Gun Runner

by Larry Correia

  The food came. They chatted the waitress up some more, asking what there was to do for fun around Big Town, then ate. Jackson waited for new instructions to appear on the menu, but it was only showing him the drink specials.

  He brought up the time. Twenty-one thirty was long gone. And he wondered if something had gone awry with the drop. The problem was that he didn’t have time for things to go wrong. Still, they waited until it was almost twenty-three hundred hours, before going out into the Big Town night.

  Jackson looked at the timer. 12:55. LaDue was taking too damn long. She was going to kill him. He cursed under his breath.

  It was then that a message appeared on Jackson’s personal display. A personalized thank-you from the Lucky Monk.

  “I got a note from our waitress,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, I got one too. Says she wants to marry me. Says she loves my gorgeous hair.”

  “Sure it does.”

  And then the rogue screen popped up. It was an aerial map like the time before. This time it pointed to a different place, some nightclub a few blocks away.

  “You know, Tui, I think we should celebrate our new jobs.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Tui’s menu must not have had the map.

  “Let’s go see what Big Town’s nightlife is like. There’s got to be a club around here or something. What’s the point of making bank if you can’t blow it?”

  “Spoken like a pilot,” Tui said.

  So they left the Monk and started walking.

  Their destination was a hollowed-out cargo pod that dated back to the original ship. From the look of the people milling around the exterior, this was where Big Town’s young and rowdy crowd congregated. Big Town imported a steady stream of workers from all the poorer worlds, and it took a certain mindset to be desperate enough to try and make it as a harvester. The bouncers were armed with shock batons sufficient to stun an Earth moose.

  Inside, the place was packed. There was dancing and loud music and flashing lights. They moved along the edges of the crowd, checking out the locals. Jackson heard probably twenty different languages before he made one full circuit of the main room, but they all had the same live fast, party hard, die young attitude in common.

  And then they saw Frans, the cop who had first escorted them from the docks to the governor’s mansion. He was out of uniform, and had a drink in his hand, but was looking right at them.

  “Great,” Jackson muttered. The last thing he needed for this clandestine meeting was a cop who knew him to be hanging around.

  But then Frans motioned with his head for them to come over. Maybe he’d heard that they’d taken a Big Town contract too, and now the standoffish Dutchman wanted to hang out.

  “Do we go?”

  Frans motioned again.

  “I think we have to,” Tui said.

  They made their way over to the cop. He was standing in front of a long hallway with a red floor. There were three doors on each side and one at the end. Frans said nothing, just gestured for them to follow him, and Jackson wondered if he was a synth that had broken voice controls.

  Nevertheless, they followed. Franz opened the last door on the right. They went in, the volume of the music behind them dropping a bit, and found they were in nothing more than a mostly dark storage room.

  Jackson looked around, wondering what this was about. Then Tui pointed at the table that was lit by a lamp. Under the light were two black bands. Tui picked one up, looked it over, then put it on his arm over the spot where Fain had injected the chip. Jackson did the same. He could only assume it would block, scramble, or spoof the signal. Something to mess with the Warlord’s chip.

  Then Frans spoke. “This way.” He moved to the back wall. There was a vent panel there, but it slid aside easily and revealed a ladder going down.

  “In you go,” he said, his accent thick. “All de vay to de very bottom.”

  “You first,” Tui said.

  “I stay up here. Stand guard.”

  So Frans was one of LaDue’s people? Or was this some loyalty test by Warlord?

  Either way, he had a bomb in his back and the clock was ticking. Frans remained expressionless and unreadable.

  “What do we have to lose?” Tui sent.

  Indeed, Jackson thought. So he slipped through the disguised access hatch, took hold of the ladder, then began to climb down. Tui followed. The ladder took them seven meters into the hull of the old orbital. They passed wiring, ducts, pipes, and tubes. It was this layer of the orbital that handled all the air, water, power, and waste systems that kept the residents alive. Their ladder ended in another bay full of dusty crates, but there was another ladder down, and Frans had said the very bottom, and so they took the second one down even farther.

