Solomon waited until he knew the coast was clear, which, for him, meant another two days of keeping his head down, trying his best to look normal while he trained and studied. During which time he had no major run-ins with Arlo Menier and his gang of stooges, which Solomon was grateful for, but the hairs on the back of his neck still rose every now and again, as if someone was following him.
Luckily, Solomon knew that he was good at planning a heist. He was very good, in fact. One of the best.
“You haven’t been in New Kowloon for very long, have you, Mr., uh…Cready?” said the man standing next to the younger Solomon, still in his early twenties with the ridiculous quaffed-but-ragged haircut he had sported back then.
In fact, Solomon had been in New Kowloon all of a week, and he needed Confederate credits again, having spent every last dollar he had to get smuggled into the Asia-Pacific Partnership’s largest metropolis-ghetto.
It wasn’t that New Kowloon didn’t have Confederate Enforcers, or that it wasn’t regulated—it was as much a part of the rest of the Asia-Pacific Confederacy as Shanghai or Tokyo or Seoul, after all—on paper, at least. It wasn’t that New Kowloon didn’t have laws, and rules, regulations or taboos…
It was just that at some point in the distant past, some enterprising criminal gangs had managed to infiltrate city planning and local governance, and even the Confederate Enforcers it was said, to make sure that those laws had massive loopholes, and anyone who had the power to do anything about it on the streets was already compromised.
Over the last sixty years or so since New Kowloon had come into its own, it had been designated a ‘Special Regulation Zone’ similar to an off-world colony, or the old Hong Kong of the twentieth century. Multinationals and mega-corporations and inter-state actors flocked there to take advantage of some very lax trading and business laws, and from there, the rot only festered.
Down on the streets of one of the busiest slums on Earth, tax-deductible building investments had encouraged a diaspora of the poorest members of society to take advantage of the often hazardous but ridiculously cheap housing. Some strategists even claimed that had been a plan, as it meant that the economy was always off-kilter, with few actual opportunities for legitimate employment but plenty of opportunities for illegitimate employment.
There were no regular sweatshops and factories in New Kowloon. Instead, there were boiler-house basements producing knock-offs of American Confederacy computing chips, or else warehouse troll companies that were funded by shady ‘marketing firms’ to target rival politicians or entire Confederate territories for their political paymasters.
It was said that nothing happened in New Kowloon without some money being paid to someone, and that anything could be bought or sold somewhere or another on its streets. Which, so far during his week here, Solomon had found to be mostly true. It was actually a sort of gritty, grimy, dangerous paradise for the likes of someone with his skills.
It was here in New Kowloon that works of art or archaeology or gold bullion or any other artifact could be traded to lose its paper trail and return to the market ‘clean.’ It was here that the largest mega-corporations operated their riskiest laboratories, or tested out illegal prototypes, or performed high-level (and unseen) negotiations with rivals.
To the rich, New Kowloon was a playground where every vice could be administered to for the right price, and to the poor it was a place where, paradoxically, the American Confederate dream was at last true. Anyone COULD make it big in New Kowloon. All you had to do was to have a talent, as well as be willing to pay a lot of bribes along the way.
Which was where this thin, unassuming man who stood next to Solomon—both of them leaning over the railings of the Ho Xing Tower to look at the cramped and complicated neon, concrete, and steel world below them—came in.
“Only a week,” the man repeated, his hair slick black and wearing a very unassuming, but also very finely made, black business suit stated, “and yet you have managed to find out how to contact us.”
“I have contacts,” Solomon admitted. Which was actually true. Only Matthias Sozer, his life-long accomplice and ally ever since they had both grown up in the American Confederate cornfields, wasn’t even in New Kowloon, and wouldn’t be for several years still. Matthias had a good job back in the American Confederacy as a data-miner and programmer, and that was why Solomon knew that he would be able to find anything out that he needed to set up his new operation out here.
Such as getting Solomon the contact number for the largest Yakuza crew in New Kowloon.
“Obviously,” the man stated, not looking at Solomon. The young man hadn’t seen any of this man’s bodyguards, as all he had received was a simple, one-line postcard to meet here at this specified time. He had arrived nearly an hour early, but the man had been earlier still, and apparently alone—although Solomon was certain that he could feel people watching him from every window of the Tower’s restaurants. Even the taxi driver had seemed to know where he was going.
But Solomon guessed that he had better get used to that. He was trying to make waves in someone else’s territory, after all.
“Well, the people I represent have their contacts as well, and we have done some research on you, Mr. Cready.” A slight pause as he readjusted one of his emerald cufflinks. Solomon wondered if that was a signal? A sign? In any ‘normal’ person, it would be a sign of nervousness, but what would a representative of one of the three most powerful gangs in New Kowloon ever have to worry about?
“A very passable, but still only minor, thief, I am afraid.” The man stopped his fiddling and spoke in perfect English, clipped terms. “The people I represent aren’t sure if they need another gaijin criminal…”
“I promise you that I can be the very best that you have ever worked with,” Solomon said, and with absolute certainty. Admittedly, his point of reference had been the Midwest and the East Coast of the American Confederacy—and over there, they were a bit more…blatant about things—but something in Solomon knew that what he said was true. He could feel it in his gut the way that any young person can almost feel the limits of their ambition. He knew, too, with delight and glee that he had not reached them yet.
