Caitlyn Morcos

by M H Questus

  “Okay, I’ll go check out this message. One question, though. Who sent it to you?”

  Haley paused, and then shrugged. “I can’t be sure. But if I had to guess? St. Clair.”

  “I found the message, Marshal,” Kobayashi said, his jaw tense.

  “Have you read it?” Morcos asked, receiving the file. Kobayashi said nothing, standing ramroad straight just inside the door to her quarters.

  “Deputy Haley,” the message read, “just a quick suggestion. The suspicion that currently sits on you would be cleared quite efficiently if you were to make the arrest of the bomber. Marshal Morcos may not understand the need for this, and might even seek to secure the arrest herself in order to bolster her rookie appointment to marshal. Perhaps if she were to be engaged elsewhere when you approach the suspect, it would be for the best. For the good of Delta, and the Service.”

  “Well. That’s pretty much what Haley told me it would say. And this is from St. Clair?”

  “It came from HQ, definitely,” Kobayashi confirmed, although he was shaking his head. “I can also confirm it came from St. Clair’s datapad. I can’t confirm it came from him, though.”

  “If it’s from his datapad,” Morcos said gently.

  “Somebody like St. Clair has a dozen datapads, Marshal,” Kobayashi interrupted. “And this, as far as I can tell, didn’t come from his own datapad, but rather one of his office’s.” He shook his head. “Could be him, but I can’t specifically confirm that. Nor outright deny it.”

  “Well, keep digging. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” She sighed and put her datapad on her desk. “Thanks Edward.”

  Kobayashi saluted and left her quarters.

  She sighed as she sat on the uncomfortable chair by her desk. She was still staring at her datapad when it beeped to life, a video call being routed to her. Morcos shook her head in surprise, and then tapped for the connection to go through.

  “Hello, Ms. Marshal!” Zousizhe’s beaming face smiled through the video feed. “Nice to see you again.”

  “And you, lady smuggler,” Morcos said, smiling back. “To what do I owe this honour?”

  “What, I can’t just call up my local Interplanetary Marshal to have a quick chat?” Zousizhe’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Perhaps I simply got lonely and wanted to see how your day was going.”

  “And so you looked up a restricted contact link directly to my datapad, rather than calling the Courageous to be routed through to me?” Morcos chuckled. “And are scrambling the message so I can’t have a record of it? Seems unlikely.”

  “Okay, fine, ya caught me.” Zousizhe’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m calling to do you a favour, in the hopes that you can do me a solid in return.”

  “A favour? I don’t recall asking for any favours.” Morcos tilted her head to one side.

  “No, but I’m doing you one anyway. Call it a gesture of good faith.” Zousizhe leaned in. “Schnider paid up front and in cash, as I believe I mentioned. In quite a lot of cash, actually. An amount that would catch notice in most major banks. Over five thousand credits in 1 credit bills.”

  Morcos rubbed her chin with one hand. “If he got that all in one place… yeah, that’s an awful lot of cash. I suppose I could run down the local banks and automated cash machines, see if any have records of extremely large withdrawals.”

  “Or, you could let your friendly neighbourhood legitimate-goods-transport captain do all the grunt work for you.” Zousizhe smiled, her teeth gleaming. “See, I figured Schnider was too cautious to use a regular teller. Banks do keep records, and for somebody like him trying to fly under the radar, permanent records are things you want to avoid if at all possible. I figured that he probably went to a bookie or shark, but he was a bit smarter than I gave him credit for.”

  “He went to a smuggler!” Morcos sat upright, pounding her fist into her other hand.

  Zousizhe chuckled appreciatively.

  “He did indeed. I freely admit that I forget how much cash I deal with relative to others… or would, if it weren’t for the perfect legalness of all my goods.”

  “I don’t think ‘legalness’ is actually a word, Ms. Zousizhe,” Morcos smiled innocently.

  Zousizhe waved one hand overhead, as if to shoo away an annoying insect.

  “You know what I mean. Anyway, less legitimate captains are forced to accept vast quantities of cash for their goods to avoid explaining what they were transporting, and from where, and for whom. So our intrepid Schnider received his cash from a local big-time smuggler. Man by the name of Richard Rackham.”

