by PP Corcoran
“Yeah I saw them when we came in,” said Alastair in a low voice. “Surprised to see mercs around here. I thought the red diamond mine was closed.”
“That it is, Alastair. That it is.” Oren waved one artificial hand in a wide sweeping motion. “But as yae can see I’m busier than ever.”
Alastair decided to press his line of questioning. “And why would that be, Oren? Did somebody take over the mine?”
Oren let out his now-familiar deep, bass laugh. “Yae could say that, laddie. Would you be spending the night?”
Alastair was momentarily taken aback by Oren’s sudden change of direction, but recovered quickly. “We’d planned to return to our ship tonight. She’s carrying out a geographical survey of Moon 14 to see if it could sustain our refinery.” In fact, the Glambring was hiding a lot closer, just a hop, skip, and a jump by stellar standards, in orbit around the neighboring moon, Moon 4.
“14 would be all the way around the far side of the gas giant at this time of year. It would take hours in yon wee dropship of yours.”
It never occurred to Alastair to wonder how Oren was aware of their method of arrival, he was too busy wondering why the Scotsman would suggest they spend the night. Well there was only one way to find out. “I think that’s a great idea Oren. It’ll give me a chance to pick your brains about what support facilities we can expect to get from this town.”
Oren reached over and gave Alastair’s shoulder a friendly slap. “Och! Sure, we can jabber on over a drink after we close up and—” Throwing a look at the mixed crowd in the bar. “After this lot head back to their rooms.”
A Besquith banged his glass on the bar halfway between Oren and the Veetch bartender who was busily serving his friend the Bakulu. “Duty calls,” said Oren, heading down the bar.
“Gregor,” Alastair said, beckoning the man over. Gregor looked happy to place his drink down even though he had been nursing his second glass for the entire duration of Alastair and Oren’s conversation. “Head back to the dropship and tell the pilots we are going to overnight here. Grab our go bags and bring them back here.”
“Understood, Colonel.” The words were out before his brain realized he had said them. Both men looked around furtively to see if they had been overheard, and Alastair’s eyes locked on one single, bright blue eye staring straight at him. Oren gave Alastair a curt nod before returning to serving the Besquith. Had the man overheard Gregor’s slip of the tongue? Surely the background noise had covered his mistake? Still, Oren’s single eye seemed to have a playful glint to it.
Alastair decided that it was something to worry about later as he reached for the bottle sitting beside Gregor’s abandoned glass. Pouring himself a shot, he threw it back. The fiery liquid was certainly a kicker. Perhaps he should order something less potent. Catching the eye of the Veetch, he ordered a Crassian beer and settled back to await Gregor’s return.
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Nothing To Do But Wait
The Glambring’s gym was deserted late at night, which was why Tim liked working out then. Alone with his thoughts, he had time to think without being interrupted by the endless platitudes dictated by military protocol if other Scorpion troopers or members of the Glambring’s crew were about.
It also allowed him to listen to his somewhat quirky taste in music without having it funneled directly into his brain via his pinplants. There was just something to be said for listening to twentieth century heavy metal music through thrumming speakers, the sound waves bouncing off your skin and making the thin hairs on your arms stand on end.
Angus Young’s guitar solo from AC/DC’s 1981 hit “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” was in full swing and Tim’s running legs pounded on the running machine’s rotating belt as he increased his pace to match the beat of the song. Through his panting, he struggled to get the words of the song out. The AC/DC song was the unofficial anthem of the Scorpions and Tim had not met a trooper yet who could not repeat the entire song from memory.
In Scorpion lore, the song had been a favorite of Duncan Sinclair, founder of the Scorpions, who had played it incessantly during the PT sessions of the original Sinclair’s Scorpions recruits as he said it got their blood up.
Well, it was sure as hell working with Tim as his feet pounded remorselessly on the moving belt of the machine while he tried without success to put thoughts of Alastair, Ethan Croll, and Gregor Jackson out of his head. The communication they had received via the pilots of the dropship while the Glambring lurked in low orbit of the airless Moon 4 had simply stated that the group had made contact with a person of interest and would be spending the night on-planet to follow up.
