The Liquidation Order

by Jett Lang

  “You’re sure that’s all of them?” She turned the black box over in her hand.

  “Sure as can be. Unless your bag or money has been tapped, you are now invisible.”

  “The money wouldn’t be tapped.”

  He looked at one nondescript wall of his warehouse and nodded. “Just throwing some wisdom at you. It’s not atypical to bug a delivery.”

  “Right.”

  He caught her mood and moved on. “I’ll need another two hours to put everything back together. You want a snack or something?”

  She should have been hungry, but she wasn’t. There’d be time later on, after she had departed the concrete wasteland of outer-Prosperity to find a suitable barter village with what she needed. There was one to the west of the city, and she had traded there before for canned goods and bottled water – stake-out meals. She might be able to find another contact there. She had been fortunate with finding Eddie, but luck was a meager commodity that she couldn’t bank on.

  “Do you know a place I can find supplies around here?” she said as Eddie lit his welding tool blue. Better for him to think she wasn’t going west.

  He affirmed this with a nod, concentrated on the weld. “I’ll give you the coordinates later,” he called back over the muffled din. “Goldies has a nice selection of canned stuff. Some of it’s not expired.”

  “Yum.”

  ※

  Queen’s hovercraft alighted from the warehouse. Beyond her window, she could see the derelict outer-city reach like a claw for Prosperity’s walled-off inner sanctum. The heavy snowfall was luminous against the industrial lighting, which brightened the concrete structures closest to the high steel walls and the ever-vigilant watchtowers.

  The skyscrapers, enclosed in the great circular ramparts, were domed – much like the wealthier sections of New Paradise. The dome itself was bubbled by hangar docks around key midsections to allow the hover traffic easy entrance and exit points. Environment-sealed security checkpoints. Any snow or fog cleared away the moment it hit the force-fielded glass.

  She could make out a few night deliveries gliding into the checkpoint bubbles. The hangars opened and closed their wide crystallized maws as rapidly as shipments arrived and entered. Massive domes housed the city-state’s skilled workers, administrators, and resources. It was the center for diplomats and senators, directors and gladiatorial clone managers. A place of refuge for the well-established and the up-and-coming.

  She felt disconnected from the sanctuary her late citizenship had afforded her. A pervading sense of acceptance had begun to take root, and that surprised her. She had known the city-state and its corporate amenities since she was born; her experience with the outside world had acted to reinforce the safety of the city walls, but once she knew of the dangers, she was enthralled. Her assignments took her everywhere, each place she visited enticing her that much more.

  There had been no boredom in her career. There had been blood. A river of blood, and that river carried her wherever she had to go. Her livelihood had become conclusions. She wasn’t sure that could be changed. Maybe redirected. With her enhancements, she could be a valuable commodity to the underground. They needed people like her. She could carve out another place for herself, safe from the eyes of the conglomerates.

  She didn’t need them. Not anymore.

  The lighted domes gave way to a westward darkness. She flipped the viewport to low-level night vision. Blocks of concrete, worn down to crumbled chalk against a forest that would reclaim what was left untended. But there was hidden enterprise there, both in the ruins and beyond – a culture of scavengers and survivalists born into a world of opportunism. It was her old home without the product placement, or the trite notion of company loyalty. Perhaps that was what lightened her heart, what made this a simpler transition.

  It would be evening before she reached the barter village.

  ※

  The village was called Grey Wolf Point by outsiders. To the natives, it was merely a home and required no name. While it appeared, from a cursory glance, to be only a ramshackle collection of cabins, tents, and open-air stalls, there was an inordinate amount of people, both foraging amid the evergreens and sauntering about the marketplace in camouflage forest attire. She remembered that a large portion of the village lived underground, in a bunker that was as self-sufficient as the four cities it emulated. Fortunate for her, this was neutral ground. Prosperity had yet to incorporate it, and Queen suspected the mineral and chemical-rich city-state had no interest in doing so anytime soon.

  Grey Wolf Point was careful how it conducted business and rarely permitted associated merchants to venture anywhere near outer-cities. For one, the journey was too long without an aircraft, of which the village had few. And for another, the risk versus reward had, over the years, favored the risk axis. Profitable: yes. Reliable: no.

  Then again, that had been the situation she had overheard months ago. As she landed on the only empty square of elevated tarmac, she wondered if things hadn’t changed. Conditions could have actually worsened. Whether or not that would aid or hinder her in finding work, she wasn’t sure. Her contacts were pragmatic, elusive people. If business ceased in one area, another opportunity arose elsewhere. She would prefer not having to pick berries in the forest, if she could help it.

  She snatched the double-barrel from the seat beside her and disembarked. Then she came face-to-face with her first problem of the day.

  A man in a tie-die shirt and round, rose-colored sunglasses was standing ten feet away from her. He had a hand in the pocket of his blue jeans, his other scratching his scalp. Tufted hair that betrayed his alopecia. He quirked his smooth, hairless brows when he said: “Slick ride, man.”

  “Thanks.” She began to stride past him, toward a metal staircase that joined a gravel sidewalk. Her legs were aching. She needed to find a bed.

