by OJ Lowe
Lost amidst his thoughts, he hadn’t been paying attention to where the speeder was going. The only directions he’d given the driver was for him to take the shortest route he could, he knew what Belderhampton taxi speeder pilots were like. If you left plenty of room for interpretation of your directions, they’d take you all around the kingdom first if they could get away with it. Out the corner of his eye, he saw they’d passed the city hall. And again. And again. The pilot was going around the roundabout outside, locked in the loop, and Nick sat bolt upright, suddenly awake and alert. He didn’t know what was happening, but he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.
“Hey!” he said, banging on the window that split him from the driver. The rear of speeders usually were separate compartments from the cockpit, they’d said it was for security and privacy reasons, he’d always operated under the assumption it was to stop inane conversation between driver and passenger. The only way of contact was through the two-way hatch that were used to pay.
The door across from him opened and someone got in. He had to grab his own hand, restrain himself from going for an X7 that was no longer there. He rested his hands in his lap, took in the figure who’d arrived in the back seats of the speeder with him. There was something decidedly ordinary about him, short in stature with salt and pepper hair cropped neatly about his head. He looked tired, like the days weren’t long enough to hold all his worries but that he still needed to keep on going.
“Good morning,” he said, looking at Nick. “We’ve found you. At last. You’re a hard man to track down, you know that?”
Nonplussed by it all, Nick only shrugged. “Couldn’t comment. We?” He had a horrible feeling that he knew the answer, but he wasn’t entirely sure how possible it was. They’d suspended him. So why were they checking up on him like this?
The small man banged on the window and the speeder set off again, turning left off the roundabout and merging with the rest of the traffic.
“We, yes.” His accent was clipped and polished, he sounded like he chose every word carefully. Each sentence had the unfortunate effect of sounding apologetic. Not a local accent but moderately upper-class. “I can show you my identification, if you wish?”
“I’d like that,” Nick said. He leaned forward in his seat to meet his eyes. “In fact, I’d insist on it. You can do that and then you can explain exactly who the hells you are and what you think you’re doing!”
The badge came out, he’d seen it before too many times to remember. He owned one himself after all, even if it was currently out of his possession. The silver unicorn, the universal logo of the United International Spiritual Control Organisation. He barely had the time to shake his head in disbelief before the small man had pressed his finger down in the middle of the unicorn.
He'd heard the words that emerged from it before, had seen how it lit up with a pleasant glow at his very touch. It meant the badge was real, it meant the agent was really who he claimed to be, it meant this whole situation was happening.
“The bearer of this United International Spiritual Control Organisation official identification is authorised to carry out all duties considered part of the remit of the organisation under the Unifications Act. All assistance should be rendered wherever possible by the request and express approval of the Senate of the Five Kingdoms.”
It had originally been intended as a joke put to Alvin Noorland, one of the brilliant minds behind every major bit of tech that came out of Unisco. How did they stop people pretending to be Unisco agents when they weren’t? How did they know for sure that the person they were meeting wasn’t an impostor? Secrecy was a badge of honour the agency had shrouded itself in but that came with its own problems.
Noorland had put his mind to it, come up with the fingerprint recognition system, connecting the tech in the badges to the Unisco database. Anyone who held their fingerprint down on the badge for an appropriate length of time activated the connection, the treated surface of the badge scanned the print, compared it at length to those in the database. If an authorised Unisco agent was the bearer of the badge, then the message would play, and all would be well, those hearing it would know that they were who they said they were. If they were an impostor who had no right to be holding the badge, their fingerprints would be logged, compared against every database Unisco had access to and they’d be getting an impromptu visit very soon, asking them why they’d been trying to activate a Unisco identification badge without proper authorisation.
It was never a very pleasant discussion for those involved. It usually involved a lot of intimidating terms such as ‘possibility of a custodial sentence’ and ‘without a trial’ as well as Nick’s favourite, ‘removal from civilised society in as swift manner as possible.’ Ultimately, the first time always was a caution, a show of shock and awe that ninety-nine times out of a hundred had the desired effect. Repeat offences amongst those targeted were low.