Having nothing more to go on, Tim had decided to err on the side of caution and have a Quick Reaction Force of ten CASPer equipped troopers on five minutes notice to move for the duration of the colonel’s stay on planet. Effectively, this meant that either Lieutenant Caroline Verley’s Third or Lieutenant Gonzalez Rivero’s Support Platoon were living in the second dropship for eight hour shifts, ready at a moment’s notice to head in and extract the colonel and his companions if they found themselves in a shooting match.
In the middle of the song’s finale it died suddenly, and Tim’s head jerked around to see who had had the audacity to interrupt him, only for the sudden change of balance to cause him to miss step, flinging him bodily from the machine to crash into an unflattering heap on the gym’s floor.
“You do know that it is highly recommended that you allow the machine to come to a full stop before you get off it?” Anna Wong said with a gurgling laugh as she sauntered over to the embarrassed mercenary and offered her hand to help him up.
Ignoring her, Tim pulled himself into a sitting position while rubbing at his elbows and knees which had bounced off the floor on his way down, trying to ignore the hot flush that was creeping across his cheeks. Since waking from his medically-induced coma while the meds and nanites healed the injuries he had sustained during the firefight with the Jivool on Ralla Station, Tim had been trying to come to some understanding of his feelings for Anna. Her sudden and unexpected outburst that she was in love with him had floored him.
During the intervening five days, the two had become near constant companions in their down time. Tim had even sneaked off early from CASPer drills to meet Anna for meals. Something which, he had no doubt, Alastair Sinclair and the other Scorpions troopers were politely ignoring. As for Anna, aside from tinkering with the Glambring’s propulsion systems and having deep technical discussions with Larras, her Jeha engineer, she had little in the way of work to keep her occupied until the Scorpions were able to secure the as-yet-unidentified new power source. Which, if the Flatar information broker Deeral was to be believed, was located on Kathal, barely three hundred thousand miles distant from where the Glambring hovered in the radar back scatter of the high mountains of Moon 4.
“Now that you have attempted to put me back in sick bay, how can I help you, Doctor Wong?” Tim said with as much sarcasm as he could muster while sitting on his rear end.
“Well, Captain Buchanan, since we are being so formal. Larras may have discovered something which could be of assistance getting us onto Kathal unobserved.”
“Oh,” said Tim. He still scratched himself occasionally in an automated response to the powdered Kanara seeds which had somehow found their way into his CASPer. “What has that spawn of Loki come up with?”
A faint, pained expression came over Anna’s face at Tim’s reference to the ancient Norse god of mischief. “You did throw him in the brig, Tim, after all.”
Tim held his hands up in supplication. “OK, I’ve already apologized to that little—” The admonishing look on Anna’s face prevented Tim from saying what was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he went with, “Brilliant engineer who has no equal anywhere in the entire Union.”
Anna’s smile was a reward in itself. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Tim Buchanan,” she teased.
God, I hope so, thought Tim, as a s
mile of his own tugged at his lips, and his eyes ran appreciatively down Anna’s lithe body. Catching her still smiling at him as if she could read his mind, Tim decided to get back to business. “So, are you going to share this great revelation?” he asked.
“Well, Larras had noticed that the Glambring’s reactors had been experiencing some minor—and I mean minuscule—fluctuations. Beyond what we should normally see during routine operations,” explained Anna. Tim could already tell that this was going to go above his head but decided to let her carry on until he was completely lost. “Carrying out a diagnostic of the reactor system, he could not discover a cause for these fluctuations, so he widened the scope of his search.” Yep, definitely got too much time on his hands, thought Tim. “And guess what?” Anna asked excitedly.
“What?” replied Tim, doing a very poor job of mimicking her excitement, an action which earned him a disapproving look.
“Glambring is being bombarded by radio waves in the 0.6 to 30 megahertz range,” Anna stated.
Tim jumped to his feet, eyebrows drawing together. “Is it some form of search radar? Have we been detected?” he demanded, only for Anna to let out a short, snorting laugh.
