Hammers and Nails

by Andrew Vaillencourt

  Roland wasn’t sure if he was angrier at himself for coming off that way, or just furious that the world had taught Sid the best way to avoid being hurt by a man was to offer him sex.

  “Well, Roland,” Sid practically purred, “what can I do for you tonight?”

  “Somebody is trying to kill me,” was his blunt answer. “That somebody just had a courier come here and report to you.”

  Roland saw a flash of terror mar her sultry features for the merest fraction of a second. It was a microscopic tell, but he caught it. He hated her fear, but he needed it, too. He needed her to fear him enough to tell the truth. This was normal for him, but tonight it turned his stomach. They were interrupted by the merciful clang of the door chime, and a woman entered with a large mug of beer and a bottle of wine. She handed the beer to Roland who immediately took a long pull and then poured a glass of the wine for Sid. Once finished, she left the room silently. Sid had used the interruption to collect herself and sipped artfully on her beverage before responding, “I hope you don’t think I have anything to do with it. I use a lot of couriers, Roland. I’m a loan shark and money launderer after all.” A drop of wine fell from the glass and landed on the top of her left breast. It rode the curve of soft flesh and traced red streak down into her cleavage. “Oh my!” she giggled. "Pardon me.” She wiped at the red line with her finger and the soft mound jiggled and rolled at the pressure. New and improved, enlightened Roland had to admit it was a very impressive show. He did not bother trying to ignore it, but rather watched it with detached amusement.

  “We followed him here directly from a meet-up with a bounty hunter,” Roland proceeded as if entirely unaffected by the display. Sid leaned over to place the wine glass on an end table, twisting in such a manner as to show even more chest and actually increasing the amount of visible thigh at the same time. This took no small portion of grace and athleticism, and Roland actually felt his eyebrows rise watching it. The ploy was wasted on him though, and Sid was noticing.

  “Now, come on, Roland. I’ve never taken a bounty on anyone in my life. You know that. I actually use your services almost exclusively for such things. If only to get you to come around and see me from time to time.” Her smile was sweet as she said it, and she settled back into the divan with a serpentine slither.

  Roland was tiring of this dance. Rather than turning him on, it was all conspiring to annoy him. It was a lot like dealing with Mindy, which always put him in a bad mood. As much as he understood why she was trying so hard to distract him, he was beginning to resent the insult to his intelligence.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s you. But I do think whoever is trying to kill me is using you to cover his tracks.”

  “So that’s what brings you here. Would you like to use me too?” Her tone was sarcastic, but she made it very clear that this was, in fact, an invitation to ‘use’ her. “Why Roland, how forward of you!”

  “I need to get to this guy before somebody gets seriously hurt, Sid.” He kept his voice even and businesslike. He hoped she would catch on and stop with the theatrics. He did not have the words to communicate his growing irritation without coming off as even more threatening, which would only make things worse.

  With her charms failing, Sid doubled down and turned up the heat. “You know, Roland,” Sid cooed, “my services are yours for the asking.” She leaned forward again as she said it, stretching dreamily and reaching for her wine glass. Her hand passed it though, and she pressed forward without warning to step up from the couch and press her body against the seven-and-a-half-foot cyborg. The nightgown slipped off her shoulders to land in a red puddle at her feet and her hands went to his belt, “All my services...”

  There was really nothing left for the imagination at this point, and Roland’s ironclad comportment nearly collapsed under the pressure. It was rage and not lust bubbling to the surface however, and he could not suppress a growl. He snapped, “Oh, cut the shit, Sid. I’m not biting.”

  The woman’s face fell, and the veneer of the seductress collapsed into a mask of fear. “It’s not me, Roland. I only just found out, myself. Terry... the courier, that is, is my go-between and he’s been feeding me intel. I didn’t know, I swear!”

  “What do you know?” It was all he could do to keep his voice from degenerating into a menacing growl. He simply did not have the right skill set for this interaction. He wanted to just turn and leave, to run from his acute discomfort, but he needed the information.

