Hank’s head swam. His leg felt like it was on fire, and he smelled cooking meat. Alarms blared in his ears, and as he looked up, he saw the APC backing up with the turret swiveling around to draw a bead on him.
Hank tried to actuate the railgun, but it sent him a critical failure warning. The missile launcher was dead, too, and he could see his autocannon lying on the floor between him and the APC.
The twin turrets were almost on him when the shriek of a flitter filled the air. Hank waved and pointed as Yobani flew, canopy yawning open, and hovered directly above and in front of the APC. Cleve rose in the back seat and fired the anti-tank rocket just as the laser turret centered on Hank.
He saw a flash of light, felt the impact and the burn, and then the lights went out.
* * * * *
Chapter 7
December 2967 (Terran Calendar) — Mavesheur
Hank stepped off the elevator with a severe limp and winced as the skin-graft patches on his thigh and across his chest sent a wave of pain over his entire body. Although his leg had been shredded by shrapnel and he had been pretty badly burned, he knew in time it would be almost as good as new.
In time.
They’d won, and Hank had been the only casualty—well, him and Miranda. His dōrydō was a total loss, and he’d put her back where she belonged. It had taken him a week to heal up enough to get mobile…and think. When he was ready, he boarded the courier he’d first arrived on Bevin in, and let Hakeem take him to where he wanted to go.
Taking a deep breath to push aside the pain, Hank picked up the square case he’d carried with him from the starport, where Hakeem was waiting for him.
In his other hand, he held a wrapped bottle that he tucked under his arm. With his gifts in hand, he hobbled into a lavish reception area on the top floor of a three-hundred-story building. The megapolis of Mavesheur, capital city of Draliel 3, stretched out forty miles in every direction. Flowing airways of city traffic hundreds of stories above the ground moved past in every direction.
The reception desk lay a dozen meters off, with not one, but two stunning beauties; one platinum blond, and the other an obsidian brunette. They both smiled in stereo at him as he approached. A red and black logo decorated the front of the desk, with a red border, a black field, and NasCom dead center in red letters.
“Salutations,” the blond said in a silky-sweet voice. “We are most happy to greet you.”
“You are Mister Combs, yes?” the brunette asked. “Of the Kahn Süns Distillery?”
“That’s right,” Hank said, giving the ladies one of his famous smiles. “I have an appointment with Director Giles.”
“And those are?” the raven-haired beauty asked, glancing at the bottle and the box.
Hank held out the bottle. “This? It’s a token of my esteem.” He lifted the box. “I’m returning this to Director Giles. I don’t believe he knows it, but he misplaced it, and I wanted to return it to him.”
“How thoughtful,” the blond said.
“It’s the least I can do,” Hank replied.
The brunette turned, activated a screen behind the counter, and gave a ravishing smile.
“Director Giles, a Mr. Combs, president of the Kahn Süns Distillery, is here to see you for your nine o’clock. He was vetted by security when he entered the building.”
“Send him in,” a smooth man’s voice replied.
A pair of three-meter doors made of dark wood opened to Hank’s left, revealing a cavernous den of luxurious furnishings. At the far end, up against floor-to-ceiling windows, sat a dark-haired man with a perfect goatee and a curious expression that turned to mild surprise as Hank approached. He wore a glimmering gray suit that looked opalescent in the sunlight.
“Good afternoon, Mister…Combs, was it?” the director asked as Hank stepped in and the doors closed behind him. “Please, have a seat.”
Hank reached the offered chair, stepped past it, and set the case on the table.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Hank replied affably, “I’d rather stand. If I put my butt in that chair, I’ll play hell getting back up again.”
“As you wish,” Giles said with a nod. “Can I offer you a drink? I happen to have an eight-year-old bottle of Kahn Süns over in the bar, as well as a number of other small-batch liquors.”
Hank turned and spotted a bottle with his label, top and center, amidst three rows of bottles behind a dark wood bar.
“I’m good,” Hank replied.