Solomon knew that he was fast on his feet, agile, a good climber, and not a bad street fighter—although he preferred to never be forced into a fight in the first place. He also knew that he had managed to outwit and think circles around just about everyone he knew. Even Matthias, unless it came to computer coding, of course, in which case Matthias had the clear upper hand.
It was one of the many reasons why Solomon had chosen New Kowloon of all places to come and put his skills to the test. He already had a string of suspicions and blurry surveillance drone pictures out on him back home, and, as good as he was, no one had a career in crime in the same place for very long. Time just wasn’t a luxury most thieves could enjoy.
But New Kowloon was different, Solomon had told himself. He felt like an athlete, not a criminal. It was the place where he could find out just how good he really could be. It was the place where legends could be born.
“A bold statement, Mr. Cready,” the man said in measured tones as he looked out at the vista in front of him. There was a moment of silence between the two men that seemed to stretch on forever, but eventually, the man seemed to make up his mind. “Luckily for you, the people whom I represent have also left me instructions for this eventuality. It is up to my discretion to offer you your first contract, and I personally appreciate a bit of confidence.” The man finally turned around to look at Solomon fully in the face.
He was a middle-aged Japanese man, his brow and around his eyes slightly lined. Solomon got the impression that he might be a lot older than he looked, though, as a very wealthy life could stave off the worst of time’s depredations. But when it came to his dark eyes, it was clear that there was no comfort or sense of laughter and relaxation in the man’s life. He looked at Solomon with as much sympathy as a shark would look at a flounde
ring swimmer.
“You have a passing fair record, Mr. Cready. But you may find that the rules of the game are somewhat different out here than what you are used to,” the man said, his voice strengthening as he grew sure of his position. Every ounce of his stance and his voice told Solomon that he was in charge, and Solomon was there to take orders.
Solomon had forgotten how much he hated traditional crime gangs, with all of their talk of honor and loyalty and oaths…
“But you have shown yourself wise to approach us first. If you had started operating…independently, shall we say? Then you would have found out that either Triads, the Mob, or us would have been aware of it very, very soon. And we would have had to make sure you understood the dangers of freelance work in New Kowloon…
“And you have been perceptive to approach us, rather than either of our main business rivals because, of course, if we were to find you working for either the Triads or the Mob, then, well…” The man opened and closed his hands in a gesture that said that the results would have been unavoidable.
“But the people I represent, unlike the others, reward such loyalty, and such confidence. So…” The man extended his hand towards Solomon’s. “It is with great pleasure that I welcome you into the family.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” Solomon grinned and shook the man’s hand.
Yes. He had done it. Now all he had to do was to find a way to infiltrate their New Kowloon infrastructure, find out where some of their best hide-outs and safe-houses and equipment stashes were…
And Solomon was certain that either the American Mob or the Triads—or both even—would pay him VERY handsomely indeed for that information.
You see, Solomon Cready was one of the best at what he did, and he wasn’t about to start taking orders from anyone. Not for long, anyway. He worked for himself, and always for himself. Who had ever even dreamed of ripping off the Yakuza? It might take years of careful work, of blood, sweat, and preparation, but he could do it. If he pulled this off, then it would prove to the entire world that he really was the best at what he did.
Solomon opened his eyes and lay still for a moment in the darkness. He could hear the soft, whistling snores of the other Outcasts around him. What’s left of them, anyway, he thought. To his right, there was a very slight electric hum, which he knew to be Malady sitting in his charging bay in a similar state of unconsciousness as everyone else.
Solomon counted to fifty in his head, and then counted to fifty once more. Past experience had told him that unless you were in the thick of it and bullets were flying everywhere, it was always better to be cautious. As cautious as possible, in fact. A good thief had to be patient, but able to be reckless, he reminded himself.
When he was sure that the sounds he was listening to were regular and, for the most part, expected, he made his move. He moved carefully, remembering to pick up the half-block of protein gunk that he had eaten the night before—meaning to dispose of it, somewhere. The young man was sure that was how they were dosing them every night, and, as his nights were usually uninterrupted until morning, he rather thought that they had laced their evening ‘meals’ with sedatives or hypnotics, as well.
Moving with a cat-like grace, his bare feet padded onto the cold metal floor and he stood up, wearing his light-weight undermesh thermals just the same as everyone else would be. He could have slipped to his locker to put on a warmer lightweight work suit, but he didn’t want to risk waking anyone else up, and neither did he want to risk looking out of place if he got caught.
This way, I can pretend that I just couldn’t sleep, he reasoned as he moved quickly and directly to the door, lightly jogging on the balls of his feet. Although he could have ghosted from each shadow of the bunkbeds, he knew that it was almost always better just to move quickly and confidently. Any hanging around or attempting to hide and to look surreptitious was generally a sign of an amateur.
