by Greg M. Hall
sandzypes?” asked mister six-mouths. “Right—since we were coming all the way out here, I thought it prudent to drop by and make our own assessment. Uh, your services are no longer required, by the way; don’t bother asking for payment.”
“So a loan, maybe?”
This time the Solaani and the Pentarian bodyguards broke out into laughter, as did the rest of the motley collection of Cartel soldiers.
Kvolash didn’t join in, but his bottom two mouths finally got into the act of smiling. As the mirth subsided, he strolled right up to the impudent human and rested a tentacle on each shoulder. Cloves, oregano, and the hint of moldy cheese or sweat-sock feet stuffed themselves up his nostrils. “You’re an amusing one,” his mouths purred, “and you did do us the favor of killing our infested employees. Given such mitigating circumstances, I won’t have Rulo snap your limbs while Chezril slices your intestines from your belly and strangles you with them.”
I don’t think Lotians have intestines, Turlock wanted to say. But prudence kept his yap shut.
“Of course,” said the slithery crimelord as he turned to stride back to his Nazoran, “we still have to kill you. But at least you’ll be useful one last time—as target practice. He raised a tentacle into the air, twirling it around in an upward circle. “Rulo: grab the girl.”
The ground under Turlock’s feet twitched with each step the Pentarian took. He considered stepping between the goon and Zeena, and the next thing he knew he was actually doing it.
“Don’t bother,” muttered the woman as she shoved him in the arm and walked around. “You might as well try to cold-cock a mountain.”
He shot her an incredulous look, and then turned to Marve. “You’re just going to stand there and take it?”
“She’s correct,” said the Lotian. “You’re better off picking a fistfight with a boulder than a Pentarian. The boulder’s a little less mobile. Besides, you already used your nanotabs.”
The Solaani, who’d stepped out to lend support to his comrade as if he really needed to, looked at Marve, then at the ground at his feet. “Hey, a Benfield!” His voice was the buzzy alto of a twelve-year old human who smoked six packs a day. He crossed the ground to pick up the weapon in short, clipped strides. “Let’s see the ammo for it.”
“Fine,” said the Lotian, opening a body cavity and extracting several clips, “but could you do me a favor, and put all of them in your leg pocket right there?”
The Solaani gave him a cockeyed look, scrutinized the cartridges, and put the clips in the pocket of his other leg. Then he treated him to a smiling hiss, spun on a heel, and trotted back to the waiting Nazoran.
It lifted into the air, followed by the other hovercars, which quickly formed a chevron pattern and accelerated away from them.
“Any chance they don’t turn around?” Asked Turlock, scanning the ground around them for an outcrop large enough to cower behind.
“Let’s hope they don’t,” said Marve, and as if in response, the formation of hovercars wheeled around in a lazy arc.
“Uh… I didn’t take you for suicidal. We ought to at least put some distance between you and me and make ‘em work for it, shouldn’t we?”
The Lotian responded by opening another body cavity and extracting a narrow cylinder the length of a human’s forearm.
Alternating his stare between the device and the quickly approaching hovercars—certain their lasers and miniguns were hotting up—Turlock asked: “What the hell is that?”
With deft k’tiklit movements, his partner flicked a switch on the cylinder and pressed another. “You remember the EMP pulse that took out our friend Zeena’s car, correct?”
Turlock woofed a single peal of laughter before saying: “You dumb cricket—that thing’s programmed to not take out Cartel vehicles!”
The hovercars were close enough for him, if he had ammo for the thing, to try taking shots at them with his Merton.
“It’s reprogrammable,” said Marve, apparently ignoring the insult. “You forget that Zeena was driving a Cartel vehicle.”
“Oh,” said the human, followed by: “Remind me not to dick around with sandzypes.”
The bug-man extended his arm, and a snap pealed through the air around him. A lightning-burst of pain rocketed around Turlock’s skull, so sharp and sudden that he dropped to a knee. “Ouch!”
“Sorry, forgot about those nanos in your skull,” said Marve.
Turlock looked toward the horizon in time to see the collection of hovercars slam into the ground, the Nazoran a half-second behind the others, skimming off the hardpan before coming to rest against a cluster of scrub bushes.
“Holy crap, Marve. How’d you know to swipe that thing?”
“Actually, I just scavenged it because I knew how much it cost. I thought if the Cartel double-crossed us, at least we could sell it.”
“Hmm.” He began to trot toward the downed hovercars, focusing on the Nazoran, whose windshield was the tan of impact foam. “They stuffed Zeena in the right side, didn’t they?”
“Have your pistol ready,” replied Marve. “The Pentarian might be strong enough to break out.”
Pendshelem Central Transportation Hub spread out in the plains below the ridge where Turlock stood, the twittering strobes of multiple landing pads shining in the fading daylight. Being on the fringe of the city, it was spared the destruction that had befallen the Central Business District when an ancient alien horror had ripped itself from the ground bent on wreaking havoc.
Turlock still swore that cataclysm was bound to happen, whether or not he and Marve had been making trouble at the epicenter that day. The memory of a towering, crablike body and the entwined screams of fear and agony from an entire populace caused him to shudder.
He turned to face Zeena—or Lanae, now that he was convinced. “We should get you down there. The off-planet flights quit lifting off about midnight.”
She laughed. “Fine. Like I promised, when I buy my ticket, I’ll get one apiece for each of you.”
“Yeah, we aren’t too welcome in Pendshelem right now, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to return to Ariagist. But we’ll put our heads together. What about the ‘making it worth our while’ part?”
She looked ready to make some show of offense, but didn’t say anything as she removed a ring and pressed it into his palm. “Any branch of Central Bank of Andajhar. Account number and password is in there.”
Turlock held the ring up in the fading light, appraising it. On looks and functionality alone, it’d be worth more than enough to replace his ammo even if the account turned out empty. “Aren’t you going to need money here to come back?”
“My contact information’s in there as well,” she said. “I know earlier I told you we don’t contract out, but given the extent of our problem… I’d ask if you see anything, you let me know about it.”
“We aren’t some kind of do-gooding vigilantes,” he grunted, before adding: “see anything like what?”
“I think you’ll know it when you see it.”
“We don’t work for free.”
“I’d expect no less from a hard-boiled mercenary such as yourself.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, and he didn’t recoil. The softness of her chest brushed against his arm before she straightened up and began the walk down the ridge to the spaceport.
Marve followed, passing him before he could clear his head and start moving. He looked up at the insectile face of his partner and asked: “You didn’t promise her we’d actually do anything, did you?”
“Of course not,” he replied, and though Turlock couldn’t see his face after he passed, he could hear the Lotian’s mandibles clacking in amusement.
>+<
About the Author:
Greg M. Hall has many stories published online and in print, and his debut novel, Traffic Control, is available online and in select bookstores. For more of his stories, visit his website at www.gregmhall.com, his
podcast at www.killbox.mevio.com, or his blog at sf.gregmhall.com. He lives in eastern Nebraska with his wife, a bunch of kids, and pet tortoise.