“Name’s Nigel Carling, old son,” the short man said, offering him a hand. “Agent-In-Charge Nigel Carling of the Belderhampton branch of Unisco. And as to what I’m doing, I’m afraid that’s quite a long story to tell.” He glanced at his wrist, twisted his lips about in bemusement. “Although, we have time. By my count, your good lady won’t leave the house for another sixty-four minutes based on previous habits. We’ll talk on the way there. You can still surprise her.”
Nick’s first instinct was to reply to that with a question as to how he knew Sharon’s habits when Carling smiled at him. His hand was still there, waiting.
“I know you’ve had some problems with one of my opposite number over in Salawia,” he said pleasantly. “That’s in the past.”
“I was told not to discuss Unisco business,” Nick said. He still hadn’t shaken Carling’s hand. The small man was starting to look a little uncomfortable, slowly withdrew it back into his pockets. “I’m currently on suspension.”
Carling let out a puckering sound, a cluck of the tongue that belied mock-distress. “Well, that changes nothing,” he said. “In fact, I think it makes you perfect to help deal with the problem.”
The man called Hobb stepped across the floor, looked up at the stairs in front of him with a disparaging glance. He was in hostile territory and stairs were a risk that sometimes had to be conquered. All it took was one enemy at the top with a blaster, they saw you lead with your head and you were dead before you’d seen the flash of the shot.
He wasn’t expecting any hostile reception. Didn’t mean that he couldn’t be surprised. Shady Miles was four storeys tall, it had the smell of dust and mothballs. Nobody had been here for months. The lease was still active for weeks yet. The coincidence of timing was perfect. He had to wonder about that. Part of his research for the job had been to examine Shady Miles beforehand, he’d not really been able to find anything worth telling. They’d set up, done a few courier jobs locally, paid on a yearly lease for the warehouse then collapsed the business. He’d seen it before, it usually stank of suspicious circumstances.
At the very least, the plan for the execution had been put into place long before they’d contacted him to do it. He wondered if they’d had someone else in mind who’d become unable to follow through with the contract. Death was an occupational hazard. When you killed for credits, the odds of you dying peacefully in bed at an old age were very low. It was why you didn’t plan long-term. That went for clients as well, that was just as reasonable an assumption as another being unable to follow through on the contract. Set it up six months before, you ran the risk of a financial trail, the risk of it being found out. Give it the minimal possible amount of time, it was less risk to them.
Hobb took the stairs slowly, one at a time and as quietly as he could. He was a wanted man. Arrest warrants existed for him across the five kingdoms. If this job was a set-up, it was the best he’d ever seen. He didn’t want to take the chances. It was the things you didn’t expect that tripped you up.
Onto the first floor. He peeked up above the opening of
the stairs, shot furtive glances back and forth into every nook and cranny he could see around him. Nothing. He let his shoulders sag back. His free hand crept away from the Bellario-4 he had in his pocket. For now, anyway. If it came to a firefight, he wasn’t surrendering. He’d die with a weapon in his hand if he had to.
He repeated the process with the next set of stairs. Reached the top. Nothing. Clear. By the time he reached the top floor, his heart rate had returned to normal and his hand had left his pocket. The Bellario felt heavy against his hip. It was a cheap weapon but serviceable. He didn’t like blaster pistols, but they’d do the job in a pinch. Sometimes a close-up job needed to be done. Not Hobb’s style at all. The best kills for him were the ones that nobody saw coming.
He’d taken the Bellario from a pair of men who’d made the unwise life choice of trying to accost him outside the motel he’d taken up in, gaunt hungry travellers who stank of the hard life, their clothes and faces caked with the grime of the streets. They stank of methiliation, the most recent drug of choice amongst the down-and-outs of society. Incredible highs but the lows could kill you if it was pushed long and hard enough. The streets were dark and deserted, ideal mugging circumstances. He’d purposely picked a part of the city people didn’t go unless they had no other choice. They’d wanted his bag, one of them had shown him the blaster in his ragged jacket. Hobb had been singularly unimpressed, had dropped the bag and smiled at them. He’d nudged it towards them with his foot, hiding with the grimace at the effort. His bag was heavy, considering what was inside. One had gone for it, clutching for it eagerly with outstretched fingers.
