandoned an infamous name and taken up an unknown one, whereas she had swapped deliberate, enforced secrecy for the comfortable obscurity which came with being mostly unremarkable.

  She felt Jenna’s eyes on her and composed herself. Old training died hard, and she doubted the girl would have even noticed the momentary hesitation which was all the reaction she’d betrayed. ‘It’s probably our best shot at this, but you realise that it’s still not very likely to work, don’t you?’

  +That’s why Jenna’s there.+

  Rourke nodded again, noting the slight tightening of her companion’s features. ‘True. Wish us luck, then.’

  +Good luck. And stay safe.+

  Drift cut the link, leaving Rourke and Jenna with no sound but the hammering of the rain on pavement and a distant rumble as some other part of the sky was split by a million volts. She looked at the young slicer. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I’ll just be dealing with terminals,’ Jenna answered, trying to pull her coat more tightly around her,‘they’re predictable. You’re the one with a person to handle.’

  Rourke just shrugged, and tried to make her voice sound more confident than she felt. ‘They’re predictable enough.’

  The walk south from the archway was short, but undeniably wet. Rourke tried to keep to narrow alleys where possible to give the sky as narrow an angle of fire as she could, but there was only so much to be done against the elements. Prague’s streets were virtually deserted by pedestrians with only a couple of other souls braving the fury of the Czech skies, although there were still some electric cars purring through the wet. In one respect that comforted Rourke, but with less potential witnesses came less chance of blending into a crowd. She felt particularly exposed as they crossed Národní, the wide road with its maglev tram tracks which marked the border between the Old Town and the New Town. This was a sketchy plan thrown together on the fly, even by the standards of the Keiko’s crew, and for a moment she missed the sense of reassurance from when she’d had a supervising officer, a support team and the nominal protection of a government. That had been an illusion, at least in part, but she still would have been a hell of a lot better prepared for this sort of insanity.

  You made that decision a long time ago, girl. Focus on the here and now.

  An automated booth lit up at their approach, offering tourist-guide downloads at a price well above reasonable and just below the ridiculous, but they ignored it and zigzagged through the avenues and junctions of the New Town. Rourke had memorised several different possibles routes to and from their destination in order to avoid looking indecisive or suspicious, something her training had drummed into her long ago, but she took the quickest one now. It was only a couple of minutes until they reached their goal, a stout door of red-painted wood which was raised above street level by three well-worn marble steps.

  The building towered over them by five storeys, bracketing the entire length of the narrow street with its equally imposing opposite number. Only the slightly differing external décor occurring every four or so windows along its length hinted where the wall of stone was divided internally. It seemed strangely huge, despite the fact that she’d seen larger buildings on half a hundred worlds including this one; over a certain scale, humanity’s edifices seemed to be
processed by her brain as oddly regular geography instead of artificial constructs. However, this narrow canyon of a street was still small enough to be human in scope, and she felt dwarfed.

  Jenna stepped smartly up to the lock while Rourke crowded into the space behind her, facing out into the street while doing her best to surreptitiously shield what the girl was up to with the sweep of her coat. She was about to quietly enquire how long it was likely to take when the door buzzed and a huff of effort from Jenna indicated the slicer pushing it open.

  ‘That was quick,’ Rourke commented, slipping through behind her crewmate into a hallway of warm light and neutral decoration. The floor was tiled in a brown and cream pattern and a couple of inoffensive, mass-produced holos in frames broke up the expanse of the walls. There were locked boxes of dark steel attached to the wall for when the building’s tenants received any form of physical mail, and ahead of them a staircase with bannisters of rich, dark wood began its climb to the upper floors.

  ‘I could have got through that blind drunk,’ Jenna snorted softly, pulling her jumpsuit’s sleeve back over her wrist console.

  ‘I remember,’ Rourke replied, feeling a slight smile tug at her lips. Jenna’s cheeks coloured slightly, and she coughed to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘Where now?’

  ‘Top floor.’ Rourke nodded at the stairway, removing her hat and shaking the water from the brim. ‘Flat Nine. You’re certain she won’t be here yet?’

  ‘The House is still in session,’ Jenna said, brushing a strand of sodden hair back behind her ear as she consulted her wrist again, ‘and given recent events she’s going to have to be there.’

  ‘Good,’ Rourke nodded. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

  The climb to the top floor wasn’t as easy as it would have been thirty years ago, or even twenty: it wasn’t that Rourke was getting out of shape as such, but she was starting to notice things like knees, which she had previously taken for granted. Still, she was reportedly older than she looked and definitely older than she felt, so she wasn’t going to be complaining. Indeed, she seemed slightly less out of breath than the young slicer at her side by the time they reached the top corridor with its two doors facing each other, both darkened by decades of age and varnish but nonetheless solid for that.