If you look like you know what you’re doing, and that you’ve got somewhere to go, most people just believe you, he reaffirmed to himself. It was when you were ducking and hiding and pretending to hang around places looking suspicious that you got caught.
Whisk! The door out to the food hall opened and closed behind him with a slight thump, making Solomon wince. But he was in the brightly-lit corridor now, and he started walking, not jogging. Look like you belong, he reminded himself, as his hand curled over the small rectangle of white card in his hand—the ID card of Doctor S. Palinov.
Solomon was very good at what he did, but perhaps he was a little out of practice, or perhaps he should have spent a little longer than a hundred breaths before he had made his move, as, behind him in the darks of the Outcast bunkroom, there was a movement.
One of the adjunct-Marines behind him wasn’t asleep at all. They, too, hadn’t eaten their nighttime protein pack but for entirely different reasons. Worry and self-hate had been gnawing at Specialist Combat Wen’s stomach for the past two days since she had received her orders from Boss Mihashi.
She had been awake in her bunk, looking up at the metal gridwork above her and running through her mindfulness breathing practices. Ironically enough, it had been the very same Yakuza bosses she had come to hate who had taught them to her.
But a movement had interrupted her attempt to calm her mind and see through the dilemma she was in. She couldn’t do what the Boss wanted, could she? He was a few hundred thousand miles away. More, in fact! And she liked Solomon, in a way. He was arrogant and brash and cocky, but he was also smart, and he could be funny. And there had even been times in the last few training exercises that he had seemed almost, what… Loyal? Honorable?
But the Boss had people up here on Ganymede, the specialist knew. Where there was one Yakuza operative, there could always be more. There was no escape from him. And if she refused, then she probably would have some sort of fatal accident one day as an airlock mysteriously depressurized at the wrong moment, or she would have a catastrophic equipment failure, or…
Jezebel wasn’t so much worried about her own death, no more so than anyone else was. She had a very healthy respect for her own life of course, you don’t manage to survive as a Yakuza Enforcer without earning that, after all…
But what Jezebel Wen was far more worried about was what the Boss Mihashi might do if she refused. She still had family back on Earth. An estranged family, admittedly, and one that she hadn’t seen for the last ten years even before she came up here to Ganymede. They were still people that the Boss wouldn’t think twice about punishing for her crimes.
Jezebel Wen made up her mind in the dark. She slipped from her thin covers in a moment and ghosted toward the food hall, after Specialist Commander Cready.
Idiots. Solomon could have laughed if he had dared to make a sound. He should have known that Ganymede would have been like this—easy.
He had emerged from one end of the food hall, first hanging back from the glassed automatic door so he didn’t trigger it to open. He could see the much larger front atrium outside, with doors leading to the study lounges, the audience chambers, and deeper into the service, mechanical bays, and gymnasiums of the Ganymede Marine Training station. And the wide corridor with its reinforced glass doors that led to his destination: the medical lounges.
The place was brightly lit, so it should have been easy for any passing staffer or security drone to spot him, the only person up in his dark gray and blue undermesh suit. The light from the overhead wall lights were a little different though, he saw—not as ‘clean’ and bright as they were in the daytime, and with a slight reddish tinge to the spectrum. He imagined that it had something to do with what Malady had called the ‘metabolic regulation’ of this place. Every aspect from the length of the ‘day’ shifts to the light to the food that they ate was all carefully calibrated to get the most results out of their bodies.
But for all of their technology, it seemed to Solomon that the Confederate Marine Corps were still a bunch of idiots.
It was always th
e same in a place like this—a top-notch, top-of-its-game institution. They believed so much in themselves that they couldn’t imagine that any possible threat would come from inside their organization. Solomon had encountered companies like that before—usually academic or scientific institutions—back in New Kowloon.
Kinda naïve, really.
There were no internal security measures, apart from certain identity-locked doors. The Confederate Marine Corps were so passionate about their mission that they just couldn’t believe that they might need to have a watchful eye inside their own corridors, Solomon thought.
At least, that was what he hoped, anyway, as he stepped up to the doors for them to hiss open and for him to cross the front atrium and approach the medical lounge.
Inevitably, the small torrent of anxieties rose in him.
What if Doctor Palinov had noticed her ID card was missing?
Of course she had.
What had she done then? Had she figured that Cready had stolen it?
What if she had changed the security features on the doors?
Solomon paused, counted to five this time, and breathed. These sorts of anxieties and fears were natural for a guy in his position, and he had long since learned how to let them be. The trick was knowing that these thoughts would rise anyway, and that there was nothing that he could do about it now in any case. It was one of the reasons why he made a very good adjunct-Marine—his ability to parcel out his worries, to recognize them, and then get the job done anyway.
Now or never… He walked forward to the glass doors, raising his hand and as he did so—
Whisk!
The door hummed open just as normal, and Solomon almost did a doubletake. The Confederate Marine Corps really are idiots! He could have laughed as he strode forward…
Only to see that there were people in some of the rooms.
Frack!
The Kepler Rescue Page 6
