by David Ryker
Ward was faster. He kicked sideways, heel finding the depression between the ridges on top of the container.
He rolled backward, feeling the shockwave as the rifle fired, the noise deafening him. The bullet shattered off the corner of the container and fragments burst into the air like a firework.
Ward glanced at it for a fraction of a second before turning back to see the rifle raised, the kick having forced the barrel up, exposing the guy’s chest.
Ward found his feet and moved forward, pumping rounds into him. The first three hit him in the gut, the fourth hitting him in the upper chest, the fifth went right through his forearm.
The guy yelled, blood spurting all over the painted steel.
The rifle fell from his hands and he reached for the pistol on his belt, pulling his punctured arm into his chest.
He bared his teeth at Ward, his meaty hands closing around the grip of his pistol.
Ward breathed, stopped, leveled his hands and put one into the guy’s shoulder before dropping his aim and putting one into the guy’s knee, blowing it out.
The shooter yelled and fumbled the pistol, sinking forward and collapsing onto his good leg, spitting flecks of saliva from his puffed lips.
Ward approached quickly, looking the guy dead in the eyes, delving into his memory banks for any recollection of him. He’d seen a thousand guys like this before, but not this one, and he wasn’t young. He looked seasoned — maybe not as a sniper, but if he’d gotten that pistol up, he wouldn’t have hesitated to put Ward down.
Ward’s hands re-tightened around the grip and he came forward quickly, stopping out of reach of the big guy. He had to be a shade — someone without an identity. Someone not on the OCA central system — deleted to make this line of work easier, to make them more attractive to potential employers. No digital trails that way. Nothing to trace it back to them. Just a shade — a ghost without a face or name.
It made traveling anywhere practically impossible unless you had the right connections. And this guy and his outfit definitely did. To get himself and Sadler onto the planet, along with these guns? Ward couldn’t imagine who they would have had to bribe and how much it would have cost to get it done. Or even how it was done.
He was on his knees, panting, scowling up at Ward, breathing hard, thick lines of dark blood running down his tanned and tattooed skin.
“Who are you?” Ward asked flatly. “Who do you work for?”
The guy spat at Ward’s feet.
Ward sighed. “I’m not going to threaten to shoot you, because I think you know that I will — and I’ve got plenty of bullets left.”
“Screw you,” he said quietly.
“What was that?” Ward asked sinisterly.
“Screw you, pig.” He made a move to spit again, hanging his chin just enough for Ward to angle a kick squarely into the bottom of it.
The guy’s head snapped backward and he made a strangulated noise, flopping onto his back with a clang.
Ward’s knee found the guy’s collarbone and pressed down. He coughed and wheezed, blood spilling from the corners of his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue. Ward hoped it’d teach him to use it more wisely.
“Who’s bankrolling you?” That was the key question here. This guy wasn’t the brains for the operation. He had gun-for-hire written all over him. Ward’s eyes roved his outfit and tattoos for any sign of where he’d come from or who his employer was. There were no insignias — a plain green ballistic vest. His trousers were black, spattered with dust from the plains. But there was something else. On his legs, winding over the vest, over his skin — a thin sheen of something like a fishnet. Clear, like little strands of plastic. At his belt, it thickened into a strand that ended at his holster, a little box there.
Ward’s eyes found it just as the guy’s hand moved there. The tombstone pulled on his neck again, the reaper taking a swing and he threw his hands up on instinct, leaping back as the guy thumbed the switch.
He felt the heat on his arms, the force of the blast throwing him backward. He could smell burnt hair, the flash of light blinding him.
Ward landed flat on his back, the dying screams of the merc ringing out in the humid air as flames ripped across his skin and body. The explosive material, whatever it was, combusted and spat molten flesh onto the steel — Ward guessed magnesium from the heat and the color.
He scrabbled backward, scissoring his way toward the edge as the guy writhed, his back arching up to a point that Ward thought he was going to fold in two like an old lawn chair.
He screamed and howled, the stink of burning meat filling Ward’s nostrils. And then there was silence.
The guy collapsed flat, his lips burned had peeled back to his nose, his teeth charred and protruding from coal-black gums, eyes boiled to bubbling white jelly in his head.
Ward coughed and hacked, spitting out the taste of death.
When he looked up, the guy was dead, and Ward was standing on top of the world, staring out over the port.
In the distance, from the plains, a cloud of dust was rising behind black insects as they flew in. The SB, coming in force and at speed. Sentinels in their cruisers.
Ward stared at the corpse, then at the rifle, and then back at the cavalry.
“Shit.” He pushed the pistol back into its holster and sighed, knowing that his only good lead was lying dead in front of him.
13
Ward batted at the singed material on his forearms with his hands, brushing off the burning threads.
Smoke curled upward around his head as he stared at the charred corpse in front of him. He wondered what sort of person would kill themselves like that rather than be taken in. Ward guessed he had a rap sheet longer than his blackened arms, but if he was no stranger to custody then why not just give up, get taken in, and roll?