  “It’s someone new, and it’s linked to The Brokerage. They’re really pissed at you, you know. They are trying to get the Lodge to go after you by tricking you into killing a lot of hunters. That’s all I know for now! I swear! You know I’d never cross you, right?”

  Her terror tasted like ashes in his throat. In a moment of inspiration, Roland abandoned his usual intimidation-based tactics. He would not sleep well tonight if he terrorized Sid into helping after she had just hurled herself at him to save her own life. He did not want to be that monster anymore. Sid was a coin-changer and a loan shark, not some sinister player working an angle on him. She was just too scared to know how to handle the sudden pressure of being caught up in a huge crime war.

  He forced himself to speak quietly. He dragged his voice out of the basement where it liked to live when he was irritated and focused on affecting a calm demeanor. “I figured as much, Sid. This shit isn’t your style. We are going to need more information though. Now, I won’t force you to do anything, because this isn’t your fight, and it’s all above your pay grade. But I need help.” Roland paused; this next part was foreign to him and the words needed to be forced past his lips, “I would be very grateful if you decided to help me.”

  “Really?” Sid sounded incredulous. “You aren’t going to kill me or bust up my place?” That was how Roland usually handled this sort of thing, so the question was appropriate.

  “I’m growing as a person,” he shrugged.

  A slow smile split Sid’s face at this, and in an instant the seductress returned. She pressed her exposed flesh against him again and smiled with vulpine glee, “How grateful are we talking, Tank?”

  “I said cut the shit, Sid.” This time the growl was unavoidable.

  "Oh, all right then." Sid smiled and turned a slow circle, her naked body a study in Rubenesque sexuality. "A girl has to try, you know.”

  Having used up all his newfound social charms, he returned to his usual gruffness. “Stop trying. My girlfriend would wear you like a snow boot, lady.”

  “I like her already,” she admitted. Still nude, and undaunted by Roland’s gaze, she walked over to the desk and punched the intercom, “Stella? Tell Terry I need to see him tomorrow.” She looked back at Roland, “Give me a few days, I should have more for you by then.”

  “Just get me something solid, Sid. And thanks.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and thrust her ample chest out at him, “I’m pretty sure you’re solid enough for the both of us right now, Tank. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Cut the shit, Sid,” Roland repeated.

  And then he got out of there as fast as he could.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Anyone who observed Paulie stalking away from the counting house could be forgiven for attributing the brisk clomping of his boots and snarling rictus of his face for embarrassment at being so casually dismissed. His services were not inexpensive things, after all. If one went to all the trouble of finding him on Galapagos and bringing him all the way here, it would behoove that person to actually let him execute the duties for which he had been retained. So, it made perfect sense for him to be stomping off into the night looking like Satan himself had just urinated into his breakfast cereal. It was only natural.

  But this was not it at all. Sid had no idea at all where Paulie had come from or how he had found his way into her employ. She thought he was just another merc, tired of cruising the gate stations and looking for a comfy gig back on Earth. But he hated Earth
. He hated comfy gigs, too. Paulie liked to fight, and he liked to kill, and he liked making a lot of money doing both. Thus, it was for reasons entirely his own that Paulie was stalking a path away from the Dockside border and toward the center of The Sprawl. When he was a mile or two away from Sid’s place, he pinged for a ride. When it arrived, he hopped in and keyed an address to the autopilot and settled back into the seat. He shoved a hand into his jacket and fished around until he found his flask and extracted it. A long, luxurious pull from the stainless steel vessel sent burning liquid refreshment down his gullet. The strong liquor seared his esophagus and settled in his belly like lava, sending tingles of warmth through his whole body.

  Ain’t nothing like good vino, he brooded. The shit they make here is too soft.

  Vino, the way spacers made it on long voyages, could be used to clean engine parts or strip paint from ship’s hulls if one was disinclined to drink it. It was made from equal parts rotten fruit, cooking spices, and uncut ethanol. There was a pervasive legend that the really good stuff was flavored with toluene and filtered through a longshoreman’s sweat sock, but Paulie was pretty sure this was just a myth. He had met too many longshoremen and their socks to believe that crock. He took another long pull, wincing as the powerful corrosive sheered layers of his throat away and cascaded into his belly like molten rock.