  “And where can I find Mr. Rackham?” Morcos asked.

  Stacy tapped her datapad a few times.

  “Right about here. Now, as for that favour I asked about…”

  Chapter 18: Honourable Women in a Den of Thieves

  “Alright, explain to me why you want me here?” Morcos asked, adjusting her cap against the cold draft rushing down the corridor. Zousizhe flashed her another brilliant smile, her long legs striding forward at a comfortable gait.

  Morcos gave Zousizhe another appraising look. The smuggler was dressed in sensible shoes, but her long shimmering gossamer coat drew stares from the few people they happened to pass as they walked from where the taxi had deposited them. Her hair was held back by a hairband that was fashion over function, and her fingers, wrists, and throat all glimmered with gold jewellery right on the cusp of being gaudy. Whatever her reason for bringing Morcos, she was certain that “being discrete” wasn’t part of it.

  “Perfectly simple, Ms. Marshal. Perfectly simple.” Zousizhe smiled, her tone light-hearted. “Rackham actually owes me a bit of money. Not a huge sum, but not something I would want to leave unresolved between friends. You need to talk to him anyway, but if you were to bring along all your stormtroopers, then he might bolt before we can have our friendly chat.”

  Morcos nodded. “I understand that. But why do you need me here with you?”

  Zousizhe held her left hand lightly against her chest above her heart. “Why, Caitlyn. Would you send a lady alone to talk to a known criminal such as Rackham? Could be dangerous. Unless you’re here.” Zousizhe wrapped her arm around Morcos’s, and Morcos rolled her eyes but found herself smiling.

  They approached the warehouse entrance, and were greeted by either identical clones of the two goons Zousizhe had outside her office, or men so visually similar as to be completely indistinguishable. Morcos let out a low whistle. “Are all the men in the docks this size?”

  “No. Just the employed ones.” Zousizhe flashed a brilliant smile at one of the thugs. “Excuse me, darling, but could you let Racky know that Stacy is here to see him?”

  The thug nodded and tapped away at his datapad.

  “‘Racky’?” Morcos whispered to Zousizhe, leaning in closer.

  “Yeah. He hates it,” Zousizhe whispered back. “I wouldn’t recommend saying it to his face. Tends to make him upset.”

  Morcos nodded, noting the way Zousizhe’s eyes sparkled as the two waited for the thug to finish transmitting her message. Zousizhe was tense, no question, but she was also obviously enjoying herself.

  And that worried Morcos a great deal.

  The bruiser at the door nodded to the two women and the entrance to the warehouse swung silently open.

  “What is it with security on Scorpii that they stop you at the entrance, but never bother to check for weapons?” Morcos muttered after the door closed behind them. Zousizhe’s smile, if anything, grew wider.

  “There are two types of people in the frontier, my good Morcos,” Zousizhe said, positively bobbing as they walked. “There are those that are armed and therefore are probably too dangerous to disarm safely, and those that are not armed. And if they’re not armed, they are probably more dangerous than those who are armed, otherwise why would they risk being unarmed?”

  “That’s… awful logic. And particularly dangerous sounding. There can’t be that many guns in… oh… my…”

  Morcos’s voice
faded to a whisper as they walked into the storage area of the warehouse. It was enormous, easily dwarfing even the massive drydock facilities her starship was still berthed within. Huge shelving units were laden with crates beyond number stretching infinitely in all directions. Automated walkers strode noisily between the aisles carrying crates and skids of ammunition, carbines, countless pistols and explosives of every description.

  Zousizhe chuckled. “Our dear Rackham isn’t even the largest weapon merchant in Delta. Top ten, without question, but I doubt that he’s the top dog.”

  Morcos shook her head sadly. There were billions of credits worth of weaponry in this room, and he wasn’t even the biggest dealer in the area. “There’s no way this is an authorized, legal weapon dealership.”

