“The sanctions,” Warlord said. “I told you.”
The captain continued, “I think this is a fair price.” And he touched his display.
Warlord looked at it and smiled. “My friends, that is far too high.”
“It’s the agreed-upon price for the items you ordered,” Shade said. “Plus a good value for the others.”
“We are not a prosperous world. Big Town is but one poor orbital, and I have many hungry mouths to feed. I can go seventy percent on the munitions, but I will pay you only fifty percent of the price you list for the other items. Surely mangoes don’t cost that much. We have spectacular oranges, you know.”
“Same food, day in and day out, gets old,” Shade said. “The goodwill of your people does not.”
And so the negotiations began. They haggled for a bit, but finally got close to a price that was less than what the captain and Shade had asked for, but much higher than Warlord had originally offered. They seemed stuck on the price of the Citadel. It was hard to read the man. He seemed confident, open, even friendly, and it appeared that he was almost happy at this price, but that didn’t mean the Warlord still might not decide to kill them anyway.
“Ah, enough squabbling over money. Let us take a break before I make my final decision.” Warlord suddenly stood up, then pointed at Jackson. “I have something to show you. Come with me.”
Chapter 12
The change was so sudden, every one of the crew went on alert.
“I thought we were the goose,” Jackson said over Jane’s network.
Jane’s silent network was rather clever. It only took a fraction of a second for their brain to match the frequency of the letters that only the user could see, and it was downright brilliant at personalized predictive text, so communicating was quick and effortless after a bit of practice. Every member of the crew had the same system installed.
“He’ll be more than happy to sacrifice us for a bigger prize,” the captain replied.
“He’s got a bigger prize?” Jackson asked.
“Maybe.”
“Of course, he has a bigger prize,” Shade cut in.
“Come on then!” Warlord looked at them and smiled with delight, then motioned them toward a hallway.
They followed their host out of the main room and down a long corridor. Fain and some of the guards came too. Bushey and Katze casually spread out, while Tui assigned everyone a target should things go south. Jackson sent a little thought to Fifi and awakened her.
“Hello, Fifi. Prepare to attack that guard’s eye.”
There was an almost gleeful chime in his ear of confirmation.
“Can he hear us?” Bushey asked.
Shade’s face betrayed no expression but from her response it was obvious she thought Bushey was stupid. “Jane’s custom OS. Jane’s language. They would have had to hack Jane.” It was very doubtful there was anyone on this world—or very many others—who could do that.
At some point the hall turned into a tunnel. They took a lift down beneath the grounds and into the hull of the original colony ship. The air started to smell like oil. There was a doorway up ahead, and Jackson figured that was where Warlord’s men would make their move, but they filed through without incident into a gigantic hangar.
And then Jackson saw what Warlord kept here and smiled. There were nine different mechs and exos lined up in a row, all of them polished and shining beneath the lights. Jackson immediately recognized the ones that had been delivered here by the Tar Heel and was surprised by the others.
“This is my collection…Not all of them of course, just the ones that are currently off the harvesting rotation.”
They walked across the gleaming floor to the well-lit mechs. There were more guards posted here, as well as a few security bots, and a crew of mechanics servicing some of the machines. Jackson marveled at the collection. There was a vintage suit—Russian from the look of it—that was really nothing more than a souped-up exo. A couple of high-end scouts, one of which was definitely of serious military grade. And there was a third-gen giant. Standing up, it would probably be ten meters tall. There had been a brief period of experimentation with monster mechs, but they had proven too unwieldy. Mechs excelled because you could use them in the most unforgiving terrain. If you were going with something that heavy you might as well use a tank. But the Warlord had one anyway.
Jackson whistled. “I’ve never actually seen a Spider in person before.”
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
This one in particular was an oddity. Most mechs were bipeds, because that was the most natural thing for a linked human brain to function with—though Panhard had some success with their four-legged Centaurs, except they were really more of a walking gun platform than a proper mech—but the Baihu Spider was legendary. With eight segmented legs, it was obvious why the sleek black mech had gotten its name.
“Scary looking,” Tui said.
“The Spider is supposed to be the highest mobility mech ever fielded,” Jackson said.
“It is,” Warlord said with quite some pride. “Especially in zero G. It takes some getting used to, having the freedom to move in such unexpected ways. To reach its potential, you must become it, and think outside of the constraints of the traditional form. If time allows, I’ll let you take it out for a spin around the exterior of the orbital.”
As tempting as that was, there was no way. Driving this thing manually would be so complicated that it would verge on the impossible. It would require plugging in again, and that option was forever off the table for him. “Thanks. We’ll have to see.”
“Well, huh,” mused the captain as he looked at a beastly mech at the end of the line. It was fifth-gen tech, like the Citadel. “That’s new.”
Shade frowned. “And where did you get it from?”
That was a good question. Just looking at it, from the wear patterns on the joints, Jackson could tell it was almost brand new. It hadn’t been here for very long at all.
“Ah, Ms. Thomas. I am terribly sorry, but I am afraid you are not the only broker whose services I use. You have some competitors.”
“I have no competitors, only imitators.”
