by Paul Grover
The door buzzed again.
“I’m coming!”
He grabbed at the handle and flung the door open.
An old man with a liver-spotted forehead stood outside, resting his weight on a silver capped cane.
“Mr Manson, my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour. May I?”
“Mr Legion, I’m a little busy…”
Legion gave him a look that left no doubt about the old man’s intent. Manson ushered him in.
“I would like to offer my congratulations on a successful trip to Mars. Your actions avoided many weeks of disruption and strengthened the President's position. Conway has pressed ahead with his agenda much more quickly than any of us imagined.”
Manson knew of Conway’s move against the Navy. He had used the uprising on Mars to his advantage, blaming sedition on elements on the Frontier, the Senate and even in the Federal Navy. Overnight the Federation had become a totalitarian state and few of its citizens had noticed.
Manson thanked Legion and offered him a drink.
“Whiskey, Karl.”
Manson obliged and took a seat. Legion walked the perimeter of the hotel suite, his eyes surveying the fittings. He picked a pair of pink panties off a black marble dresser and leered.
“I see you have been taking time out. It’s important to relax between jobs. We have more work for you Karl. It is not as complex as the last job but still suited to your talents. It’s the blunt instrument work you are used to.”
Legion sat opposite, perching on the edge of the cream leather couch.
The old man reached into his coat and removed a 2D photograph. He pushed it across the table. Manson scooped it up.
The image showed a man with blond hair and round glasses. He was running away from the governor’s residence in Mariner City.
“Richter,” Manson said.
“A loose end, Karl. He escaped and could be a link back to David Conway. In the grand scheme it is of little consequence, but the timing is… unfavourable.”
“He went for a shit. FRONCO were supposed to be mopping up, not my fault.”
“This is not a blame game. I need you to clear this up Karl and I need you to do it quickly. We need to ensure Conway’s position is unassailable,” Legion replied in a calm, measured tone.
“I’ll fix it, never cared for loose ends; they give me an itchy arse. Got any idea where to find him?”
Legion regarded him with a cool stare that burned into Manson’s soul.
“He left Mars six days ago. We lost track of him, but it is a safe wager to assume he is heading for the Frontier.”
Manson thought it through.
“He will want to disappear. He’ll be hot property and need specialist help. There are few people who can offer it. Yeah it won’t be hard to track him. I’ll put some feelers out and see if anyone has information.”
“Good,” Legion replied. He produced another photograph from his jacket pocket.
Manson took it and studied it.
“Vic Rybov. What’s that old bastard got to do with this?”
“He’s hunting Richter. He has a head start; find Rybov, find Richter.”
Manson tossed the photograph onto the table.
“You make my job too easy, Mr Legion. I can take care of this. Easy money.”
“Rybov has unknown motives. We know he turned against you on Arethon. Make no mistake, he will seek to profit from Richter, if not from the bounty then the information he is carrying. That information cannot reach our enemies, Karl. The situation is a mess and I am relying on you.”
Manson shrugged. “I told you, I’ll take care of this.”
Legion stood and walked to the bedroom door. Manson heard the girl’s annoying giggle. Legion put a finger to his lips as if to hush her.
He turned walked past Manson to the door.
“You leave tomorrow, Karl. You will have a ship. The information you require is on this data card.”
Manson took the card and tossed it on the table. “I have a question.”
Legion regarded him with dark eyes. “Ask it, I have nothing to hide.”
“Who am I working for? Why do I only see you?”
“That is two questions Karl, but I will indulge you. I work for people of immense power. I speak for them; they occupied this galaxy long before humans. As for me… I am one and I am all. It will make sense in time.”
Manson doubted it would, but so long as it kept him in money and all it brought with it he wondered if he should even care.
“What about Thorn? Is she one of you?”
“Thorn?” he replied. “Pay her no heed. She is a woman out of her depth. She is on the wrong side. Do with her as you will.”
Manson wondered if he would run into Thorn again. He did not know if she even made it off Mars.
“One more thing… it might sound dumb…”
“Go ahead, Karl.”
“You seem to be… everywhere, yet you need me to do your work for you; I don’t understand… Why me?”
Legion regarded him with a cool gaze for several seconds.
“Karl, the game we are playing is complex. Our forces are strong but limited. We work in the shadows. Compared to humanity we may seem all-powerful but there are limits and rules we have to play by. You asked about Thorn? She is one individual I cannot attach to; she does not carry our mark. There are others like her.”
Manson shrugged. The stitching in the robe’s shoulder finally split under the strain.
“Thank you, Mr Legion. I’ll do my best for you,” he said.
Legion bid him goodnight.
Manson swilled his drink. He swallowed and walked to the bedroom. He still had tonight; his vacation was not over just yet.
The girl lay lifeless; her skin dry and grey. Her head lay over the side of the bed and black blood oozed from her mouth and eyes, dripping onto the white carpet.
David Conway sealed the fate of the Federal Navy with a stroke of a four-hundred-year-old fountain pen. It was his fifth executive order of the day. From this point forward the responsibility of policing the space lanes and protecting the citizens of the Federation transferred to the Honourable Frontier Company.