“No, not at all. It’s a completely natural phenomenon. The moon we are using to mask our presence sits within the gas giant’s magnetosheath, a part of the magnetosphere. When this region interacts with the solar winds it causes the magnetosheath to release intense radio waves. Once the moon passes out of this region the radio waves drop off to a more normal level.”
Tim’s forehead creased as he tried to see the relevance. “And how does this help us get to Kathal undetected?”
“Oh Tim. Sometimes you military types should pick up a physics book once in a while,” Anna admonished him. “Kathal is on the same orbital plane as we are, only a few hundred thousand miles behind us, so in a couple of hours it will be entering the same region of the magnetosheath that we are in now and the intense radio waves will—”
Suddenly it clicked with Tim. “Will play merry hell with the radar detection systems protecting the facility.”
“There you go,” said Anna, like she was congratulating a kindergarten student who had successfully learned to write their own name. “Who said all you military types were just muscle bound, knuckle draggers?”
If he heard Anna’s derogatory comment, Tim chose to ignore it. “How frequently will their radar systems be affected?”
Now it was Anna’s turn to wrinkle her brow as she attempted to recall the figures Larras had come up with. “Eh, about four hours in every completed orbit.”
“I could kiss that little Jeha,” cried Tim. “But since he’s not here—” Tim wrapped his arms around Anna and pulled her close, kissing her full, red lips with a passion and desire that surprised both of them. Eventually, the need to breath forced them to separate.
“I need to go…speak to Captain Kothoo,” Tim managed.
Anna’s hand went to her throat, stoking it gently, not trusting herself to speak.
Tim reached out and touched Anna’s cheek softly with his outstretched fingers. “I’ll find you later,” he promised, dropping his hand and heading for the exit.
Anna watched him go, her knees loosening and feeling weak. As Tim passed through the door, Corporal Vega poked his head in. Her ever-present shadow’s normally stolid features were split by something she had never seen him do before. Vega smiled and gave her a knowing wink. Anna felt her toes curling in embarrassment. Tim Buchanan had a lot to answer for, she thought.
* * *
If Alastair Sinclair had any thoughts of an early night, he was sadly mistaken. For the better part of four hours he had sat and nursed one drink after another, doing his best not to look too much out of place while the mixed gathering of alien races surrounding him had gone from slightly inebriated to roaring drunk. Eventually, though, even the Besquith had their fill and their leaders rounded up their charges and hustled them out the door of ‘The Red Fox.’
Oren locked the inner door with an audible sigh as he made his way over to where Alastair was perched on a stool, which best suited his Human frame. Ethan Croll and Gregor were seated in a booth, showing an inordinate amount of interest in a slate which was purporting to show the latest test results from their fictional research ship, relayed to them via the dropship which sat quietly on the landing pad at the edge of the small town. If anyone had been at all interested in what the men were actually viewing and decided to tap into the link from the dropship, they would have found a three-year-old soccer match between Ethan’s and Gregor’s favorite teams. As both men already knew the result—a win for Ethan’s team—it was hardly surprising that Gregor’s face reflected his despondent mood while Ethan’s had a distinctly devilish look.
“Yon man of yours, Ethan, seems awful happy aboot yon geological results, Alastair,” commented Oren, as he sat heavily on the stool beside Alastair. The metal gave a loud squeal in protest.
Alastair spared a glance for Ethan and Gregor before returning his attention to Oren. “What can I say? He’s a man happy with his work.”
Oren fixed Alastair with that single piercing blue eye. “And what line of work did yae say you were in again, Colonel?”
Alastair felt his muscles go rigid as his posture stiffened. Damn, Oren had somehow overheard Gregor’s slip, even in a crowded bar.
By way of explanation, Oren tapped his prosthetic eye. “Micro laser ranging. Picked up the young lad’s voice waves striking the glass in his hand and read the vibrations. Kind of like you would use a laser mike to listen into a conversation in a room by bouncing it off the glass window. Over the years, I’ve kinda got into the habit of listening to my various guests. Especially those—” Oren indicated Alastair’s holstered sidearm, “—with shiny new PS6 pistols, and who carry them like they know how to use them.”
