Tyche's Hope

by Richard Parry

  Kohl thought about that for a few heartbeats. “I’m not sure I give a shit,” he admitted.

  Kaz laughed. “An excellent response for a mercenary. It’s important you understand, as the courier task carries certain risks.”

  “Don’t they all?” said Kohl.

  “They tend to,” agreed Kaz. Kohl had expected a thick Japanese accent, but it was like the guy had been educated somewhere silver spoons were commonplace. “Have you heard of the Gold Boar Syndicate?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Kaz, names like the Demon Crocodile Company and the Gold Whore Syndicate—”

  “Boar.”

  “Boar. Sorry. The Gold Boar Syndicate, like I was saying, well, that’s a thing that sticks in the memory,” said Kohl. “I’ll admit, I’ve done my fair share of drinking. Drugs, too, when they’re on the table and the hypo’s fresh. Drunk or sober, I’d remember a name like that.”

  Kaz nodded, not like he was agreeing but like he was considering something. Kohl felt it was he that was being considered, and that wasn’t one-hundred percent comfortable. “Well, October, we are selling a drug to the Gold Boar Syndicate. It is called Mithril.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Kohl.

  “I’d be very surprised if you had,” said Kaz. “It’s new. We made it for them. Unfortunately, the Gold Boar Syndicate are discriminatory, and dislike dealing with the Demon Crocodile Company. They have bought Mithril because they believe it is being manufactured by a reputable concern. If one of my soldiers turns up, well.”

  “This is why you assholes should lay off the tattoos a little,” said Kohl. “It’s distinctive. The Yakuza have a bad rep.”

  Shig took in another sharp breath, which Kohl ignored again. Kaz had a small smile playing on his lips. “October, we are reputable business people.”

  “Hey, you’re reading me all wrong,” said Kohl. “The fucks I could give on this? You could put them in those saki cups from last night and still have enough room for a decent swallow. I need to know what, which we’ve covered. I need to know who, which I figure we’ve got a lead on. And finally, I need to know where. Once we’ve got those three things down, we’re good to go.”

  “Kiagawa.”

  “Kia-what?”

  “Four light years closer to Sol,” said Kaz. “Now, I need to know a few things too.”

  “Okay,” said Kohl.

  “I need to know how much you’ll go to protect what’s mine,” said Kaz. “Mithril is valuable. It is new. Its military applications are … significant.”

  “Anyone fucks with me, they go home in a box,” said Kohl.

  “The Gold Boar Syndicate are not known for their delicate nature,” said Kaz. “They would give my soldiers a run for their money.”

  Kohl eyed the woman still standing close to him, then the man standing at Kaz’s side. “These two? I figure them for a couple tall glasses of water. Drop ‘em on a hot day and you wouldn’t even stop sweating.”

  Kaz looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that analogy.”

  “I make a few up as I go,” admitted Kohl. “How you want to do this? I see the floor is ready to be hosed clean of the loser.” He stamped a boot on the grating for emphasis.

  “There are rules,” said Kaz. “The first rule is, everyone must survive. The second rule? Yayoi, when you’re ready.” And then he clapped his hands together.

  Kohl almost missed the start of everything, on account of the conversation going so smoothly right up to that point. The woman close to him moved like a bolt of lightning, snaring Shig in a hold that looked too complicated for Kohl’s tastes. Despite that, it had the desired effect, Yayoi snaking around Shig and pressing a blade to his throat. The blade had a green tinge to it, glinting in the light. Probably poison, which was annoying. No wonder Shig wants out. He’s the first fucker up against the wall when it’s quiz night.

  While Yayoi was grabbing Kohl’s friend, the man at the front gave a yell, drawing his sword and running for Kohl. Kohl would have sighed if there was time, but there wasn’t time. Everyone must survive was the first rule. And there was a mysterious second rule Kohl didn’t know about, which made honoring it difficult. Hot on the heels of all that mental lifting was the thought Kohl was here without his main blaster, backup blaster, or his knife. And some asshole was running at him with a sword.