His eyes still locked onto those of the mugger with the blaster, Hobb’s face had broken into a smile. He didn’t smile often, he considered it unprofessional to let those he dealt with know what he was thinking. His boots were heavy, capped with durasteel toes, one of them caught the bending mugger square in the middle of the nose and he heard the satisfying crunch of shattering bone being driven back hard into his face. He went down, hard, didn’t even twitch.
Whatever qualities the mugger with the blaster might have had before the methiliation took hold of him, it hadn’t done much for his dexterity. He was still fiddling it out of his waistband as Hobb covered the distance, drove him to the ground with an elbow to the throat. He liked going for the throat. Enough force behind the blow, it would always be a killing impact. Gentle wasn’t a word he associated with his line of work. Gentle rebounded on you in horrific fashion. Nobody gave you prizes for avoiding collateral damage. It was get in, do the job, get out.
He’d kept the weapon as a trophy, torn it free of the waistband with a ripping sound. He wasn’t going to need it. Leaving two bodies in the street was unprofessional. It was different circumstances to those of the warehouse. There’d been no way to explain that away other than an accident. Here, in the rough part of the city, violence was a way of life. They’d tried mugging someone, they’d wound up dead. Nobody would care. He retrieved his bag, glanced at the man who’d tried picking it up. Very definitely dead. His chest wasn’t moving. His face was ruined. His kick had been good, forced shards of bone back deep into his brain if Hobb’s guess was right. He wasn’t a doctor, but he’d had some experience of injuries like this. He knew the signs.
The top floor of Shady Miles was much in the same style as the rest of the warehouse, the only difference being that clash in the scent of the air, cool and fresh but with a distinctive tang of mould. Someone had left a window open somewhere. Hobb licked his finger, put it to the air, trying to work out where it was coming from. If he was going to work from here, he needed to know every possible variable. He crossed the floor, felt the cool breeze against the rough skin on his face as he homed in on the window. Not open. Smashed. Somebody had hurled a rock through it. Good aim, he had to admit. The mould was focused around this area, a victim of the elements in recent months.
Down below him, Graham’s Field was already becoming a hive of activity, dozens of the travelling folk already moving to set the area up for the coming festivities. It was the only time building was allowed in the park, the rest of the year it was sorely discouraged. Belderhampton was a city that had developed heavily over the last hundred years, spreading out and out in an encroachment onto the countryside. Yet this square mile of greenery in the centre of the city, they didn’t want touched. It was an interesting conundrum. He’d heard stories about it. Nothing more. A group of them were putting together a huge stage, the hub of the festival, the single point from where it all originated. There’d be performers there, spirit dancers, singers, shows of skill and dexterity that had to be seen to be believed.
It was also where his target would be, come the night of the carnival. Hobb crouched down, opened his bag and started to remove the individual pieces of the big Femble sniper’s rifle one by one.
“Agent Carling,” Nick said, once the moment had faded away. Carling struck him as the sort of man who liked to make a grand statement, he wasn’t really in the mood to deal with them right now. “You don’t seem to be hearing what I’m saying. It’s not that I’m unwilling to help you, it’s that I’m actively suspended from any sort of duty. By order of the Inquisitor himself.”
“Dear Divines,” Carling said, shaking his head. He sounded appalled. “Mallinson himself? Does that noxious little weed still work for us?”
“Yep,” Nick said. “Made a special trip out to Salawia to suspend me himself, pending a review of his investigation.” He leaned back in his seat, glanced out the window. He didn’t recognise this part of the city. It had been too long since he’d been back here. Things changed. Some parts got better. Some got worse. The buildings might change, the people rarely did. Richer or poorer, they still endured through the worst the city had to throw at them. “Could barely hide his glee.”