“Regardless, the Tar Heel is not the only ship willing to cross the ISF anymore. When there is competition in a niche market, it requires the suppliers to adjust their prices accordingly. I’ve been asking for a fifth gen for quite some time, and as you can see, I recently received one. Two would be a bit ostentatious.”
“Eighty percent of our original asking price for the Citadel,” Shade sniffed.
“Seventy percent. I doubt any of your other clients could afford better.”
“Seventy-eight. Less than that is robbery, and I’d be inclined to ask the captain to launch the Citadel’s container into your star rather than sustain such an insult, just on principle.”
“Correct me if I am wrong, but robbery is how you obtained it to begin with. Seventy-three.”
The captain held up one hand to interrupt them. “I’m amenable to that figure, provided you also tell me what ship delivered this thing to you.”
Warlord laughed. “Seventy-five then.”
“A couple percent is a good price for information.”
“It is, but it’s not for sale,” Warlord said.
The captain nodded. “Seventy-five it is then.” And stuck out his hand.
Warlord took it, and the two men shook hands, sealing the deal.
Jackson glanced over at Shade and saw she was actually smiling. “Somebody take a picture of Shade’s apparent good mood. We need to document it for the ship’s log.”
Shade gave him a look, but she was still smiling.
Warlord called for his accountant. The money was put in escrow with Djinn, a black-market organization both had agreed on for this transaction. They would get part now, another upon inspection, and the final big payment upon delivery. At each step Djinn would transfer the money to Shade.
While the decisionmakers and number
crunchers hammered out the details, Jackson wandered over to look at the mechs.
In the far corner was a Thunderbolt 4, a mech very similar to the one he had fought with years ago. He walked over to it and ran his finger across the red hull. The memory of the surge of sensory data suddenly being fed to into his brain rose like a ghost. He remembered feeling with the suit’s arms and fingers, smelling with its acute olfactory senses, seeing with its piercing, multispectrum enabled gaze. When connected, the senses came alive to things a mere human couldn’t experience. And then there was the joy. A suit was designed to work with the brain’s natural processes, stimulating the production of chemicals to make you alert, quick-minded, and confident. To fill you with a rush that couldn’t be approximated by any drug.
A voice came from behind him. “There is nothing quite as exhilarating as suiting up for war.” Warlord had left his people to sort out the paperwork.
“I don’t miss it.” Which was mostly true.
“Ah, but you do,” Warlord said and smiled. “You were indeed a warrior. I can see it in your eyes.”
“That was a long time ago.” Jackson wasn’t old enough to have anything be considered a long time, but Warlord understood well enough.
“This one is an antique, but still a fine mech. As smooth and rich as butter. And a killer. I had it enhanced with a Sabador sighting system, twenty-millimeter cannon, plasma grenade launcher, and javelins.”
“Javelins? Where in the world does it store a missile that big?”
“Not missiles. Literal javelins. For quiet work.” He mimicked a throwing motion.
“You mean like a spear?”
Warlord walked over to the Thunderbolt, unlocked a housing in one arm to reveal a whole magazine of four-foot javelins. He pulled one out. “Sometimes you need to kill quietly. Once you learn how it’s done, you can throw these four hundred meters with ease.”
“Wouldn’t a six-inch pneumatic bolt be better?”
“Maybe when you’re killing humans. Not when you’re hunting something like a caliban.”
“Interesting,” Jackson said.
Tui, Katze, and Bushey walked over to join them, because weapons systems made for far more interesting conversations than escrow accounts.
Warlord seemed to enjoy the audience. He pointed at three slots at the back end of the javelin. “Once this pierces their skin, a ring of blades explodes out in an arcing slash, capable of cutting through bone. Fins extend here so it can guide itself to the marked target.”
He tossed the javelin to Katze, who caught it, and tested the weight. “That’s going to hit with a wallop.”
“The caliban and a few other Swindle species usually hunt in packs. They’re smart buggers. If you reveal yourself with gun or rocket fire, they’ll surround you. Even worse, the bangs draw the attention of other creatures. Larger ones. And so you must stay silent as long as possible.”
“You can’t suppress the fire?”
“A bit. They still hear it, if not the shot itself, the impact. And if they don’t, there are other creatures who call to the caliban. It’s some symbiotic thing. They’re like crows leading the wolves to the kill. Sometimes they call others who come to kill us just for spite.”
“Or territory,” Tui suggested.
“It’s spite,” Warlord insisted.
“Huh,” Bushey said. “Sounds like some people I know back on Earth.”
Katze handed the javelin around to everyone to heft. It was heavy. Probably close to fifteen kilos. Definitely something that could only be thrown with some kind of exo technology. Jackson handed the javelin back to Warlord, who returned it to the magazine and closed it.
“Speaking of Earth, that’s where this mech was built,” Tui said. “I remember there was one of these mounted above the entrance to Fort Benning.”
Jackson just shook his head sadly. Something that was a museum decoration on Earth had been his planet’s best line of defense.
“I remember they were designed to go underwater,” Bushey said. “Imagine a squad of these appearing in the surf and walking up your beach…” And then he seemed to get an idea. “By the way, you got javelins, but what about harpoons? You know, to go fishing.”