  Kohl lifted the catch on his belt buckle. The buckle was unremarkable except for its size, shiny chrome metal big enough to be held in one hand. The belt itself was the desired tool of the moment. Kohl hadn’t chosen the belt to keep his pants up. He tugged the belt free, the material coming loose in a hiss of fabric on fabric. He held the buckle like a handle, the belt spooling down by his feet.

  The action hadn’t slowed the man with the sword even a little bit, and that mean length of metal swung down towards Kohl’s unprotected head. And here he was, without a weapon. Or at least, that’s what these assholes thought. Stepping sideways, Kohl lashed out with his belt, the material wrapping around the other man’s blade like a whip.

  The swordsman gave Kohl a condescending smile, tugging his sword in a way designed to cut through the belt and free his weapon for the killing stroke. Only, the belt didn’t cut. It was lashed fast around the blade. Kohl bulldozed in, grabbing a fistful of five-thousand coin suit lapel, and slammed his forehead into the other man’s nose. Cartilage crunched and blood sprayed, the man staggering back. He was disciplined enough to keep a hold on his blade, and Kohl would have been disappointed with anything less. Kohl gave the belt buckle a savage tug, and the material pulled free with a grating noise. The blade sheared through, a good thirty centimeters of metal falling to the floor to be lost through the grating.

  The swordsman looked at Kohl, then at the remains of his sword, then at Kohl’s belt, and back to Kohl. “Impossible,” he said. Blood and mucus ran down his face, but he still looked haughty with it. Kohl hated that look. It suggested this was the kind of man who wanted to put a boot on your neck. Or a blade through your gut.

  “It’s diamene,” said Kohl, then kicked the man in the stomach. As the air whooshed out of him, Kohl slapped the remains of the sword from his hand, hauling him around as a body shield. Kohl’s timing couldn’t have been better, as Yayoi had her dart gun out, and she fired at him. Or, in this case, the swordsman that Kohl had inserted in the path of the darts. Kohl pushed the other man in front of him like a ram, hearing the phut, phut, phut of darts as they impacted on his human shield.

  When he judged himself close enough, he let the swordsman fall, whipping his belt around. It wrapped around Yayoi’s arm, and Kohl gave a tug. The diamene edge of the belt sawed through her arm with less problem than it had with the sword, her hand — still holding the dart gun — dropping to be lost through the grating. Blood sprayed into Kohl’s face, but that was less of a concern right now than the knife at Shig’s throat.

  Shig, to give him credit, grabbed Yayoi’s remaining arm from around his throat, keeping the blade from going into his neck by main force. It was sufficient, and he wrestled himself free, ducking under the hold Yayoi had him in. He stumbled back to Kohl’s side. “They’re supposed to live!”

  Kohl wiped blood from his face, then stepped forward, dodging Yayoi’s knife swing once, twice, a third time, before kicking her feet out from underneath her. He turned to Shig. “Belt,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your belt,” said Kohl. “Mine’s a weapon.”

  “Oh,” said Shig, handing his belt over.

  After using it as a tourniquet for Yayoi’s arm, Kohl stood, stretched back, and then said, “She’ll live.” He turned to the swordsman. “This asshole might not. Best call a doc.”

  A slow clap interrupted their conversation. Kohl turned to Kaz as Shig bent to help the fallen swordsman. Kaz was smiling, an eyebrow raised. “Very good, October.”

  “You’re not concerned that I’ll come over there?” Kohl flicked blood from his belt. “I’m fifty
-fifty at the moment, Kaz.”

  “You like Republic coins,” said Kaz.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I doubt you’ll come over here. That was impressive, using your belt as a weapon. I will need to school my guards to be more thorough.”

  Kohl twisted his torso, trying to get a kink out of his back. “To be fair to the suits on the door, the belt’s an odd weapon.”

  “But with it, you didn’t break the second rule,” said Kaz. “You must not fight like a Japanese. Cristina Gomar would suspect you of being an … agent.”

  “Cristina the fuck?” said Kohl.

  “Cristina Gomar is the head of the Gold Boar Syndicate,” said Kaz.

  “Fair enough,” said Kohl. “Gimme the package and the location, and I’ll see it done.”

  • • •

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