  Tie-Die clutched her by the forearm. She stopped, looked down at his fingers. “Okay, I’ll bite. What?”

  “You have to pay the docking fee,” he breathed.

  “Are you high?”

  “Man, we’re all high. And we need the cash to stay the course.”

  “You realize I’m holding a shotgun, right?”

  His blood-shot eyes stared over his glasses. “I see it,” he said. “You don’t see my brothers and sisters, though.” He waved at the forest. “It’s just you and that shotgun, man.”

  She made out figures in the trees when she turned her head to look. There were about ten altogether, wearing neutral green colors to blend. Half of them were carrying – three pistols, two submachine guns. Each was sighted on her. The kind of rural hospitality that warmed the soul.

  “What’s the fee?”

  “We’d be cool with a thousand.”

  A comparably small price, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I need to reach for the money.”

  He let go of her arm. She dug out a card from her jacket, handed it off.

  “Now we’re good, kitty cat.”

  There was a soft rustling and the bandits were no longer visible. They would come back for more. For now, she was covered. “Before you go, I need information.”

  “Info is at a premium,” he said.

  She gave him another card. “Hector Fine. Where I can find him?”

  Tie-Die darkened. “You can’t. Security caught him and a few of his guys at a dummy meet. They have him working Prosperity’s lower levels, last I heard.” He shook his head. “Real bummer, man.”

  That complicated matters. “Did someone else take over his operation?”

  “My memory is fogging up,” he said.

  She defogged it.

  “It’s all coming back to me now, kitty cat. So yeah, one of his lieutenants, Mathew, runs things. I mean, technically Fine’s son owns the family business, but he’s too young for people to respect him, so he uses Mathew as his mouthpiece and eyes.”

  Mathew, as she recalled, was highly anti-city. Their one conversation concluded with
him taking a swing at her and Queen following up with a kick to his groin. Hector had hurried her out of the private bar they used for meetings, a doubled-over Mathew staring vengefully after them. She’d have to mend this. The relationship, that is. Not the testicles.

  “Are they still on the east side of town?” she said.

  “Correct you are.” Without another word, Tie-Die walked off the ledge of the hoverpad and into the thicket of firs and pines, his psychedelic design soon out of sight.

  Weirdos coming out of the brambles and asking her for money. At least that hadn’t changed.

  ※

  The pathway terminated at an autodoor that led underground. It was circular, opaque, and attached to an igloo of concrete. The building had no signage. Two guardsmen stood watch, their rifles of the fully automatic variety. They both wore sunglasses and were bearded severely, like revolutionary caricatures, one black, one white. The gravel crunched under her boots as she planted herself before them. She propped the two barrels of her shotgun against her shoulder.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The two men exchanged a glance. It was the black one who spoke first, baritone: “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Is Mr. Fine or Mathew in? I need to speak with one of them.”

  A big smile spread across his lips. “About what?”

  She mimicked his expression, sugared her voice. “Business.”

  Staring at her, he asked his friend, “Is she on the list, Frank?”

  His friend, the white one, seemed perplexed. “You’ve got the same list I do, Dan.” Frank tapped his glasses with his index finger. “But no, she ain’t on the list.”

  Dan lost his smile and shook his head. Apparently Frank wasn’t keen on the classic guardsman runaround. Or he didn’t get it.

  “Anyway,” Dan said, “you need an appointment to get in here.”

  “I didn’t need one before,” she said.

  “Before is not now.”

  “Deep. In that case, I’d like to make an appointment.”

  “You can’t make an appointment with me.”

  Oh, here we go. “With whom do I need to speak to make an appointment?”

  “It escapes me.” His broad smile resurfaced.

  “What do you want?” The guard’s eyes traversed her body the moment she asked the question.

  Dan chuckled. “A lot of things.”

  “How about we narrow it down to money?” She drew out the appropriate cards.

  The cash-flash had little effect on Dan, but he willingly accepted the card while Frank frowned at the exchange.

  “This is a good starter amount,” Dan said, pocketing his bribe. “If I were you, I’d try the canteen on the other end of town. That’s where all the recruiting happens.”

  “What’s the recruiter’s name?”

  “We’re not giving you his name,” Frank stated flatly.

  “For the right price, we might,” Dan corrected.

  “No,” Frank said. “The boss’ll have our asses on a plate if this gets back to him. We’ve said too much already.”

  Dan opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it. He shrugged his wide shoulders at her. “The canteen is your best bet, then.”

  This was the sort of basic knowledge anyone who visited the town for ten minutes would know. Aside from the village elder’s home in the center, it was the largest aboveground structure. Nursing sorrows was of the utmost importance, after all. And sorrowful people had loose lips when plied correctly. Cheapest method. Cheaper than giving this idiot more money.

  “You’ve both been tremendously useless. Thank you.” She turned and headed for the canteen.

  ※

  Queen closed the pine double-door and surveyed the canteen interior. Clusters of men and women dressed in forest fatigues sat and bantered at round, low wooden tables. Florescent discs were inserted into the ceiling above them, coating the people in an even, buzzing light. The majority of the townspeople had plastic trays piled with deer steak, vegetable medley, and some reconstituted starch. Those not eating were gathered along the bar counter drinking out of clear tankards. Behind the barkeep, there was a service window where she could see chefs busily retrieving and delivering orders to be taken to the customers. The aromas wafting from the window were not altogether unappealing, and she was on the near-fainting side of hunger.

