by Blaze Ward
“Really?” Jorge leaned forward almost as quickly as Rob did. “Talk to me, son.”
“Aoki Fukui knows my music through her husband,” Longbow nodded. “Naomi writes some powerful, good poetry that just seems to play music to me when I read it.”
“So we’re kinda all in on a soundtrack?” Roxy asked.
“Worse,” Longbow said. “Right now, I’ve got a writing partner, a backing band, and possibly enough music on hand to record a full album that might be almost as good as the first one. The producer, Alicia, wants us to do a set of gigs in a few weeks to tighten up the sound, and then record a dozen or so tracks so she can build it.”
Jorge whistled.
“What happens if the mission screws that all up?” Rob asked.
“Got no contracts in place right now, but we’ll need to do something about that soon,” Longbow turned to face him. “We’ve got outtakes and bootlegs good enough to play on all the channels right now. That’s how good these people play. I presume the money’s coming from the Governor, so they’ll own it, more or less, especially as pirates. I could see them walking this all the way into a comeback concert and tour to support a new album in six months, if we aren’t careful.”
“Man, Levi. You really do a wonder messing up my plans, don’t you?” Jorge asked.
“Oh, I kind of enjoy it,” Roxy offered, smiling like a Cheshire Cat. “How many times have I had to play the nymphomaniac with the locals to distract them? Rather enjoying my time with nothing to do but look beautiful and elegant. Maybe you should get off your ass and run a mission to blow something up?”
“Very funny, woman,” Jorge refused to take the bait, but Rob and Longbow snorted in unison. “Nigel, how are we on blowing things up?”
“Invented a new steadycam for the mission,” Nigel preened. Rob couldn’t think of another term to describe the man’s smile and attitude. “Looks like a standard over the shoulder model, but holds four, short-range, armor-piercing missiles you can program with the view-finder. Kill a small tank while still recording full track.”
“You going meta on us?” Jorge asked. “Making a movie about making a movie?”
“Hey. I just build special effects stuff,” Nigel shrugged and grinned. “If it all ends up on the cutting room floor, you’ll have to take that up with the editor. Guy named Royo or something.”
Jorge scowled as everyone else laughed.
“So do we do this with Valencia or Queen of the Borders?” Jorge asked the group. “Raef gives us better control of the whole, but it puts her and our getaway at risk. Queen is a much better cover story, but we introduce a wild card.”
“If you can get Captain Kedzierski to go along with it,” Rob corrected him.
“If, yes,” Jorge said. “Think I have an in there. The man has a chip on his shoulder. Well, a number of them, but one I can exploit.”
“And Wild Duck?” Roxy asked. “We’ll blow everything wide open if you guess wrong. Then our cover is utterly ruined and the best we’ll be able to hope for is that we can get gone before we get arrested or killed.”
“Do we sound out the Governor and his people?” Rob asked. “They might have spies that know.”
“Again, one mistake there an we’re compromised seven ways to Sunday,” Jorge said. “Plus, I don’t want you burning your first Get Out Of Jail Free card on something this piddly.”
“So we just need to know who Wild Duck works for?” Longbow asked. “This Captain Nakano?”
“That’s right,” Jorge replied. “Got an idea?”
Longbow shrugged and took a breath.
“Depending on how you want to look at it, I’ve already got a band, these days,” the guitarist said. “And the possibility of a tour to dangle out there, as well as residuals from an album. Lemme dig into it from my end of things and see what comes up. You are forgetting how small this place really is. How isolated. Crap ton of people, sure, but they’re all either underground or in the mines, down here. Plus a bunch in orbit on the various stations and factories and shipyards. My people might know.”
“It frightens me, working with you folks,” Jorge grinned. “We’ve been here three weeks and you’re already talking galactic tour. Mrs. Jones has a tan beginning to challenge mine, so I’ll have to spend less time in meetings with bankers and more time in a booth.”
“Maybe you should have them build a bigger booth?” Rob offered. “Like a sauna, but a tanning room for a group instead?”
“Kid, I like the way you think,” Jorge said. “Have the hotel rig something up. I can have meetings and maintain the perfect tan. Have them either include a wetbar, or build it close to a bar so I don’t have to walk far to seduce the girl behind the counter.”
Rob muttered something ugly under his breath, but Jorge’s orders fell under the rubric of producer. And it would have him in more regular touch with some of the folks in the engineering sections of this hotel, so more opportunity to expand his network, if he ever needed to come back to 6940 Draconis.
“Anything else?” Jorge asked. “If not, you have your assignments. Rob, I want you to start casting for security forces next. Find me goons who know how to shoot.”
Rob nodded as everyone rose. Lilijana would be heading to orbit by now, and not back for roughly two weeks, depending on whatever her ship was up to. It had been a hell of a sendoff, even if she turned out to be the bad guys by the time this was all done.
Now he needed to dig deeper into the underworld here and find himself some killers.
18
Finn had noted that he had an off-schedule meeting with Steafan, at his flat, rather than in the office. Usually that was the indication of something so high security that his First Officer didn’t trust the people working for them in the trenches.