  “Strictly speaking?” Zousizhe began striding down the aisles, seeming to know where she was going. Morcos unconsciously sped up her stride to keep up with the long-legged smuggler. “No. But it’s a very grey area. Storing weapons is certainly legal, and I’m sure that a respectable percentage of these goods are bound for government agencies… torpedoes for the Navy’s old destroyers patrolling the pirate-zones, rifles for the ground-pounders engaged with revolutionaries on Septimus Terra Prime, stun guns for whatever wussies use those things, all that sorta stuff. Government procurement always runs by population priority, which means Alpha sector may get their ceremonial sabres months before a unit of entrenched marines see a single plasma round. It’s stupid, and the military in sector has learned to work within the looser guidelines of the grey-market weapons importers. Like our man Rackham.”

  Zousizhe nodded her head at a crowd gathered at the far end of the warehouse.

  At the head of the group, sitting on a throne made from crates of ammunition and rifles stacked to form both the dais and the chair itself that towered above the crowd, sat Richard Rackham. He was a smaller-built man, pale skinned and dark haired, with a perfectly trimmed beard and pointed mustache, a sharp nose and small, darting eyes that seemed to never settle in one place for long. He was wearing a foppish, oversized purple hat with a ridiculous large white feather sticking out of one side and a suit of the same colour that had hyper-extended shoulders. His hands, gloved in white, held a long walking stick with a handle shaped like the hilt and trigger of a pistol wrought in gold.

  As they grew closer, Morcos could see that the crowd was more of a queue, broad at the back but tapering to a single point. At the tip of the crowd stood a thin man with thick glasses and a datapad clutched nervously in one hand. He was wearing a faded black suit and was looking up at Rackham, his face a mixture of hopeful and fearful.

  “Very well.” Rackham’s voice, amplified both by the amphitheatre-style arrangement of crates surrounding the impromptu throne, and by speakers mounted far above on the wall behind Rackham, was precise and crisp. “Your terms are acceptable. Full payment is required prior to shipment.”

  The weasel-looking man at the foot of the dais shook his head. “Without those carbines, my lord, we will be unable to secure enough collateral for the remaining payment. Will you accept half up front?”

  “No.” Rackham shook his head. “Forty men or twenty-five women per crate. Purchase the two crates you can afford now, and hope the next time you entreat me for a fair trade I am in as amiable a mood.” Rackham gestured to the small man to leave, which he did, bowing as he retreated.

  “Did… I just…” Morcos reached for her stunner instinctively, but Zousizhe’s hand stopped her.

  “No, you didn’t just see a slave trade. Not there, and certainly not now. You need information from Rackham, and I need my money. Arrest the petty slavers after we get what we need.”

  Morcos relaxed her hand, and Zousizhe’s smile returned in all its brilliance. The smuggler lightly held Morcos’s hand and began to move forward through the crowd. A gentle touch on a shoulder here, a softly murmured apology followed by batting eyelashes there, and within moments they were at the front of the crowd. Zousizhe boldly stepped in front of the man who had been preparing to walk forward, dragging Morcos, slightly bewildered, along behind her.

  “Racky!” Zousizhe’s voice boomed out as she stepped to the foot of the throne. “Long time no see, ya old sanctions-buster!”

  Morcos could see both the smile and the theatrical roll of the eyes from Rackham as he adjusted his position on his throne, tossing his left leg over the right as he leaned back and lightly grasped his walking stick in both hands. “My stars, if it isn’t the glorious and always lovely Ms. Stacy Zousizhe! Have you finally come to collect on your payment?”

  “In a moment, my noble and handsome merchant of death.” Zousizhe bowed slightly, drawing an appreciative series of whistles from the men arranged behind, and causing Rackham’s smile to grow slightly. “First, allow me to introduce a dear friend. This is the Interplanetary Marshal Caitlyn Morcos.” Zousizhe stepped to the side and gently nudged Morcos forward.

  The transformation on Rackham’s face was instantaneous: the smile vaporized and was replaced by a dark, cold scowl, and all of his muscles went tense.

  Morcos, for her part, squinted up into the powerful lights flanking Rackham and did her best to appear calm. The crowd behind her had gone completely silent, and seemed to shift away from Morcos, creating an empty space around Stacy and the marshal.

