by Jay Korza
“I just got it last week.” Mike absentmindedly touched his new patch. “I brought someone along with me.” Mike looked over Davies’ shoulder and nodded.
Davies turned to see who Mike was looking at. “Daria! What are you doing here?!” Davies gave her a big hug.
“Mike told me that you hadn’t invited your family so we came to take you to dinner.” Daria moved to Mike’s side.
Davies could tell that the two were now a couple. Not that anything had happened the night they met before boot camp, but Davies had promised himself he would look Daria up after he graduated. His dad always said that the Corps took its toll on relationships the most. Davies was feeling that firsthand.
“Sounds great. I’m ready whenever you guys are.” Davies tried to smile.
“Before we go,” Mike started, “there is someone you have to meet.”
Mike ushered them through the crowd until they found the man Mike was looking for. The colonel turned and all three saluted him.
After the colonel saluted them back, he turned to Davies and extended his hand. “So you must be the shooter Mike was telling me about.”
“Um, yes sir?” Davies wasn’t sure what was going on.
Mike interjected, “Private Davies, this is the colonel. He has done a lot in his career so I’ll just skip to the present. He’s currently the commanding officer of the Coalition Special Forces Training Center.”
“Mike, I don’t think I’m ready for Special Forces. I barely made it out of boot camp.”
The colonel just laughed. “Private, for the last five years I’ve been running a pilot program that recognizes recruits in boot camp with special skills. Electronic warfare, advanced infantry tactics, shooting, etcetera. And when we find these talents, we send them through the corresponding training with our Special Forces instructors.
“We then send them back to regular infantry units but with advanced training in their particular skill set. So infantry units get some soldiers with extremely advanced training to enhance their abilities. And in the process, we hope we are cultivating future special ops guys, after you get some seasoning and field experience.
“I saw your shooting scores and I want to send you through our advanced sniper school. You definitely don’t need the basic and intermediate courses. So I just need to know if you’re in or not?”
“Yes sir. I’m in.” Davies was shaking the colonel’s hand again.
“Great. Glad to have you.” The colonel started to walk away but turned and added, “Your father was a great officer and even better man. He’d be proud of you.” He left without waiting for a response.
Davies wanted to follow the colonel and ask him more about what he had just said, but he thought better of it and just turned to his friends. “Shall we go?”
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Snake
Mouse had just finished his last run of the day; at least, he hoped it was his last. He had been pulling extra duty since Johnny got himself arrested three days ago.
Johnny, like all of the other runners, was under fourteen, so he would be spending a bit of time at juvenile corrections before they let him go home with a parent or as a ward of the colony. Any kid over fourteen was considered an adult for legal purposes if they were caught in the employ of or even slightly connected to any form of a criminal syndicate.
For that reason, Zinner kept all of his runners younger than fourteen. If a kid was going to be treated as an adult and thrown in an adult jail or prison for their crimes, the kid was sure to crack and turn Zinner over in order to make a deal for themselves.
Zinner used his kids to run everything he needed: drugs, money, instructions, notes, questions—everything. Zinner didn’t use phones, the Net or terminals for any part of his business. Technology was too easy to get around, trace, undelete, or get a warrant for. A note written by a ten-year-old kid who took a dictation from a thirteen-year-old kid who was told what to say by another kid who was told by Zinner what to say, well, that was way too much hearsay for any court and none of that could be used as evidence. And Zinner made sure his kids got every last word right. Sometimes he spot-checked the notes to make sure nothing was lost in translation; if something was wrong, there was hell to pay. It’s amazing how the game of telephone doesn’t run into any problems down the wire when your fingers will get cut off if you pass the incorrect message along.
Mouse walked in to the hub, handed the coordinator a small wad of cash, and then sat down heavily into a fairly abused beanbag. The hub was where all of the runners got their orders and returned to after their assignment was complete or with return items from their assignment. The coordinator was the kid in charge of passing out assignments and keeping track of who was at the hub waiting for their next run or to be let off shift.
Today, an eight-year-old named Jenny was the coordinator. She was a bossy little thing, well suited for her current task. “Hey, booger head.” She addressed Mouse as he handed her the cash. “I have another run for you.”
“Jennnnnnnnyyyyyyy! I’ve been running all day!” Mouse pouted.
Jenny looked at him in a way that no eight-year-old child should ever be able to. Her face was a barely contained mask of rage and malice. “No one, NO ONE, argues with the coordinator.” Her words were punctuated with a stomp to the ground and her little hands balled into fists.
Mouse put his hands up in a supplicating gesture. “I wasn’t arguing, Jenny. I’m sorry. I was just, uh, whining a little bit. I’m tired and hungry, that’s all. What have you got for me?”
Jenny transformed back into an eight-year-old little girl and reached back into her pocket and pulled out a sticky roll of leathery pressed fruit. “Want my roll-o? It’s grape!”
“No, thanks. I’m just gonna sit here until you have my run ready.”
Mouse curled up into a little ball and tried to take a power nap before his next run. He had just turned thirteen. He only had one year of work left in him before Zinner gave him a wad of cash and threatened to kill him if he ever showed his face in or near the hub again. Zinner was much harder on the veterans with only a year left of service; he wasn’t losing much if he happened to disable or kill an almost retired runner.