  He coughed, hard. Oh yeah. That’s the goodness.

  He was still collecting himself when the arrival chime sounded and the car door hissed open. Paulie left without leaving a tip and crossed the street to the tall and austere office building at which he had arrived. The looming edifice bore an eerie similarity to the surrounding buildings as architectural flamboyance was not a hallmark for this part of The Sprawl. Endless nearly identical office buildings lined both sides of the dark street, with only illuminated placards in front of each listing which companies rented the spaces. Wealthier tenants had more outlandish signs, there were even a few animated holographic versions running bright and chipper advertisements for the products and services provided by the tenant. Most were not that nice however, and simple scrolling text was by far the most common. Paulie ignored all of it and walked into an alley between two of the buildings. Half way down, he found a single-width access door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.” He approached it and stood still while the door scanner checked his biometrics. After a few seconds, a soft chime sounded and he heard the click of bolts being retracted. The grizzled mercenary stepped forward, and the door whooshed open without complaint. Passing through, Paulie grumbled an internal expletive about the security here. Scanners on every door, cameras in every space, and reinforced section doors like you would find on a Council battleship. It made very little sense to Paulie, but the bottom floor of this place had obviously been retrofitted to keep someone or something very powerful out. Considering what had been paid to pull him and his crew from deep space, Paulie figured this guy was in the process of picking a fight with a serious opponent.

  It pissed Paulie off that he had no idea who he had been brought here to take on, but the client was paying them by the week to sit on their hands and do squat. At least I get to hang out and ogle that Sid chick, he smiled to himself. Now there is one seriously hot bitch.

  He moved through the halls of the ground floor until he reached the elevator lobby. He entered a lift and selected the sub-basement. This prompted another set of biometric scanners to confirm his identity for the second time in two minutes. When he arrived on his floor, he turned down a long hallway and stopped at door marked “Command Center”. Paulie hit the chime with a sigh and waited. In a moment, the door clicked and opened to reveal a brightly lit room stuffed with terminals and screens. It was unoccupied save for a single man in a plush chair. The man was slightly doughy with gray hair and a flushed face. Paulie had taken an instant dislike to him upon their first meeting, but the pay was too good to walk away from this gig. The hardened campaigner could not help but notice his employer was everything he was not. Paulie was lean and muscular, his client was lumpy and weak. Paulie had a rough, scarred face with three-days’ stubble and a hairline that receded into a murderously brief crew cut. The man in the chair had his face clean-shaven, and his hair was thick and slicked into a flawless conservative part. Paulie was hard and mean, he went directly after what he wanted and took it. The silver-haired man in the room was soft and greasy. He was the kind of man who would only pat you on the back if he needed to find a soft spot to stick a knife.

  But his cred transfers always came through on time, so Paulie swallowed his revulsion. “Tank showed up at Sid’s tonight. Someone spooked the courier, too. This job is leakin’, Reynard.”

  The man in the chair acknowledged this news with a frown, “Yes. The Lodge has flagged all jobs for Tankowicz as well, it seems. It looks like phase one has not borne the fruit we hoped it would.” The man ducked his head in a slow nod, and let a slight chuckle slip past his lips, “I appear to have miscalculated some. Our Fixer friend has been pulling his punches more than I’d have thought he would. That would be the Ribiero woman's influence, I presume.”

  Paulie did not understand, “He’s not killing the hunters, you mean? His rep is that of a guy who is pretty rough with folks who go hard at him.”

  “Exactly,” the stranger agreed, “The man I knew would have killed them all without a second thought, and probably stormed the Lodge to reinforce the point.”

  “He suicidal?” Paulie was a veteran mercenary commander, and even he would not have considered attacking the Lodge. Even if you could take out all the assassins and bounty hunters in a given region, you’d just end up on the Hit List for your trouble. Being on the Hit List was a massive inconvenience, and would simply be too enormous a liability to work with.

  “He’s not suicidal, but he is startlingly uncreative in his tactics, and he prefers to leave only dead enemies behind him.”