That was the beauty of mercs. They could always be turned. They could always be offered something and flipped. Their only allegiance was to themselves. For someone to do that, though? To burn themselves up? What was so terrifying to someone like that, that rather than being taken in, they’d just kill themselves without a second thought?
Ward swore, turning away and coughing into his sleeve. The stench was pungent.
Moozana was going to have his balls. This was his one shot to get back on track, and back on the right side of the SB. If he’d brought this guy in, they’d have had shooter and murder weapon. Now they just had charcoal and questions.
A sharp whine split the air and grew. A surveillance drone, quad-rotor, buzzed in, emblazoned with the CSC insignia. It hovered over the corpse, magic eye swiveling, first to the body, then the rifle, then to Ward.
He set his jaw and lifted his hands. “I didn’t do this,” he said, “for the record.”
He looked at the rifle, then back at the drone. He considered taking it — considered picking it up and running with it, but he knew he couldn’t. He wanted to, because he knew that if it went back to the SB it would probably disappear into a black hole. It would be mislabeled in evidence or misfiled, or disappear, no doubt by the same sentinels that took a crack at them at Ootooka’s. But removing evidence from a crime scene was a perfect way to get a real warrant put out on him.
He growled and moved forward, pulling out his communicator. He snapped photos of the merc and the rifle and then hastily shoved it back into his pocket, turning away.
He paused for a second, turning back, lifting his hand to the surveillance drone. “Moozana — get your house in order. And,” he stopped and swore. “I’m not running, all right? I’m working.”
He let himself down off the first container with a bang and took off at a run, dropping each consecutive level, ignoring the pain in his ankles and knees. There wasn’t time for that.
His boots hit concrete and he cut right, circling the other way this time, back toward the admin building.
He was breathing hard by the time he hit the corner. The SB would be close to the checkpoint now — maybe even at it already. Just
a minute or two across the port.
The rows of bullet-dinged cars in front of the admin building sat quietly, as if the exchange hadn’t just happened.
Ward tracked sideways, past them until he found Arza, sitting with her back pinned to the fender of one, shards of windshield glass in her hair.
“Arza,” Ward said, breathless, moving toward her. “Are you all right?”
Her head jerked violently and her pistol shot up, shaking in the air.
“Woah,” Ward said softly, raising his hands. “It’s me — it’s me.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed, as sirens began to fill the air.
“Put the gun down,” Ward said, stepping toward her. “It’s me. It’s okay.”
She swallowed and let the pistol fall to her lap.
His arms laced under hers and he helped her to her feet. She could barely stand. He wasn’t surprised — getting shot at was no fun. It got easier with time, less horrifying, at least, but he didn’t think that would be of any comfort to her in that moment.
He took the pistol off her and knelt, listening as the sirens grew closer. They were definitely inside the port by now.
“Arza,” he said, taking her hands and looking her in the eye. “Listen to me.”
She stared back.
“Are you with me?”
She nodded.
“Good. You did good.” He smiled and she returned it, briefly, barely. “Now listen, you’ve got to make a choice here.” His voice was tight. “The SB are coming — right now — they’re going to want to take us in. Going to pull us off the case.”
Her mouth opened a little but Ward cut her off.
“The shooter is dead — no, don’t, just listen — the rifle is up there,” he said, aware of the tightening noose. “And they’re going to take it into evidence — and then… I don’t know — if there are still weak links at the SB — shit, this could be the first real lead we’ve gotten. I don’t want to let it slip away.” Ward stood up, looking over the cars. The containers were blocking his view of the port, across which he had no doubt the SB were racing. “I’m not going in.”
Arza stared up, in shock.
“I’m not letting them take me — I’ve got to see this through before it all falls apart. First Ootooka, then the coroner, now this shooter — people are turning up dead all around us, and it’s muddying the waters. We’re out ahead of this now — got something solid to go on.” Ward grinned a little, the wheels finally turning in his head. “So I’m going.”
She furrowed her brow.
“I’ve got to go now. And…” He was suddenly nervous — there was a lot at stake for him. He told himself and Moozana he wasn’t running, but if Arza didn’t go with him, he was. She’d talk — why wouldn’t she? And then he’d have a real problem. And yet, it wasn’t just that — he wanted her to come. He wanted her to help him finish it. He hadn’t had someone watching his back for a while — not since Sadler — and he’d forgotten how much he missed it. “Come with me.”
“What?” Arza asked, her voice tiny.
He offered his hand. “Come with me. Right now.”
“I— I can’t.” She lifted her head, listening to the sirens. Before, there was plausible deniability — no time to come in. But now, with the SB bearing down on them like a hurricane, there was no denying anything. If she left, she was running from them. And innocent people didn’t run. Running was as good as acknowledging they were breaking all the rules. What he was asking her to do was go against everything she’d ever stood for. Her father was old-school SB — real by-the-book sort of guy. Klaymo too. Moozana must have been near their age — and was cut from the same cloth. Hell, they’d probably all worked together. To ask her to betray Moozana was to betray her dad, too. He didn’t like it, but he had to ask. He had to.
“I’m not going to force you. But you have to decide, right now. Will you come with me? Will you help me finish this?”