Short of the never-ending threat of possible abuse, police raids, and all other sorts of potential violence, the hub was a pretty nice place to hang out, even on a runner’s day off. It had video games, TV, pool tables, a skateboard ramp, gymnastic equipment, and tons of toys. The hub was always stocked with food and drinks—never any candy, though. Zinner didn’t let his kids have candy; it wasn’t good for them. Not that he cared about their overall health or dental issues, but he found that feeding the kids healthy food and keeping them hydrated kept them from getting sick or tired too quickly. Keeping his runners healthy kept his business healthy and that’s all he cared about.
Mouse closed his eyes and let his mind drift away for a little bit. He was half tempted to go check in on his little brother before he made his next run but decided his current position was much more comfortable. Besides, Zach could take care of himself; he was almost nine, for God’s sake. Today was Zach’s day off but Mouse knew he would be skateboarding until late into the evening.
Too few moments had passed before Jenny unceremoniously dropped a small package on Mouse’s stomach. “Thanks, Jenny.”
“This one needs a receipt.” Jenny was back to business.
“Of course it does.” Mouse rolled out of the beanbag and stood. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
Receipts were a pain in the ass. The runner had to get the person receiving the package to lick a piece of paper. The runner brought that paper back and it was given to Zinner through a long line of intermediaries. Zinner would then run it through a stolen law-enforcement DNA scanner to determine whom the package was delivered to. There could never be any question or argument from these people whether they had received their package or not. That meant that whatever was in this three-inch square box was very important, expensive, or both.
>
Mouse left the hub after looking at the recipient’s name and location. He didn’t recognize either. Based on the numbers, the location had to be somewhere in the tool district but nowhere Mouse had ever been before. He scampered over to a bus terminal and used its mapping software to locate the address. Mouse knew that using any form of traceable technology to make a run was strictly forbidden but he was tired and didn’t feel like getting lost or taking an absurdly and unnecessarily long route to his destination.
When the map pulled up the location, Mouse knew exactly the best route to get there. He realized he had been in that area before; something seemed familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. It didn’t really matter. He now knew where to go and how to get there so he was off to get it done.
As Mouse trotted through the streets, he decided that he should’ve taken Jenny’s roll-o, even if it did have hair and pocket lint stuck to it. He was getting hungry and he wasn’t even halfway to his drop-off. He had a few dollars in cash, enough on him that he wouldn’t need to commit any crimes to get some food. He just needed to decide what he was in the mood for.
A quick detour and he stepped out of the alleyway and onto a market street that had dozens of food vendors. The first few he passed because the food they served was deadly to humans. No Trizite food today—he had shrimp yesterday. He passed a new booth he hadn’t seen before; it was run by an alien that he had also never seen before and couldn’t identify. The food actually smelled good and didn’t look horrible, but he didn’t want to take any chances with it.
When he ran into the tall and furry immovable object, Mouse was still concentrating on the alien he couldn’t identify. He turned to apologize to whomever he had run into and had to look up, and up some more to see the face of the angry Shirka whose leg he was now wrapped around. Shirkas kind of always looked mad but Mouse was pretty sure this one actually was.
“Get off me, you dirty cub!” Saliva dripped from the angry maw of teeth.
“I’m, uh, sorry, sir”, Mouse stammered and realized that maybe this was a female Shirka. He wasn’t good at telling the difference sometimes. When he saw the military uniform the Shirka was wearing, he figured it probably was a male.
Mouse was backing away and apologizing only so that he could now bump into another man that he wasn’t paying attention to. This startled him so much that he flipped around and ended up almost giving the man a hug. Luckily this being was human and of a much nicer disposition than the Shirka.
The man wearing a marine uniform with lieutenant bars and no name tag said, “Hey there, son, it’s okay. My friend here won’t eat you; he just likes to act tough.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I just, uh. I’m hungry, trying to find something to eat.”
The lieutenant started to reach into his pocket to fish out some money and Mouse realized what he was doing. “Oh, no, sir, I have money. I wasn’t trying to beg. I’m just hungry, just a little off my game, that’s all I meant.”
“You sure, son? I have plenty. The military gives us a pretty good per diem when we’re on a business trip.” The lieutenant started to reach again but Mouse actually physically stopped his hand from going into his pocket.
“No, sir. My father would be very mad at me if I took your money.” And with that, Mouse turned and walked away, forgetting that he needed to eat.
The real problem with the lieutenant offering him money was that Mouse had already stolen his wallet. When he accidentally bumped into him, his hand landed on the marine’s wallet. When Mouse felt the bulge of the wallet, his hand automatically did what years of training had taught it to do and it took the wallet from the pocket. Had the marine reached into his pocket to give Mouse some money, he would’ve realized what had happened.
As Mouse ducked down another alley, went through three yards, over two low roofs and back into another alley, he thought about how he had broken another of Zinner’s rules. Never commit a crime, no matter how small, while running a job. Damn. He had now committed two offenses that would get most runners caned badly, but a runner this close to retirement might get worse. He shuddered to think about what worse could be. He had seen worse and no one ever wanted worse.