“I thought Kahn Süns was owned by its namesake, an older gentleman of Mongolian descent, I believe.”
“It was,” Hank replied. “Old Soong and I became fast friends when he arrived with the first ship of colonists to make landfall on Bevin.” Hank smiled, remembering. “Soong was an artist when it came to distillery. Truly a master. At the time, I grew the shadda, and he made the hooch. He taught me how along the way, and when he passed from the living a few years back, he left the whole thing to me. I still think of myself as a farmer, but I keep Soong’s dream alive because he asked me to.”
“Indeed,” Giles said, raising an eyebrow. “As I understand it, Kahn Süns—the only brand, I might add—is served across thirty systems. I’m sure the fact that the company is worth several hundred million annually didn’t factor into your acceptance?”
“Not really,” Hank said. “Sure, it’s made a lot of things easier, but to be honest, it was the simple life that brought me to Bevin. I pay a slew of folks to take care of the day-to-day operations over at Kahn. I still consider myself a farmer by trade, but recent events have forced me to take a more active role. It seems you, or I should say, NasCom, misplaced something on Bevin, and I’ve come to return it to you, along with an offer.”
“Misplaced?” Giles asked, suddenly confused. “I can’t imagine what that might be.”
“Let me show you.” Hank stepped forward, released two latches on the top of the case, and lifted. The top and all four sides rose in his grip, revealing a clearplas jar with a severed head in it. The eyes were closed, and the face a bit swollen, but otherwise it looked perfectly preserved.
Giles’ eyes darted to the jar, and when he realized what he was looking at, he gasped slightly. It took only a moment for him to regain his composure.
Hank had to give him some credit. Not everyone could stay cool under those circumstances.
“Forgive me,” Giles said, “but I’m fairly certain I could never have misplaced something like that.”
Hank smiled. “This is Commander Raul Sanchez Villalba of the Saraphon. If you look that up, you’ll find he captained one of your smaller corvettes. He was part of a squadron of ships under your oversight, and I believe he bit off more than he could chew.”
“Clearly,” Giles said. “Piracy?”
Hank nodded. “The folks of New Haven didn’t want to get wiped off the map, so I stepped in, and with a little help, terminated Villalba’s command, along with his entire platoon.”
“I can assure you, neither I nor anyone in my chain of command tasked him to undertake such an operation.”
“I have no doubt,” Hank said. “Which is why his head is on your desk, rather than your head being on someone else’s. The only reason you’re still alive is because there would be no reason in the world for a director to task a commander to hit a backass planet for a hundred-thousand liters of booze. The numbers are too small for a guy like you.”
There was no mistaking the look on Giles face. The man was not accustomed to hearing such threats, and he clearly considered Hank to have a good deal of raw chutzpah. Hank could see Giles factoring in the situation and what his possible options were. The man had to be thinking Hank was there for reparations, blackmail, or even assassination.
“Before you get too worried,” Hank said, “I’m here to make your day better, not worse.”
“Really?” Giles replied with a good deal of suspicion.
“That’s right.” Hank said. “You got a couple of clean glasses handy?”
Giles got a curious expression on his face, and then he opened a lower drawer, pulled out two rocks glasses, and set them on the desk.
Hank pulled the paper off the bottle of Kahn Süns he’d placed between them.
Giles eyes went wide when he saw the distillation date: 2954. The bottle was thirteen years old, and any connoisseur of süns would know that’s as old as it got.
“That’s from the first…” Giles’ voice trailed off.
“That’s right,” Hank said. “I still have a number of cases laying around.”
Hank pulled the wooden stopper from the bottle with a soft pop, and a few tendrils of wispy Bevin atmosphere drifted away. He poured a finger of the pale lavender fluid into both glasses, and then put the stopper back in. Setting the bottle on the desk, he locked eyes with Director Giles.