“Well that’s too bad,” Carling said. “Heard about your partner in the morning briefs. It’s a shame. You have any news on her?”
Nick shook his head. “No. Nothing.” It came out a little abrupt, but he didn’t want to discuss it with Carling. Not right now.
If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Nicholas, I’ve got to be honest with you, we have a problem.”
You might, Nick thought. I don’t. There’s no we about this. Just you. Just me. “I don’t see how I do. I’m here on leave. The moment I stop talking to you, I’m forgetting this conversation ever took place. There’s nothing you can say to me which is going to change that.”
“I need your help,” Carling said. “I’ve been frantic. I spent all last night searching for any out-of-city agents who might be coming here in time for the carnival. Your name was the only one.”
That caught his interest a little. He hesitated, wondered whether it was worth it or not, then let the question slip out. He was going to regret this. “What about the carnival?”
“Are you attending?” Carling asked, his face lifting. His voice sounded hopeful. Behind the glass, the pilot carried on oblivious to their discussion. “Because that would be really damned helpful.”
“I was planning on it,” Nick said. “Just me and the lady. Been too long since we did something like this.” He was mentally kicking himself for being drawn into asking, but he had to know. “Why, is something going to happen at the carnival? Something I should know about.”
Carling smiled sweetly at him, slid a data pad across to him. It was already switched on, had a Unisco WANTED poster on the screen. The man on it had a large head, shaved to a buzz, his eyes brown and beady. Nick took in the cruel lines of his cheeks, the stern expression in his jaw. Although the picture mainly showed his head, what little of his shoulders Nick could see looked huge, the muscles in his neck bull-like and prominent. He looked a wholly unpleasant individual, not the sort you wanted to meet late at night.
He said as much to Carling who smiled weakly. “That’s an understatement, Nicholas. He’s a bad one.”
Nick didn’t hear him, too busy reading down through the sheet. Lucas Hobb.
In his mid-forties and wanted for several counts of murder, conspiracy to murder and one act of treason. Well that was something you didn’t see every day. He glanced over at Carling. There’d been one thing on there that he’d expected to see and hadn’t. It made things interesting. Professional assassins were hardly uncommon, what was rare was that the duty hunting them fell to Unisco. The Unisco remit was a broad one but specific in that it only related to crimes involving the abuse of spirits, it covered everything from trafficking which Nick could tragically testify to, to murder of spirit callers, to stadium damage or even illegal gambling on bouts. There were whole departments set up to various possible appellations of the law.
“He’s a little out of our jurisdiction, isn’t he?” Nick said, reading the words again. “Unless he killed a spirit caller, but I’ve not heard of any being slain in recent months. At least not by a professional anyway.”
“There’s likely been a few,” Carling said. “But it isn’t why we want him, you see.”
Nick said nothing. If Carling wanted to volunteer more information for him, then he was welcome to. He cleared his throat, studied him. Carling didn’t look like he was any happier with the situation than Nick felt. This whole thing had the potential to be a huge cluster-fuck given half the chance. The best thing he could do would be to walk away from it. Get out, use one of his spirits and fly home. Forget this discussion had ever taken place.
He'd give Carling one more chance. “Fascinatingly cryptic, Nigel. But I’m still not entirely sure why you want me given you probably have more agents under your command than you need. And I’m not sure exactly what difference I could make anyway in whatever your problem is.”
“He was seen,” Carling said. “We know that Lucas Hobb is in this city. We have a world class assassin is somewhere in Belderhampton just a matter of hours before the biggest event of the city calendar. An event which is attended by thousands from across the five kingdoms. I don’t know if you realise wholly what sort of people are attracted to the carnival these days, it’s a lot different to when you were a boy. Its exclusivity gives it cachet and the rich decided that they want a part of it, no matter how degrading they might have found it before. We have politicians and royals, playboys and powerbrokers, all manner of the great and the good from the kingdoms congregating here very shortly and a professional killer who’s come here for a reason.” He looked at him. “Do you see why I’m concerned?”