  Jackson figured if they kept this up, they’d reach the very outer edge of the hull. They’d gone far enough from the ideal spin zone that gravity was starting to feel off. They reached the floor. This place was mostly dark, but Jackson could see they were in a corridor between rows of huge machines, their status lights giving off just enough illumination to see by. There was the humming of electricity and the sound of water moving in pipes.

  They stood there a moment, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. Then maybe thirty meters down the corridor a soft light spilled onto the floor as if someone had opened a door to a well-lit room.

  Jackson and Tui walked through the darkness toward the light, watching the shadows of the machines on either side as they went. They walked through the open door into a work or break room big enough for half-a-dozen people. There was a desk and shelves and some displays.

  When they were in, the door closed behind them. Then another door at the far end opened and a large man walked through. He was taller than Jackson by a head, broad and muscular. He wore a vest, dark pants, and boots, and a harvester’s mask to hide his face.

  “It’s the bartender from the Lucky Monk,” Tui sent.

  The waitress had called him Ian MacKinnon. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” Tui was really good at sizing up other combatants. He’d had a lot of practice. Of course he’d taken note of the dangerous-looking man behind the bar. “Unless there’s another two-meter-tall, 130-kilogram fighter up here with that same exact scar pattern on his knuckles.”

  The bartender looked at the arm bands they’d put on, then said, “We can speak freely now. Welcome. I wasn’t expecting you to bring a friend.”

  “You’ll be happy to have him. So you’re LaDue’s guy on the orbital. You know, you could have saved us the walk and had this meeting at your place.”

  He was quiet for a long time, considering that, then pulled off the mask to reveal his face. “So much for the disguise. I wanted to observe you first, and I didn’t want Fain’s secret police up in my business. The bands will garble the signal, but from here on out no real identities and no references to locations where we may have seen each other, just in case. My code name for this operation will be Preacher. Yours will be Blue. His Red.”

  “Blue is more my color,” Tui said.

  “Yeah, that seems kind of arbitrary. Can we switch?”

  MacKinnon didn’t seem amused. “Needless to say—but just so everything is in the open, if you try anything, or this is some sort of setup, the thing in your back detonates. We need to discuss your plans, because you don’t have much time.”

  Jackson said, “That’s an understatement.” He had exactly twelve hours and twenty-eight minutes.

  “His lack of time is a direct result of your associate being a psychopath,” Tui said pointedly.

  “Cost of doing business, stranger. If it weren’t for that insurance, I wouldn’t have ever shown my face to you outsiders, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “How sure are you of your man upstairs?” Jackson nodded toward the ladder.

  “A hundred percent,” Preacher said. “Unquestionable. His people were some of the first colonists off the boat. They bled for this world
more than you’ll ever understand.”

  Jackson didn’t like any of this, and he didn’t trust Frans, but what else could he do? “Let’s discuss plans then. I’m assuming Big Fox has briefed you?”

  “She says you’ve been called to repentance. Supposedly you feel guilty for arming the evil bastard who’s been murdering our people and stealing our land, and now you want to make things right.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Good. Because I’m the one man who can issue a stay of execution.”

  Jackson almost couldn’t blame him. If their situations were reversed, Jackson wouldn’t believe his story either. “I’ve got schematics of the compound and some access to the hangar.”

  “Good. When you are ready, I have a man on the inside. He’ll be able to provide false feeds to all the hangar cameras for three minutes.”

  The inside man was probably Frans the cop. “We can use that, but they don’t trust us enough yet to let us just walk in with enough explosives. And believe me, that thing is tough enough we’d have to obliterate that section of the orbital to even scratch its paint. Sabotage is going to take time.”

  MacKinnon shook his head in the negative. “I told Big Fox we should just blow up the hangar, but she told me she wants you to actually deliver it to her, down there, in one functional piece.”