Unsure, he had a glass of wine on the side table and the bolter with the safety on in his hand when the knock came. Aoki was out doing something she had been vague about, so Finn wondered if Steafan had asked her to be elsewhere.
Finn rose and checked the screen showing the hallway outside his door. Steafan and another man, that one with a hood up shadowing his face. Nobody had weapons, so Finn unlocked the door and stepped back.
Steafan must have understood, because he triggered it open from his side and didn’t move.
“Pizza delivery,” he said conversationally.
“No mushrooms?” Finn fired back.
“Never,” Steafan agreed and stepped forward.
As codes went, it was the sort of thing that made no sense to an outsider, but sounded like a joke, rather than a call/counter one or the other of them could use to indicate trouble.
Or none, in this case.
Finn went back to his seat and clicked the safety on his bolter. He did rest it next to him, within immediate grasp, but there was a stranger with Steafan.
The two of them entered finally, closing the door and stepping into the room. The stranger pulled his hood back to reveal a hard face. A little heavy, like he was carrying an extra ten kilos that was starting to turn to belly, but not there yet.
Steafan gestured the man into the other chair, across from Finn, and took a seat on the couch.
“I won’t bother with names, just to protect everyone,” Steafan began, his own voice low and dangerous. “Suffice it to say this man is one of mine, deep in the dark parts of the underground, and does not report to anyone but me, and only when he had news.”
Finn nodded. Deep cover spy with a single comm number he could use if something happened and he needed to disappear, in order to testify later. That was how you survived in the rough and tumble politics of Corynthe.
If Steafan was willing to vouch for him, and bring him here, it must be good. And dangerous.
“Talk,” Steafan ordered the man.
The stranger took an extra second to compose his thoughts. He had a look about him like an ex-cop. Maybe retired. Maybe gone mercenary. Maybe just kicked off the force for being dirty. It was hard to tell around here. Most cops
weren’t all that clean. They just understood who paid the bills and behaved accordingly.
Most of the time.
“There is a secondary network of folks with some level of military or paramilitary backgrounds,” the man began, in a surprisingly high, tenor voice for as big as he was.
Finn nodded. He knew about those sorts of things. If you weren’t a Starfighter pilot, you could get work as crew, with usually meant either highly-skilled engineer, or highly-dangerous goon.
This man didn’t look like a machinist.
“According to the word on the street, some folks are looking for small arts and close combat experts,” the soldier continued. “Cover story says they are casting for extras in a video shoot, but anybody showing up to inquire is put into one of the commercial Hogan’s Alley combat simulators and given a minimum score they have to achieve in order to make it to the second round of interviews.”
“What’s the cutoff?” Finn asked carefully.
He hadn’t been a pilot, either, so he had an excellent working knowledge of guns and tactical combat ranges.
“Better than someone wanting a spot on Wild Duck or one of the combat motherships,” the man replied tightly, eyes locked on Finn’s at an extra level of communications. “Out where you have to be a pretty seasoned combat vet to place. At Juney’s place, they wanted an eight-ten or better. “
“Vishnu,” Finn exclaimed.
That sort of number cut off about half the people hired as gunslingers on most ships.
“And someone else has to vouch for your combat experience,” the man continued. “We’re a small enough group around here, at least the ones not permanently attached to ships right now, that nobody could inject an imposter.”
“Have they told you the mission?” Finn asked.
“Negative, sir,” the man shook his head. “But they had Juney’s set up for clearing a couple of semi-secured buildings. As in, blow a door with simulated high explosives and take out guards inside before they can kill you. “
“Eight-ten?” Finn repeated.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Did he hire you?” Finn asked.
“Second highest score,” the stranger finally smiled. “We’re on retainer right now, just so we don’t take any other gigs, but I got the impression that they plan to grab everyone and go somewhere with them in the near future. Isolate them, and then identify the target and go tactical. They’ve got good systems in place to give everyone exactly the minimum information necessary to take them to the next step, and nothing more.”
“Are you compromised by being here?” Finn asked.
The stranger turned to Steafan rather than answer.
“I don’t think so,” his First Officer replied. “I have procedures in place for this sort of thing, and they seemed to work. That was what I needed you to hear, Finn, so I’d cut him loose now unless you have questions.”
“None for you,” Finn acknowledged the man.
“Very good, sir,” he rose carefully, turned, and walked to the front door, letting himself out without another word.
Finn rose as well and locked the door, just in case, before he returned to his seat and put the bolter down.
“I’ve read that script,” Finn said. “It does call for a small assault against a couple of buildings near a landing field, in order to disable communications and a weapons tower.”
“Yes, but that’s usually a series of close-ups with a lot of smoke and noise in the background,” Steafan replied. “Maybe one or two shots showing a team of gunmen racing across the field to set it up. I’m given to understand that they have twenty to thirty men currently lined up. Just putting them onto a single crew as boarders would rank the crew among the most dangerous that docks here. And as a rule these men don’t get along well enough to be on the same crew together for long, but they’re professional enough to do a movie shoot. Or a single mission.”