  “I see you’ve heard of her,” Zousizhe said lightly. “My, my, only here for a few days and already so famous.” Zousizhe looked at the receding crowd of men that had moments before been waiting for a turn to negotiate with the arms merchant. “Boys! Oh boys! You’re going to want to stick around for this part, I suspect.”

  The crowd slowed its withdrawal, curiosity seeming to overwhelm the need to avoid close proximity to the marshal.

  “Stacy, why did you bring… her…” Rackham’s scowl deepened “to my legitimate and licensed trading center?”

  “Everyone I’ve met with a warehouse on Scorpii keeps using the world ‘legitimate’ like some kind of talisman,” Morcos said with a cold smile, tipping her cap slightly forward to block out the worst of the overhead lamps. “But I come today only for information, Mr. Rackham.”

  “Oh? And what information could you possibly want from me, Ms. Morcos?” Rackham relaxed a little, although Morcos could see that his hands remained tensely gripping his walking stick.

  “A few days ago, there was an explosion in the drydocks. I’m sure you heard it,” Morcos began, keeping her muscles loose and glancing from side to side as she spoke. There were no nearby goons, as far as she could tell, but she could feel the eyes of the people behind her boring into the back of her head. “A man I believe was responsible for the act was paid a significant some of money in cash. Cash I believe you supplied to him.”

  “A significant sum?” Rackham’s smile returned, although this time lacking in mirth. “How much cash are we talking?”

  “Well, Mr. Rackham,” Morcos said lightly, “I’ve been led to believe that it may be significantly more than ten credits.” She smiled.

  Rackham narrowed his eyes. “Ha.”

  It echoed for a moment, even the distant sound of the rumbling walkers seemingly muffled.

  “Fair enough. Yes, I was employed as a… middle man, one might say, to ensure that Mr. Schnider was paid for acts or activities to which I was not made privy.” He gestured to Morcos with his stick and then back towards the exit to the warehouse.

  “By whom were you employed, Mr. Rackham?”

  “Are you insane?” Rackham’s mocking laughter was icy. “For one thing, I happen to know how to stay out of the way of authorities, and for another, with all these perfectly legal clients here, what on the Nines would make you think I would give any information on anyone I do business with?” Rackham laughed again.

  “I could get a warrant, although technically I don’t need one.” Morcos smiled coldly. “The Marshal Service tends to be pretty loose on required paperwork when dealing with slavers, after all.”

  “Hey now.” Rackham
lifted both hands into the air, his smile still mocking. “I am a legitimate businessman, as you recall. Any of these gentlemen will be happy to inform whatever judge you’d like that you were mistaken in whatever you heard.” His gaze grew even colder, and he leaned forward with both hands gently draped over the walking stick. “And now would you kindly leave? You’re affecting business.”

  Morcos opened her mouth to respond, but Zousizhe strode next to her and clapped a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “Racky, Racky… she needs to know who paid you, of course!”

  Rackham scowled deeply. “Not as much as I need people to know I don’t rat out clients to the feds. And what stake do you have in this? Why did you even bring her here?”

  “I have a ship that needs repairing.”

  Morcos looked over at Zousizhe, whose body was suddenly rigid, the hand on Morcos’s shoulder heavy and gripping tightly. The smile was gone, and her eyes were cold and distant.

  “I’d heard. The amount of money I owe you won’t cover an external vacsuit repair to your ship, not by a long shot.” Rackham leaned forward. “Which is not to say I’m unsympathetic to your plight, my dear. Perhaps we could negotiate better terms in private?”

  Zousizhe smiled, but it was a cold smile devoid of feeling. “A tempting offer, Rackham, but I think you might be too much man for me and I’d end up giving you my starship instead.”

  Rackham smiled, and Morcos noticed with interest that it was suddenly as devoid of emotion as Zousizhe’s. “Very well. What do you suggest?”

  Morcos stumbled forward as Zousizhe shoved her. She landed with a gasp at the foot of the dais.

  “Stacy!?” Morcos looked up at the smuggler.

  Zousizhe shrugged, a small frown on her face. “Sorry, Ms. Marshal. Rackham has a vested interest in making sure the contract to kill you is honoured, and I need my ship.” She looked away from Morcos.

  Chapter 19: One Honourable Woman in a Den of Thieves