  She made for the counter, and a group of admirers caught her eye. It was a diverse band of two blonde muscle men, a female brunette with sharp features, and an older man in an impressive jet black three-piece. If the blondes were vat-grown, they were top-of-the-line: their faces had none of the sagged or glazed-over appearance common to clones. They were by no means handsome, but their blue eyes were alert and their tanned skin unwrinkled. Bodyguards. The woman and man across from them, on the other hand, struck her as gladiatorial retainers. Their grey stares seemed to probe her for weaknesses.

  Queen knew little of arenas, but she did know that women, on average, were rarely included. When they were, it was often as a half-time entertainer, or as a sniper to defend the crowd from any haywire beast. Participation in the arena was a vat-grown endeavor; it was a playground for the gambler and the genetic engineer. For these two to be watching her, that meant they had other plans. She’d have a meal and wait for one of the muscleheads to invite her over. Appearing desperate would do her no favors. She had credits to keep her afloat, sort through offers, and choose what she wanted. No hurry, no rush.

  The barkeep was already leaning over the grooved, elm counter when she stopped and faced him. He was a rotund man with bulbous and tattooed forearms. The green and red dragon tattoo on his right arm moved of its own accord, swimming and circling the man’s pale, hairy skin. She hadn’t seen an animated tattoo since advanced training; her bunkmate had spent a hefty sum getting one installed, had experienced numerous dermatological issues afterward, and eventually removed the thing for a chance at a good job.

  “Glass or plate?” the barkeep said.

  “Both.”

  He shouted her combo back at a young man with a red face and bandana. The young man looked at Queen oddly for a moment through the service window, then he nodded and retreated into the bustling stainless steel kitchen.

  “Sit wherever you want.” The barkeep handed her a plastic numbercard – ‘28’ – and resumed his chatting, checking, and payment collection.

  She found an unoccupied table in line with the gladiator party. They were conversing among themselves now, the woman and old man eying her occasionally. There was interest; she just had to be patient. A small bowl of peanuts was already on her table to take her mind off it. She scraped the bowl close to her and got cracking. The volume of the patrons beside her spiked – a joke’s punchline missed. There was relief in being lost in the amusement of others, a sort of blending-in with this mixture of outlaw, exile, nomad, and villager, each carving out an avenue for sustained existence. These were the people that distinguished themselves by keeping the lowest profile. There was much to learn from them, she knew. Adaptation was the first skill learned as a Liquidationist. You had to watch a person, had to speak with them, had to let them guide you; and when you had learned their dance, that is when you began to guide them.

  She broke a peanut shell in half and let its contents drop onto the mess she had created. Suddenly, she wasn’t too keen on consuming anything. She pushed the bowl away, yet she couldn’t push away the thoughts of Jack that snuck up on her. Executing him would have been the smarter play, would have settled the matter permanently. She had allowed herself to be led, almost to slaughter, and when she discovered the deception she couldn’t bring herself to task. Even with all her training, he had outmaneuvered her. She felt like a school girl. It was a call for companionship, a beating drum within her that thundered for attention, and he had used that against her. The worst part was she had been honest with him: It was more than lusting. She had tangled herself in unnecessary emotion, forgotten her on-the-job lessons. There was no
excuse.

  A stab of pain caught her attention. She looked down and noticed she hadn’t let go of the wooden bowl, was rupturing it. She pulled a splinter out of her finger. Droplets of blood leaked onto the side of her hand, and her fingertip pulsed. Closing her eyes, she felt the rhythm of her heart in her ears. She swallowed, throat sore. Her eyes stung. Not now. She regulated her breathing as she had been taught. Wrapped a blue-grey microcloth around her wounded digit. Exhaled. Of course it was his cloth. The modicum of peace she’d gained from breathing was replaced with something else.

  “Twenty-eight!”

  She scooped up her number. A man on a barstool was observing her closely as she approached. He was white and had the same full black beard as the igloo guardsmen. She’d seen him when she ordered, his sunglasses and forester’s colors hard to miss. What she hadn’t noticed before was a finely-cut scar on his left cheek running two inches below the dark shades. That was a familiar mark on an unfamiliar face.

  “I know you from somewhere,” Scar said.

  The barkeep eyed them warily. He slid her tray across the counter. “No trouble now.”

  “There won’t be any trouble, Stan,” the man with the scar said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “If you want to talk, come to my table,” Queen said. She wasn’t about to get into pleasantries and possible business among shoulder-to-shoulder strangers.

  Scar followed her. He hung his olive-colored field cap on the chair beside her and took a seat. His hair was black grease, slicked back. He was not particularly tall or short, but somewhere in the middle, with an athletic build that was probably naturally acquired. His sunglasses appraised her as she cut into the overcooked dear steak. She chewed.

  “Listening Post Forty-Five,” Scar said. “I remember. You’re the one who gave me this.” He touched his marred cheek with his forefinger.