  Having their own Citadel would make it a whole lot harder for Warlord to eradicate the Originals, but getting it there sure did complicate matters. “I’ll need to overcome the authentication system before I can drive it. We’re not in that system yet. You can’t just hot-wire a fifth-gen mech. I need the key. After that I can make it through atmospheric re-entry, no problem. But that means I need to get it out of the hangar, drop, and avoid getting shot to pieces in the process.”

  “Bummer, Red.” And the way he said it, MacKinnon truly didn’t particularly care if Jackson lived or died. “What else do you need?”

  “When the time comes, I’ll need a diversion. Something sufficient to distract all the security force’s attention, and preferably draw their gunships off.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Jackson was incredulous. “Just like that, in the next few hours?”

  But the man just gave him a cryptic smile. “You have one task. One mission. Whatever else is or isn’t happening during this operation is none of your concern. What else?”

  “I need this thing out of my back.”

  “It will be shut down when you complete your mission. Not before.”

  “I need more assurance.”

  “After you get the asset somewhere safe, we’ll talk.”

  “I want it out before.”

  “We will find you. But if you hold up your end of the bargain, you have nothing to fear.”

  It was obvious Tui was getting really suspicious. “So you’re gonna distract all the cops in Big Town long enough for my buddy to steal a weapon of mass destruction and fly it down to Swindle, and then we just say everything’s cool and walk away pals?”

  “What about Tui? I can’t leave him here after the theft.”

  “We have a way we can get you off the orbital,” Preacher said. “The Originals have a network in place.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s always a chance you may fail. So the less you know, the better.”

  “For you,” Tui said. “Except if you rebels are so capable, and so numerous, it really makes me wonder why the only ones who contacted us tonight are people me and Jackson could identify if we get pinched.”

  Preacher was quiet for a long time. “You ain’t as dumb as you look.”

  “I’m just a retired soldier with a good BS detector,” Tui muttered.

  “And here I figured since you didn’t have a bomb planted in your back, you were stupidly loyal to your friends.”

  “You got me there,” Tui said. “But it also means you’ve got no leverage on me, or way to threaten me…Yeah, I saw your bot back there with the gun trained on us. If it goes live, I’ll grab it and cram it down your throat, wide end first.”

  Jackson hadn’t even seen the bot, but MacKinnon slowly nodded. “You can see in the dark.”

  “Among other things. I can also tear a man’s arm off and beat him to death with it. So how about we start acting like respectful professionals and figure out how to tackle this job in a way you people get what you want, my ship atones for our sins, and Jackson’s spine doesn’t melt?”

  Now there was a glimmer of respect in MacKinnon’s eyes. “Alright. There’s more of us, but most of those are occupied, in place, awaiting my signal. We’ve been planning a show of force for a while. I couldn’t risk sending anybody else to this meet right now. Once Blue is on his way, make it back here and we’ll get you out. When the asset reaches Swindle, the insurance will be removed. Identities changed, for both of you, and we’ll smuggle you onto a transport out of the system. Trust me. We know how to get people in and out. We’ve been doing this for a while.”

  Tui said nothing to that, but he transmitted to Jackson. “Jane lent me Baby. I’m going to have her follow this guy.”

  Baby was one of Jane’s smallest bots. Jackson hadn’t realized that Tui had his own Fifi. “Good call.” If things went south, Baby would give them directions right to Preacher’s door.

  “We will—” Preacher cut off in mid-sentence. “Hold on. We’ve got a problem.”

  “What?” Jackson asked.

  “There’s been a breach. The cops are raiding the club.” He listened for a second, then looked upward. “They’re already coming down the ladder. We need to go!”

  That was very bad news.

  “Where?” Tui asked.

  “This way.” They ran through the door he had come in, and out into the dark guts of the orbital. The bartender was fast for a big dude, and he led them between rows of mysterious, wheezing machines, and into a corridor of dripping pipes and steam.

  “Is it Fain?” Jackson asked.