“That’s what frightens me,” Finn said. “I’m guessing you think they’re maybe getting ready to take out a government building? Like, maybe ours?”
“It has a bad feeling, Finn.” Steafan said. “I’ve listened to my gut and rarely been wrong.”
“Are Royo or Jones involved, or just that pimp Segura?” Finn asked.
“So far, just him,” the First Officer replied. “The rest are under enough surveillance that we doubt they’re up to anything except living a nice life while someone else pays. Either Segura’s money, the provenance of which is unknown, or local folks trying to buy goodwill and consideration when the big money does come through and those two make a movie. With or without our boy.”
“And I’m beginning to lean that way, Steafan,” Finn said. “Segura’s starting to move out of dumb and pretty and starting to look like a threat.”
“Do we take him out or bring him in?” Steafan’s eyes got deadly serious.
“Bring him in,” Finn decided. “Or rather, have him arrested and see what happens. We’ll decide after we have him if he should die in a tragic misunderstanding in a jail block.”
“On it.”
Steafan rose and let himself out. Finn locked the door again and then grabbed his wine glass.
You did not become a Governor by being complacent. If Segura became a problem, he would be eliminated, easy as that. Finn was sure he could find other people to step in, if there really was a movie happening, but movies didn’t need a platoon of top-notch killers.
Only revolutions did.
19
“Señior Segura?” a heavy, ugly voice intruded, to go with the shadows that had suddenly blocked out all the light coming from the rest of the bar.
Rob looked up and took their measure, trying to be perfectly still.
Four of them, holding shock wands openly. Uniforms. Badges on their chests. Ugliness on their faces.
Rob turned to the other person seated in the booth with him and gave the man a weak smile.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said simply.
The man was a little white around the edges right now, but he owned a catering company. The four newcomers promised violence.
“How may I help you gentlemen?” Rob asked carefully.
“We have a warrant for your arrest, Segura,” the one in the middle said in the sort of casual tone that suggested they’d be happy if he resisted and they had to detour by the hospital on the way to the jail.
“I see,” Rob said, still not moving. “On the inside of my jacket, under my left arm, is a pulse pistol. I’d rather not try to get it out for you, but I don’t want any misunderstandings, gentlemen.”
The boss leaned forward and tapped Rob on the hand with the shock wand, which proceeded to ground itself into his nervous system perfectly.
Rob figured he’d blacked out for a couple of seconds, because when he could see again, one of the cops was holding his pistol and they had lifted him bodily out of the booth, one man holding a wrist on each side.
“Anything else?” the man in charge asked.
“My wallet is on the right side, with all my paperwork,” Rob struggled to keep his voice calm as he tried to get his feet to work. “But other than that I don’t even have a pocket knife.”
“That’s good, Segura,” the man said.
He found his wrists cuffed expertly, and then one of the men produced a hand scanner that gave him a solid once over. Nigel could have hidden things, if Rob and Jorge had thought he might need them, but even that would have probably given too much away right now.
Instead, he was led out the front of the bar, with one man in front and the other three behind. Running would do him no good, as the first one back there had his hand on the cuffs to control Rob.
He did make eye contact with the bartender, who nodded as they left. Rob never ran a tab in that place, but instead put money on account and kept it topped up, paying tips from ready cash as he went, just so they liked him.
Hopefully, that meant that the man would call Jorge as soon as the excitement died down. Not tha
t Jorge could do much, unless it became necessary to take out the police station as part of his rescue, but that would blow this mission apart. Still, they had gamed it out and laid contingency plans.
Lincolnshire’s navy could always petition Aquitaine to maybe send over a small task group to threaten that Salonnian base. It was just cheaper in the long run to pay spies to blow it up.
Rob wasn’t surprised when the led him to a private tram car and pushed him in. He kept himself composed and relaxed. Hopefully, asking politely meant that someone just wanted to have a chat, rather than planning to make him disappear.
Rob kept himself smiling by reminding himself that Nigel and Roxy might just burn this whole damned planet down if something happened to him, officially or not.
Jorge would piss on the smoldering rubble.
Delightfully, the tram stopped at city hall and they walked him into the police station. Always a risk he would have never been seen again. Booking was perfunctory, consisting of them emptying his pockets for him and then chaining him to a table in an interrogation room.
Small time stuff. Rob had been through worse.
They left him to stew for a while, but Rob assumed he was under surveillance. He could count at least five cameras in here. Stone walls only roughly shaped. Table and three chairs, with him chained to the table. Enough light to make it almost office-like.
“Any chance someone could take me to the men’s room?” Rob asked the room. “Gonna kinda be important soon.”
No too soon, but might as well play dumb and helpful as long as he could.
Jorge had expected something official at some point. Now Rob just had to survive it. Whatever it was.
Maybe twenty minutes passed before the door opened. Right at the over/under for how long you let a suspect wait before you start talking to him. Long enough for the man to start to sweat, but not so long that he gets too angry to come around to cooperation.