  “Sound policy,” Paulie concurred, “What about the hunter still on the job? Should I cut him loose?” Paulie was certain the client knew what he meant by ‘cut him loose.’

  “No,” the reply was quick, “let’s keep him harassing Roland. Chasing a phantom bounty will still serve to keep his focus away from us. Keep stringing that one along until he catches on.”

  “And the courier? Kid’s weak and scared. Seriously un-fucking-reliable.”

  “We could use him to spread disinformation,” the client said after a moment’s thought. “But I suspect Terry is far too weak a link to trust with the chain, I suppose. Go ahead and 'cut him loose,' Mr. Paulsen. But let’s try to keep Roland chasing Mr. Manson instead of us, shall we?”

  “Good call,” Paulie had other tactical considerations, and it seemed his client was in the mood to dish out a greater portion of intelligence than usual tonight. “What about The Brokerage? They still on schedule? I don’t want to be left hanging in the breeze if this gets hairy.”

  “The Brokerage will do their part. Why wouldn’t they? Their part involves none of the hard work.” Reynard stifled a surreptitious chuckle at the thought of a bunch of crooked lawyers and accountants waging a street war.

  “It never fucking does with those pussies,” Paulie agreed. “They shuffle data while my boys get shot to shit.”

  The client’s eyebrows arched, “Yes, but their money is plentiful.” The man paused and looked wistful for a moment before continuing with a wry chuckle, “... and their legal aid department is magnificent.”

  Paulie had to agree with the assessment. That he had disembarked on Earth without fifteen different law enforcement agencies fighting over who got to arrest him first was a testament to it. His was a criminal record that even other criminals respected, and getting it buried or cleared must have cost a million credits all by itself.

  “So what’s the next step, then? Brokerage needs him out, so they can do...” he frowned, “... whatever the fuck it is they’re doing. Their stupid plan to trick the Lodge into taking him down isn’t working, and a straight fight is some
thing those spineless wimps are never gonna be down with.” Paulie made a rude gesture, “If the Lodge ain’t gonna fight him, who does?”

  The silver-haired man looked evenly at the mercenary for a long moment before answering.

  “Why, Mr. Paulsen, we are, obviously.”

  Paulie’s face twisted into a sardonic sneer, “Figures. And by ‘we’ you mean ‘me and my boys,’ right?”

  “I’ll be there in spirit,” the man said with a laugh.

  “Unless your spirit can lug a mag-rifle, I don’t need it. So, you finally gonna read me in on the op, then?”

  The man smiled, “Oh yes. That would be prudent at this point, I believe.”

  With a turn to a nearby terminal, pudgy fingers swiped through a few screens. The monitors all around them lit up suddenly with photos and videos of Tank Tankowicz in various highly kinetic situations. One screen showed the big man fighting on a space ship against armored crewmen. Another had him storming an old brown building somewhere and shooting up the lobby. There was a screen showing him locked in a savage brawl with what looked like a giant white android in some bland hallway, and the pair were wreaking destruction on a level that folks not lugging heavy weapons would not have been able to manage.

  “What you need to know, Mr. Paulsen, is that Roland Tankowicz is military class light cyborg from a top-secret UEDF war fighter enhancement project. His chassis specs are unlike anything you have seen or heard of. But consider this: He is the man who beat Grim Roper with his bare hands.”

  “I heard Pike’s big bitch did that,” Paulie had heard all the stories. Big Bernie had made sure everybody in their line of work heard about how she had opened Roper like a soup can.

  The man scoffed and keyed up the largest monitor in the room. It flickered to life with video of Roland fighting a giant cyborg, “Watch the video, Mr. Paulsen.” The video told the tale better than Reynard ever could, which did not stop him from talking anyway. “Roper would have taken her apart under normal circumstances, but he was fleeing Tank like a whipped dog.” The silver head shook from side to side at the ridiculous implication that Roper had been beaten by a modified construction armature, “Roper was little more than limping scrap by the time he stumbled into Sergeant Rothschilde’s grip.” The client scoffed again, but Paulie wasn’t really listening, anymore.