Mouse made it to his target location and didn’t find anyone waiting for him. He looked at his watch and saw that he was within the fifteen-minute time period he was given for the exchange to take place. There was nothing unusual about having to wait a few minutes to pick up or drop something off, so Mouse wasn’t worried yet.
He was, however, careful, so he kept walking past the meeting place as though he had just stopped for a moment to check his watch. He then turned down another alley and circled around a large building and crept into the shadows overlooking the exchange location. His nickname was earned from years of sneaking through buildings, shadows, and deadly places without ever being seen or hurt. And though he was tired and hungry, once he found his hiding spot, he opened his senses to the world around him and focused as best he could.
It only took a moment for a man to show up, looking as though he were expecting to find someone waiting for him. Mouse was about to make contact when he realized that something just didn’t seem right. The man was waiting for someone, not something. Mouse had seen enough dirty deeds to know that this man was aiming to misbehave.
Mouse waited a few moments longer; he wanted to wait just past his scheduled delivery window to see what would happen. Almost on cue, the man looked at his watch and shook his head. Mouse knew the man was there for him, but he didn’t know why. It couldn’t be for his two transgressions on his way here; this hit was set up well in advance of those happening.
Mouse was close to retirement but he had never heard even rumors of Zinner taking out runners before or after retirement in order to keep them quiet. Mouse did have a little more knowledge of the business than other runners because his brother was a private runner for Zinner and Mouse’s girlfriend was one of the other coordinators. But still, was that enough to kill him?
Johnny. Johnny was the answer. Johnny and Mouse were pretty good friends. Maybe Johnny had given him up; accidentally or on purpose, it didn’t matter which. If the cops thought Mouse had information that could help take down Zinner, and one of Zinner’s paid cops told him that, Mouse was as good as dead. There would be no reasoning with Zinner, no plea-bargaining, nothing.
Mouse slowly removed the box from his pouch and opened it, revealing a wad of cash and a small photo of Mouse taped to the outside of the roll of cash. His fears and theory confirmed. He slowly slid the money back into his pouch and thought about what to do next.
On the positive side, because Zinner didn’t use any electronics at all, the hitman couldn’t just call him up and say that Mouse had gotten away. Also, the hitman wouldn’t have direct access to Zinner; he’d have to go find a runner to get a message to Zinner and that process wasn’t all that fast. The flow of information to Zinner was almost completely secure but the downside was that it was very slow.
The negative side was that Mouse couldn’t let Zinner know he was still alive. Once he got back to the hub, Jenny would want her receipt from the drop. Mouse smiled to himself. Zinner was pretty smart. You had to pass the coordinator in order to get in or out of the hub. If Mouse returned without a receipt or said the recipient didn’t show and that’s why he didn’t have a receipt, then Jenny would raise all holy hell and alert Zinner at once. And if Jenny was given a receipt, she would hand it to a personal runner who would take it directly to Zinner. Again, he would be alerted right away that Mouse was back, and worse, he would know the attempt failed and Mouse was on to him because he shouldn’t have a receipt in the first place.
Mouse wished that Shirka had eaten him; it would’ve been better than knowing death was coming for him. No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he saw the two marines, human and Shirka, walk out of the alley Mouse had originally come through. Crap, was there a God, and was he actually delivering prayers today? Sending the Shirka to finish the job?
The human approached the hitman, who was already looking leery about the encounter. “Excuse me, sir”, the lieutenant began. “I’m looking for a young man who might have come through here a few moments ago.”
“I haven’t seen any kids”, came the terse reply.
The lieutenant smiled. “I haven’t even described him to you yet. How do you know you haven’t seen who I’m looking for?” He paused. “And I never said he was a kid.”
Mouse saw the hitman twitch a little. He was waiting for a young boy to kill. Now these two other men show up at the time and place the boy was supposed to be, asking about the kid. It was too much of a coincidence for him. He immediately thought these two marines weren’t real marines, just other hitmen in disguise waiting to take his mark.
No human liked taking on a Shirka but apparently this man thought something special of himself. “Look. I don’t know what Z-man is trying to pull here, but this is my job. Both of you fuck off before I make a throw rug out of you both!” He was now pointing back and forth between the two marines.
The lieutenant just smiled. “First off, I have no idea what you’re talking about or who this Z-man is. Second, that might have been funny if both of us were Shirkas but I’m not, so it just sounded dumb. Third, I don’t think you’re here for anything that’s good for anyone, so I’m going to ask you to leave. Now.” The hitman looked at the lieutenant in such a way that he decided he should add a threat to the end of his paragraph in order to be taken more seriously, just because that’s how it’s apparently done in these parts. “Or, I’ll take that gun from your waist that you think you’re hiding, and I’ll shoot you in the face with it.”
The lieutenant smiled, happy with his threat and ready to follow through as he knew he most likely would have to. The hitman twitched and started to go for his gun. The lieutenant moved in and slid off to the man’s right side, the side with the gun. The hitman smiled to himself. This dumb marine, or whoever he was, was too slow; the hitman already had his hand on the grip of his pistol.