“The people of Bevin would like to license NasCom to set up a large-scale süns operation on the other side of the planet…” Hank waited a moment to let that sink in. A number of corporations had offered the inhabitants of Bevin a similar offer, but they’d always been turned down.
Giles’ eyes narrowed briefly. “Aren’t you worried we’ll put you out of business?”
“Not at all,” Hank replied easily. “Corporations like NasCom mass produce average to sub-standard products—lower quality for a better price. We, on the other hand, produce a top shelf libation. Even if you upped your quality, there could only ever be one original: Kahn. The one. The only. I’ll do just fine, and the licensing fees, a mere ten percent of your gross, will go to the people of Bevin.” Hank raised his glass and inhaled deeply. “And if something happened to go wrong, say, for example, a member of NasCom decided to alter the deal after the fact…well, I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’ve also made arrangements to have an Archangel garrison stationed a few hundred miles from our colony. Anything that happens to us will catch their attention very quickly. And I don’t think either of us wants Terran Republic Archangels involved in any of our affairs.” Hank slipped a military ID from one of his pockets and slid it across the desk. Giles eyes went wide when he saw Archangel Commander (Ret.) beneath Hank’s image. “Did I mention I was an Archangel in a previous life?”
Giles paled.
“No,” Giles said. “You didn’t mentioned it.”
“Yeah. Their current commandant, Vice Admiral Jokimbun, was one of my protégés a while back.” Giles seemed to have gone speechless. “Don’t worry, Director. Like I said, I’m here to make your day better, not worse.”
“I must say,” Giles said as he slowly regained his composure, “you have my full attention, but why all the intrigue?”
“Well, if I’m going to make a deal with the devil, I’m gonna be damn certain to do it on my terms.”
Giles smiled and nodded respectfully. “I must say, Mr. Combs—”
“Call me Hank. And I’m not done putting things on the table for you. Every year, on New Year’s, I’ll have delivered to you a case of the next thirteen-year-old süns in my inventory. That’ll be for life, although it’s non-transferable. Let’s call it an incentive clause.”
Giles leaned back in his chair, and it looked like he was fighting the smile that had split his face.
“I must say, Hank, you’ve played this brilliantly.” Giles eyed the glass in front of him. “With NasCom on one side of the planet, and the Archangels in your back yard—I’m guessing you sold it to the vice admiral as an R and R facility?”
Hank nodded.
“You’ll never have to worry about more piracy, corporate or otherwise.”
“You’re very astute,” Hank said. “Add in the fact that I won’t have to work as hard, and for me it’s the best deal in the history of deals. More credits. Security…and all it really costs me is a case of thirteen-year-old hooch a year.” He paused, looking expectantly at the Director. “So, we do have a deal, don’t we?”
Giles picked up the glass in front of him. He leaned forward and clinked it against Hank’s.
“I believe we do, Hank.” He waited for Hank to take a drink—just to be sure it wasn’t poisoned, no doubt—and then sniffed at the oldest glass of süns he was likely to ever have in his hand. Closing his eyes, he finally took a single sip and let the subtle flavors and smooth warmth flow down his throat. There really was nothing like it in the galaxy. Another smile crossed his lips, and then he opened his eyes to see Hank standing with a wry grin on his face.
“I’m glad you like it,” Hank said.
“Süns has always been my favorite, and this is exquisite.”
“You can keep the bottle,” Hank offered, sliding it across the desk. “We did claim the Saraphon as salvage, by the way. At this point, an escort-class corvette will go a long way in helping New Haven hold onto what we already have.”
“Completely understandable,” the director said.
Hank finished his glass, set it down, and then reached for the box cover so he could take Sanchez’s head.
“I would like to ask one favor,” Giles asked, holding up his hand to stop Hank.
“Oh?” Hank said, suddenly wary but curious.
“I was wondering if you’d let me hang on to that.” Giles nodded toward the head. “I have a number of ship captains who have, as well you know, taken it upon themselves to step outside of NasCom’s policies regarding piracy…ignoring my repeated, explicit directives, I might add.”