The Warlord smiled ruefully. “We don’t go into the deep waters. Not on Swindle. That’s where the big ones live. And that’s where we’d prefer them to stay.”
They waited for an explanation, but Warlord moved on and began to detail more of the mech’s features. When he finished, he said, “How would you like to see the surface? We could go now.”
Jackson got that uneasy feeling again. Wasn’t a one-way trip to the surface precisely what Shade had warned about?
Luckily, the captain had rejoined them, and gave them a way out. “Business before pleasure. Let’s finish the transfer. Then we can talk about my crew going on an excursion.”
“Work, work, work,” the Warlord said. “You’ve got to live a little, Captain Holloway.”
“Oh, I intend to live for quite some time.”
Warlord shook his head, then he looked pointedly at Jackson. “But you want to go down, don’t you? You want to see what’s down there.”
Jackson shrugged.
“I want to see,” Katze said excitedly.
“A tigress,” Warlord said.
“More like a mad cow,” Bushey muttered.
“I heard that.”
Warlord seemed to enjoy being a good host. “She wants to go down. But you, I hear you would prefer swimming.”
“Hopefully with a lot of women,” Bushey said.
The Warlord shook his head. “A hunt then, without the swimmer. I’ll plan it for tomorrow.”
“Let’s see how it goes,” the captain said.
“It’s an experience not to be missed. It’s primal. It takes you back to our roots. To what it meant to be human back on Earth all those years ago.”
“Tomorrow,” the captain said.
Chapter 13
Warlord put them up in a very nice hotel not far from the governor’s palace. A fine establishment with so much surveillance Jackson figured they had bugged the toilets. So as not to disappoint, Bushey gave them a fine symphony, flushed, and then they went down to the dining room, where they were served a tasty, Swindle version of cricket curry finished with a saffron rice pudding. It had to be expensive. Jackson doubted they grew much rice on their platforms.
After the millionaire pudding, Jackson convinced Katze to join him on a walk to see the city. When you live on a ship, you never pass up a chance to get out. Except since the drinks at the hotel bar were free to them, Bushey elected to stay. Only the captain didn’t think it was a good idea.
When Jackson asked why, he said, “We’re in a foreign country that’s made of the dregs of thirty different cultures—most of whom you’re totally unfamiliar with—who are all crammed into a metal tube together. You don’t know their problems. You don’t know their tensions. And you two are guests of their boss.”
“I got this, Cap. Consider it a fact-finding mission,” Jackson said. “And besides, if there’s trouble, I’ve got Katze.”
She grinned at the compliment. Katze didn’t seem that dangerous—she looked like an athlete, but more of a runner than a power lifter—but the Amonite Marines had wrapped her bones in carbon fiber weave and given her gene mods so potent they were still crazy illegal on Earth. She was smaller than Jackson but could curl him like a dumbbell.
“For some odd reason that don’t make me feel better. This ain’t a boarding action, Katze, and these people aren’t pirates…Well, half of them probably. So play nice.”
“I’ll go with them, Cap,” Tui said. “I’m curious to see what this place is like myself.”
The captain scowled as he thought it over. Tui was the most levelheaded and mature one of the bunch. “Let me guess, Chief. You want to see how this place has changed in the years since the last time we were here?”
“Maybe.” But then Tui used Jane’s net to send a message the
bugs couldn’t pick up. “I’m curious to see what kind of man we’ve been running guns to.”
“You sure you want to find out? It’s too late now.”
Tui shrugged.
“Alright. Have fun. Don’t let the youngsters do anything stupid.”
Outside the hotel, the sun globes had moved and dimmed a bit, so the trio strolled along in the orbital evening. The neighborhood around the hotel was straight and tidy, the walls of the buildings covered in all sorts of plants. Everything here was stacked, businesses at the bottom, homes on top. There were archways and exterior stairs. A few blocks later, they moved into a slightly poorer part of town that was more crowded and haphazard. They passed a group of people watching a woman who was dressed up like a cat doing some tribal dance. Farther on, they passed some little food-vendor bots, selling noodles or vat meat on sticks.
They turned a corner into a neighborhood with a different feel, and a writing none of them recognized on the windows. There were a lot of dark and narrow alleyways. They saw two men who didn’t have any legs. One was walking in a shabby, broken-down exo with one stride that was longer than the other. He was pulling the other no-legged man in a cart. Jackson saw a woman up in a window. She looked at them, sneered, and then drew back behind a curtain. They passed a string of adults who suddenly crossed over the street and refused to look their way.
“Not the best vibe here,” Tui said. “I wonder if they have a bar.”
“The piss and vinegar kind?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah.”
But there weren’t any bars.
They turned another corner, saw a sign that suggested drink, but found it was simply a food machine that offered a variety of shaggy balls of some kind of dough. The odd thing about walking around an orbital, no matter what, it always felt like you were going uphill.
Tui asked, “Where are all the kids?”
Jackson shrugged.
“Maybe there’s a quarter in town for families,” Katze suggested.
Gun Runner Page 16