A faint smile crossed his face. If only Vanessa Meyer were here to witness this moment. Playing a long game always paid off. He still had the problem of the Marine Corps to deal with, but without the Navy they were immobile; he could keep them wherever he wanted them.
He waited for the ink to dry while Simon Spencer stood beside the desk. Past Presidents usually signed orders in front of the press; Conway did things differently. A single remote camera drone hovered around the office, recording footage for release to the UniNet news agencies.
He gave the heavy paper to Spencer.
“Thank you, Mr President. Will there be anything else?”
“No, Simon. Prepare a press release and feed it to the hounds.”
Spencer glided to the heavy oak doors. He gave a nod, bordering on a bow and left.
A few seconds later there was a tap. Bethany Frost stepped in.
“Mr President.” She glanced to a figure behind her. “Would you like me to send Senator Benson in? He is getting impatient.”
“He can wait a little longer,” Conway replied.
Bethany was a thin woman with short dark hair. Her nose was a little too long; her eyes were spaced a little too closely to be pretty but her smile was honest and her manner professional. She lived for this job. Her discretion and ability to keep a confidence made her an asset to many vice presidents; it was why Conway retained her services when he was inaugurated.
“Bethany, how many people knew of my trip to Mars?” Conway asked.
“The flight crew and myself,” she replied without hesitation. “Aside from anyone you met while you were there, of course.”
“How do you suppose Flynt learned something was happening?”
“Admiral Flynt? I don’t understand.”
Conway rocked back in his chair.
�
��It’s the only reason Thorn was on the planet. She was sent to extract Meyer; that tells me Flynt knew something. It also tells me there is a leak somewhere in the chain.”
Bethany stood impassively, unfazed by Conway’s questions.
“Von Hagen’s troops may have let something slip; that would be my assumption. If you think it would help I can review the comm logs in and out of your office?”
“I would appreciate it Bethany. Loose lips and all that.”
“I’ll do it right away Mr President.”
Bethany Frost knew her place; Conway wished more of his staff were like her.
“Would you like me to send Senator Benson in?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
She exited the office. Conway waited, listening to muffled words the other side of the door.
Benson appeared in the doorway, wearing a dark suit and a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
“Andy, it’s good to see you. Come in; have a seat.”
Benson walked into the room, his eyes tired and purpled with fatigue. “Thank you, Mr President.”
Conway ushered him to a pair of fireside chairs placed in front of an imitation fireplace. A hologram of flames danced beneath the mantle. The Presidential residence in New York had been modelled on European mansion. Conway despised fireplace and the synthetic oak panelling, he preferred the modernity of his own office on Luna.
Conway poured two glasses of Martian whiskey and gave one to Benson. “I’m glad you escaped the horrific events of the stadium. So many of our friends were killed or injured that day.”
“How many escaped, Mr President?”
“Aside from yourself, Meyer and Hofner I believe it was around thirty. They are being cared for.”
Conway sipped his drink. Martian Whiskey was foul. Weak soil made for poor barley and aluminium vats did little to impart flavour. He did his best not to wince.
“I wanted to meet with you Andy to thank you for your loyalty, not choosing to be part of this… Alliance.” He spat the word out.
“I am a senator of the Federation, David. My loyalty lies with this office.”
“I appreciate it. We are acting against seditious elements within the government and the Navy. We will move against Meyer and her misguided followers in due course.”
“I told D37 all I knew of their plans. The Thorn woman was working for Jon Flynt.”
Conway had learned a lot about Mira Thorn in the past few days.
“Flynt is one man with one ship. Thorn is a terrorist; a criminal who we will bring to justice.”
He paused. Benson’s questions were becoming tiresome.
“Andy, I want to discuss other matters with you.” He stood and moved to the fireplace. He placed his half empty glass on the mantle.
“I have business to attend to, a lot of business. The absence of the Senate presents this office with a considerable workload. We live in challenging times.”
“I can imagine it is difficult, but I see you have assembled a capable staff,” Benson observed.
“Yes, say what you like about my predecessor he has left me with quite the pool of talent,” he replied. “What I need is a safe pair of hands to take care of things when I am indisposed.” Benson squirmed already anticipating what was to come. “You Andy, have proven your loyalty. You are competent and popular; that’s why I am offering you the job.”
Benson stood, his eyes taking on a renewed vitality.
Conway extended his hand. Benson took it.
“It is my honour to serve, Mr President.”
“I’m lucky to have you Vice President Benson. Bethany will work with you to ensure your office is staffed and operational. You leave for Luna in an hour.”
“An hour?”
“Like I said, these are challenging times.”
Benson thanked Conway and headed for the door.
Conway watched him leave.
Popular? That much is true.
Benson had been nothing more than a low level, long timer in the Senate; ambitious enough to reach a certain level, inept enough to stay there. It made him controllable and that was the real quality Conway needed in a deputy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CORSO was a galactic curiosity. The small sub Earth-sized planet orbited in the habitation zone of a cool dwarf star. The tiny world was close enough to its sun to support a basic biosphere but only avoided a gravity induced tidal lock by a few million kilometres. As a result, the diurnal cycle of Corso was 832 earth days, 600 more than it took to complete an orbit. The planetoid was said to experience every season several times in a single day.