Alastair raised his glass to Oren in mock salute at the man’s deductive process. “Guilty as charged, Oren.”
The bar owner sat back with a misshapen, incomplete, smug look on his face as the Human side tried to grin, while the plastic/metal side did a very poor imitation, resembling more a glower than a grin.
Tipping a shot from the still-half-full bottle into his glass, Alastair said, “How about we make a deal? I’ll tell you why I’m really here, if you tell me how a Scotsman ended up on the other side of the galaxy with a body that looked like it had been put back together by someone with spares he had lying around.”
If Alastair had been intending on getting a rise out of Oren, he was mistaken, for the man let out one of his signature deep basso laughs. “Laddie, I have been on this moon since before yer daddy’s daddy was a glint in his daddy’s eye, so don’t think yae can pull one over on me.” Oren lifted his own glass with his Human hand and downed it in one easy motion, reaching for the bottle to refill it. Eying Alastair’s still full glass, he gave Alastair a chagrined look. “Are yae gonna drink that or hug it like an old woman, lad?”
Resigning himself to having to drink the fiery liquid, Alastair gave a small prayer of thanks to the man who invented the nanites which flowed through his bloodstream and would remove the alcohol before it left him prostrate on the bar floor. Emptying the glass, he slammed it on the bar and let out a loud gasp. The nanites might stop him getting falling-down drunk, but they could not stop him feeling the initial effects, and this whisky felt like paint stripper on the way down his throat. Oren immediately filled the glass again.
“Well, Alastair, I’m all ears,” said Oren.
“How much do you know about what’s going on at home?” asked Alastair.
Oren’s Human eye closed as if he was struggling to remember something, his voice was flat and wistful. “I’ve no been hame in a lang, lang time, Alastair. And, as yae huv probably gathered, we don’t huv GalNet oot here, so we’re mare reliant on gossip than actual news.”
It dawned on Alastair that Oren might not know about Peepo and the Mercenary Guild’s invasion of Earth. Nor the fact the Four
Horsemen and the other Human mercs had been forced to flee.
“You’d better have another drink, Oren, for I have a tale to tell you that might be hard to swallow. My name is Alastair Sinclair, but my real job is Colonel of a Human merc outfit called Sinclair’s Scorpions. A little under a month ago, Earth was invaded by the Mercenary Guild under the command of the Veetanho General, Peepo…”
* * *
By the time Alastair had finished his tale, the remaining half of the whisky bottle had been consumed, primarily by Oren.
“I never trusted them pesky wee beasts, yae ken? Never trust a man when yae cannae see he’s eyes, ma Da used tae say and he wis right.” Oren emptied his glass and reached behind the bar to retrieve another full bottle of whisky. Uncorking the bottle, he poured himself a fresh glass and offered to top up Alastair’s, an offer Alastair politely refused. It was not that he was feeling the effects of the alcohol—his nanites ensured he remained stone cold sober—it was just that his throat was feeling the effects, and he would rather maintain the ability to talk.
“So, wit are yae going tae do aboot it, Alastair? Are the three of yae going tae take on the whole Union single-handed?” Oren leaned in close, and Alastair smelled the whisky on his breath. “Or are yae maybe here tae steal witever yon aliens are working on over on Kathal?” Oren’s good eye scrutinized Alastair’s reaction. When he didn’t get one, the bar owner changed tact. “Do yae know how I came up with the name of the bar, Alastair?” he asked.
The bar’s name and the fact that a Human, never mind a Scotsman, was running it was a question that Alastair had been curious about all evening.
Oren took Alastair’s silence as leave to continue. “Yer no’ the only man who came oot tae the stars tae seek his fortune, Alastair. I may only be half the man I used to be—” Oren tapped his metallic cheek with one prosthetic finger and gave a little, sad chuckle. “But there was a time when I was a young man like you. When the day came that they were looking for men like me tae come oot here and fight fur money, I saw the chance for fame and fortune. As yae can see, I ended up wae neither.”