His hand was quivering, his heart beating harder now than when he was dodging bullets.
She looked at him for a few seconds, weighing it up. And whether it was the sincere look in his eye — maybe the first one she’d ever seen — or whether she did want to finish what they’d started, he wasn’t sure. But either way, she stared him dead in the eyes, and took his hand.
He pulled her to her feet and dragged her along until he thought she could move on her own, and then they were both running.
She followed him to the bike and they mounted it without a word. He took one look over his shoulder, first at the container stacks, multicolored and ominous, and then at Arza, nervous yet focused. Sure, yet scared.
He nodded almost imperceptibly and the corner of her mouth curled up just as minutely.
He pulled back hard on the throttle and the bike picked up speed quickly.
They swung hard around the parked cars and headed away on the other side of the admin building.
Slowly, the sirens began to fade.
Ward kept the hammer down, streaking across the far side of the port, through more containers. Ahead of them tower three was spinning up.
A ship was starting to lift and spin, the photon beams filling the sails from beneath, turning the whole thing like a huge flying disc. The slight tilt in the sails produced lift and the thundering chug of a container transport ship picking up speed cut the air.
Like a storm roiling in the distance, it grew, picking up pace with each revolution.
Ward squinted and Arza buried her face in his collar, the heat and light coming off the glowing sails like driving through an oven.
The ship on tower three started to lift, the water in the cooling pools starting to vaporize.
It shrouded itself in a thick layer of steam and began to rise.
It spun faster and faster, burned hotter and hotter, the lasers firing harder and harder as the ship — a million tonnes of steel and sail — hauled itself up the spire, the wheels pulling and squealing on the alcrete. It was deafening, awesome, beyond belief.
The cloud of steam rolled over them like a wave, swallowing them up.
Somewhere in the shroud, tower three ached and roared.
And Ward and Arza got lost in its shadow.
About thirty clicks out in the plains, when the port had disappeared over the horizon and all that they could see of civilization were the tops of the glittering skyscrapers of Eudaimonia and the jutting spikes of the port, Ward eased off the throttle and let the bike dwindle with a hum until they slowed and stopped.
The grass under the tires was thick and long and his arms were numb from the juddering.
He’d ridden straight out of the back gate and as fast as he could as straight as the crow flies.
A herd of Martian cattle roved to their right, plodding slowly across the featureless landscape toward the sinking sun, their wide curling horns bleached white in the sun. One of them lowed loudly, the sound carrying endlessly in the quiet air.
Ward shivered, feeling the temperature sink with the fading of the light.
Arza leaned over his shoulder and looked back at their disappearing trail in the grass. “What now?”
It was a loaded question. “We keep going,” Ward said, almost flatly. They’d signed their own arrest warrants. It was all they could do.
Arza nodded. “Okay — so where do we go first?”
“We need to get back to the city — I know where Sadler was holed up.”
“What?” Arza was surprised. “How?”
He hung his head. “That billboard we passed? The brownstones?”
“The what?”
“The townhouses they’re building in the city — to look like New York? It’s — it’s a city back on Earth—”
“I know what New York is.”
“Right, well, Sadler always used to say that owning one was her dream. That’s where she wanted to retire to. I never got why — the place is a rat’s nest. It hasn’t been remotely liveable since the early two-thousands — but that’s always what
she wanted. Some romanticized ideal or something.”
“What does that have to do with Eudaimonia?”
“We passed that billboard earlier — it was a new development. Brownstones — like on Earth.”
“Didn’t it say it wouldn’t be finished until next year?”
Ward nodded. “Right, but before the shooter set himself on fire—”
“He did what?”
“He — it’s — he set himself on fire — killed himself to avoid being arrested.” Ward let out a breath — he couldn’t believe quite how quickly he’d glossed over that, like a life meant nothing. He cleared his throat and carried on. “But, before he did, I noticed his pants were dusty.”
“Dusty? And that matters why?”
“Dusty like a construction site. Alcrete dust — nearly white. I’d bet they’ve got a little base of operations set up in the buildings there — some of them have to be finished by now, but there’s probably no magic eye there yet — not linked into the main system — and if whoever’s financing this managed to pay off some SB sentinels, you can bet your ass that they’d be able to pay off some contractors to look the other way.”
“And you think because Sadler wanted to retire to one of these houses on Earth she’d insist on choosing one for their hideout in Eudaimonia?” She clicked her teeth together. “I don’t know, Ward — it seems a little thin to me.”
Ward laughed. “You know what I’ve learned in all the years doing this? That the agents and investigators who make connections based on thin are usually the ones that come out with an arrest under their belts in the end. Now, Sadler got that tattoo on her arm — that code — for me. She wanted me on this, for some reason — to catch these guys — I have to assume it’s that. The AIA said she flipped, but—”
“How do you know that?” Arza got off the bike before Ward could answer and moved around to look at him, expression hard.
“I just do — I knew from years back, before I worked for the SB —”
“Sadler was on your last mission for the AIA. You said you hadn’t seen her since. You haven’t been allowed contact with the AIA outside of SB channels for six years, Ward — I read your file. So tell me, how do you know that?”