Although classified as a mining colony most of Corso’s population earned their credits trading in booze, weapons, drugs and sex. Lawless even by Frontier standards, Corso offered a haven for those wishing to disappear and an opportunity to indulge darker desires for those so inclined.
A piss yellow sun hung low on the horizon as El Dorado flew across the northern desert. The freighter was heading to the city of Thieves’ Harbour, the only settlement on the planet.
El Dorado’s captain, a burly man known only as Finn, made his way to the habitation section of the battered tramp freighter.
“So Mr Richmond; we’ll be landing in about ten minutes; Jonny is bringing us in on a roundabout route as I wanted to discuss your fare.”
“My fare?” Anders Richter asked. “I already paid you Mr Finn, a not inconsiderable amount either.”
“That was before I found out who you were and what you are worth.”
Richter made to stand. Finn reached for his weapon.
“Well, Mr Finn I have no intention of paying any more. I can’t. I have no cash until we land.”
Richter knew the smuggler’s mind was made up.
“Well, that’s a real deal breaker Anders; you see it’s a big bounty and it pays out if you live or die.”
Richter raised his hands. “Okay, I figured this would happen. I have cash; it’s not as much as the bounty, but you won’t have to answer questions about why you flew here before turning me in. I need my bag,” he said.
Finn nodded. Richter reached for his pack and unlocked the biometric clasp. He rummaged around inside his leather satchel.
“No funny business,” Finn said.
“Of course not.” Richter’s hands found what he was looking for. A small, round box containing a sticky charge. He opened the case and primed the device. Richter stood and dropped the bag. He threw the charge at Finn; it stuck to his chest and electrical energy danced around his torso. He dropped to the deck, his eyes staring lifelessly ahead.
“Keep the change Mr Finn,” Richter said, stepping over him. He reached into his jacket and produced his own weapon, before walking to the flight deck
“Hey Da’ did the man pony up?” Jonny asked, not taking his eyes off the viewports. The young man’s Frontier accent was so dense it was as if he were speaking a different language to standard English. He tensed as Richter placed his gun on the back of his neck.
“No, Jonny, the man did not pony up. Now I suggest you concentrate on landing the ship while I concentrate on not blowing your fucking head off. Deal?”
Jonny agreed with snort and a nod.
The El Dorado came in on an outer pad of Corso’s run down spaceport. Her vertical lifters blew clouds of yellow dirt into the air.
The port comprised an apron of broken concrete surrounded by tired corrugated steel sheds. Aside from El Dorado there were three vessels laid up. Two battered Kobo’s and a sleek black Aurora.
Richter waited while Jonny shut the ship down.
“Is my Da’ okay? I told him it was a stupid idea.”
“He’s fine Jonny. He’s having a rest. You do what you need to.”
The pilot worked with trembling hands to complete the procedure.
“All done?” Richter asked, his voice calm and friendly.
Jonny confirmed it was.
Richter slit his throat with a long, curved blade and left
the young man to gurgle into eternity
He shivered as he descended the exit ramp. The Aurora was parked up alongside, its hatches sealed, sub light engines covered. The ship was heavily upgraded and bore the name Eden’s Revenge. The vessel was out of place somewhere like this; it looked like a rich man’s plaything. Perhaps the owner was here to experience the more unusual delights Thieves’ Harbour could offer.
He walked into one of the steel sheds; a sign denoted it as arrivals. He paid his tax to a bored looking clerk, who stamped his travel documents without a second look.
Dust filled the air of the streets outside the spaceport. They teemed with people united in desperation.
Richter stood out as a newcomer and was set upon by hawkers and cab drivers. He ignored them, pushing ever forward through the crowd. He spied a tall, thin local man leaning against a beaten-up Toyota Planet Cruiser. The man watched the crowd with disdain and chewed on an unlit cigar, hands thrust into the pockets of a faded green parka. He was fair skinned, it stood in stark contrast to his ink black hair. The man nodded as Richter approached, a grin crossing his rugged, square-jawed face.
Richter could read people as a well as he could computers and this local stood apart from the others. It was his stance and the contempt in his eyes as he watched the comings and goings of those around him.
The man continued to grin as Richter approached. He tucked his cigar into the top pocket of his parka.
“Are you for hire?” Richter asked.
“You looking for a ride, Pilgrim? Or you looking for a man you can get things done, a man who knows how this town works?”
He spoke with a heavy Frontier accent.
“Both.”
“Get in, Pilgrim. Name is Campbell.”
Richter climbed into the passenger seat and Campbell started the motor. The vehicle moved into the road, cutting a wake through the turgid sea of humanity.
“Thank you, Mr Campbell.”
“Just Campbell, what tagga do you live under, Pilgrim?”
Richter stared at him, unsure of the meaning.
“Your name, Pilgrim. What do I call you?”
“Richmond… just Richmond.”
The man gave a long belly laugh. “So where to, Richmond?”