Hank nodded in understanding. “Certainly,” he said with a knowing smile. “It’s all yours.”
“Hank,” the director said softly. “I’m beginning to think you and I have something in common. I find myself wondering…if I should learn of other NasCom…infractions…might I pass such information along to you? The hierarchy here is, shall we say, more of a straightjacket than anything else. As I’m sure you know, corporate politics is what it is. You could, at your leisure, pass along such information to…well…whomever you chose. What they do with that information, I’m sure I wouldn’t want to know. Although it would be a drop in the galactic bucket, I see an opportunity here to potentially accomplish something worth doing.”
Hank cocked his head to the side, wrapping his head around what the director was proposing. Officially, neither the director nor the Archangels could go after corporate pirates without official sanction by the Terran Republic. It would all have to be off the books. But wiping out even one rogue mercenary crew would be worth the price of admission.
“You know what, Director,” Hank said, “I think I’m going to make that two cases a year of the current thirteen Kahn. You go right ahead reach out to me whenever you like.”
* * *
Hank walked down the loading ramp of a gleaming new Mancuso Executive Courier. With Hakeem Najjar at the helm, they’d returned from Draliel with the NasCom contract in hand and a couple of new acquisitions in the hold. They’d landed across the dirt road from Hank’s homestead, forgoing a landing at the starport, and Kenny Boudreaux was standing there to meet him.
“Come on up here, Kenny,” Hank said, retreating back up the loading ramp.
The young man strode up the ramp to find Hank unlatching the door of a tall cargo case secured to the left-hand side of the cargo bay. An identical case, secured to the other side, was already open, and the doors of the storage unit within were already swinging open to reveal a gleaming new dōrydō inside.
“It’s a new Mancuso,” Kenny blurted, “isn’t it?”
“Brand spankin’,” Hank said. “That one’s mine.” He hit the actuator on the other case to expose an identical dōrydō. “This one is yours, assuming you want it.”
“What?” Kenny’s mouth dropped open.
“Kenny,” Hank said, “I don’t have too many years left, and I never had kids. After what happened to your father, I was wondering if you might be interested in picking up a crotchety old farmer to fill the vacancy, although I could never fill his shoes.”
Kenny gulped. “I suppose so,” he said. “I mean, yes, absolutely yes!”
“Good. I’ll take care of the adoption paperwork.” Hank eyed Kenny. “There are a few conditions, though.”
“What’s that?”
“One, you learn how to drive this dōrydō as well as I do. Second, you learn how to distill süns. Third, you promise to carry on old man Soong’s dream after you plant me next to what’s left of Miranda over there. You’ll inherit the whole company, of course.” He gave Kenny a hopeful smile. “I know it’s a lot, and you don’t need to decide right now. It’s hard work, long hours, and the whole colony will depend upon you. I’ll teach you everything I can in the time I have left.”
In that moment, Kenny seemed to grow up a little more than he had when he saw the dead body of his father. His eyes grew hard, but hopeful. He understood at least a little of what he would be taking on. Hank could see it in his eyes.
“Hank, I swear I’ll meet all three conditions…if for no other reason than for what they did to my dad. That shouldn’t happen to anybody.”
“No, it shouldn’t,” Hank agreed. “There’s more I have to tell you…I made a couple deals that complicate this whole thing—for the better—but it’s all wrapped up together. We’ll get to all that eventually. For now, let’s go get the paperwork done, and then you can try on this dōrydō and see if I got the size right.”
“Okay, Hank.” They strode down the ramp and headed toward Hank’s old beat up Masahaki hover truck. The weapons had been removed and, along with all the other weapons, secured in Hank’s basement for the next rainy day.
As they reached the truck, Kenny stopped.
“Hank?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet, I’m gonna work your ass off.”
“I won’t let you down,” Kenny promised as they both got in.
“You haven’t yet, son,” Hank said, firing up the power plant. “You haven’t yet.”
The Dogs of God Page 5