  “I hope not. That man’s a butcher.”

  Far behind them a siren started wailing. Jackson looked back and caught a glimmer of red lights flashing.

  “They’ve sent fliers down the tunnels,” Preacher warned as he led them around a corner. He stopped there. “Go down this lane. First left. First right. You’ll find a ladder up.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll lead them away. I pray you were telling her the truth, because if you don’t neutralize that mech, the rest of my people are dead. Go!” And then he darted into the darkness.

  Jackson and Tui ran the way he had pointed. They took the first left. Ran. Were about to take the first right, but a figure appeared ahead of them.

  The sudden movement startled Jackson, but Tui flashed past him, lightning quick, and grabbed the man by the shirt.

  It was Frans.

  Tui picked him up off the ground and slammed his back against the wall. “Did you set us up, cop?”

  “No! I am loyal to the cause.” Frans lifted his hand to reveal he had a small pistol. He could have shot Tui with it but didn’t. “You must believe me.”

  MacKinnon had said he was, but Jackson didn’t trust any of these people at all. That was the downside of being a crook working with a bunch of shady rebels.

  “Please, you must listen to me. This way’s no good. I was just up there. If you go that way, you’ll be caught. Follow me, or we are all dead.”

  Frans seemed genuinely terrified, but that wasn’t a hard act to pull off when Tui was getting ready to snap your neck. “I believe him,” Jackson said.

  Tui said, “You’re always too trusting.” But he set Frans on his feet. “If this is a trap, you’ll regret it.”

  Frans led them farther down a winding corridor, taking several turns, a few of which Jackson wouldn’t have even seen. He hustled them between two big water tanks and onto a catwalk.

  There were shouts behind them. The buzz of fliers.

  They ran down a covered, dark lane, skirted some ki
nd of machine shop. From the blankets and trash, it looked like people must be living down here, though they were all hiding now. Frans seemed to know his way through the undercity rather well.

  “This way. Ahead, you must go—”

  There was a gunshot. Blood splattered the wall. Frans stumbled, holding his arm.

  Jackson hadn’t seen the guards waiting in the darkened side passage.

  Frans cursed, and began firing one-handed, his other arm hanging limp. One of his rounds hit a female guard in the visor and she fell.

  “Run!” Frans shouted.

  There were more shots. The sound of a pneumatic. A rapid piftt, piftt, piftt, piftt. Something whistled past Jackson’s head. A dart stuck into the sheet metal ahead of him. Another struck Frans in the leg.

  Frans cursed and pulled the dart out. But he kept running, cutting down a little alley between pipes. “This way.”

  Jackson and Tui followed, leaving their pursuers behind. At the end of the alley, they took a right and Frans said, “Hurry.” Then he lurched, eyelids fluttering. He tried to right himself but careened to the side like a drunk. The darts. They had to have been tranqs.

  “Come on.” Tui threw Frans’ arm over his broad shoulders and kept him upright.

  “Straight ahead, second left,” Frans slurred as Tui dragged him along.

  “Hang in there, buddy.”

  “I have family on the surface. If you don’t stop Warlord, he will slaughter them all.”

  “I know,” Jackson muttered. “Believe me, I know.”

  Suddenly, a huge shadow came out of nowhere. It crashed into Jackson and Frans, flinging them in opposite directions. Tui bounced off the metal wall. Frans went skidding across the grate.

  Jackson stopped, shocked, as the monster clamped its jaws down on Frans’ neck and shook him like a doll.

  It was the grendel.

  Frans’ gun was lying on the grate, but it was on the opposite side of the beast.

  It saw him looking at the weapon. Four eyes narrowed. Then it bit Frans’ head off.

  “Fifi, eyes!”

  The tiny bot sprang from Jackson’s pocket and launched herself at the grendel. But when the tiny dot neared its head, a bolt of electricity sparked from the collar around its neck. There was a loud snap and flash, and Fifi fell to the floor, smoking.