The Erkennen Job

by Chris Pourteau

  The Erkennen Job

  A SynCorp Saga Story

  by

  Chris Pourteau

  Copyright Notice and Acknowledgments

  This e-book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.

  Copyright © 2019 by David Bruns and Chris Pourteau.

  All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of Hip Phoenix Publishing, LLC.

  Cover design © 2018 by Steve Beaulieu. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

  This story originally appeared in the anthology Bridge Across the Stars © 2018 by Sci-Fi Bridge. It also appears in Baen Books’ The Year’s Best Military & Adventure SF, Vol. 5 © 2019 by Baen Books.

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  The Contract

  Tony Two-point-oh sat back in his chair and stared across the expanse of his English oak desk. I could see how much he favored his father when he did that. Same iron jawline. Same bony temple. Like someone had pulled an exoskeleton off a Martian assembly line and stretched skin over it. When he’s angry, Tony’s forehead ripples like liquid metal.

  “It’s a power play, pure and simple.” His voice rumbled in the back of his throat. “Ra’uf Erkennen is making a move.”

  “Why not keep the marshals on the case?” I asked. Seemed like a perfect job for the Marshals Service, that bastion of law and order bought and paid for by the Syndicate Corporation. Like everything else in the solar system.

  Tony shook his head. “When we thought Blalock had simply stolen tech, the marshals were fine. Now that we know Ra’uf is up to something … no, this secret lab in Darkside needs to stay a secret as far as the public is concerned. We need to handle this privately.”

  I nodded. By we, he meant me: Stacks Fischer, chief enforcer for SynCorp and Tony’s personal assassin.

  The Erkennen Faction had first reported that a scientist named Mason Blalock had committed corporate espionage and stolen research and dashed to Darkside with it. That’s why the marshals went in. Now, we knew the situation wasn’t so simple thanks to a whistleblower inside the Erkennen organization. Blalock was conducting secret research meant to upset the delicate, nuanced relationship of SynCorp’s Five Factions. And meant to put the Erkennens at the top of the totem pole.

  “What’s this super-secret tech again?”

  Tony had to look to remind himself. “Molecularly Enhanced Synthetic Hemp.” He said each word deliberately.

  “Developing a new drug in Darkside,” I grunted. “Now there’s a shocker.”

  Tony shrugged. “My little bird inside Erkennen tells me it’s a game-changer. Ra’uf plans to use the new strain of hemp to take over,” he said, stroking the plush arms of his leather chair.

  “Using drugs as a weapon?”

  Tony shrugged again. “How he plans to do it, I have no idea. But the fact that Ra’uf is working offline is already a violation of the corporate compact.”

  That was true enough. But each of the Five Factions maneuvered against the others all the time. This particular power play seemed to have Tony especially on edge.

  “We need to set an example, Eugene.” Tony gave me the unblinking eye, that look he reserves for his inner circle when he’s passing along privileged Company knowledge. Or trying to intimidate the other guy.

  “I reckon so,” I said. But I wanted to be crystal clear on expectations. “You want me to bring Blalock back?”

  Tony’s eyes went cold. Ice-blue cold. Like his power core had just shut down, if he’d had a power core. “Kill the geek. Take the tech.”

  I stood. “I’ll head out post-haste, Boss.” How hard could it be to find one rogue scientist making new-and-improved pipeweed in Darkside?

  “One more thing. Ra’uf Erkennen needs to be taught a lesson.” Tony’s words were gravel in a grinder. “Make it loud and clear.”

  “I’ll get it done, Boss.”

  “I have every confidence, Eugene,” he said with a wolfish smile. Tony’s bone structure made the expression seem painted on again, like an undertaker had pinned his skin back to force a peaceful repose for respectful mourners. “Good hunting.”

  • • •

  I thought about stopping by The Slate—my favorite watering hole on the orbiting station that served as SynCorp’s headquarters—and pump Mickey Stotes, the proprietor, for information. But I figured whatever the Erkennens were playing at with Blalock was still far enough off-grid that even Mickey, usually a fount of useful knowledge, wouldn’t know anything. If not for Tony’s secret source inside the Erkennen Faction, neither would we. So I headed dockside and my ride waiting there.

  From Tony’s penthouse office in SCHQ, the vator ride down to the deck where the parking’s cheap always takes a while. I don’t mind. Gives me time to think, make sure I know what I think I know.

  He’s smart, Tony. Street-smart, unlike his father Anthony Taulke, who was a brilliant engineer and world-builder but not so smart when it came to managing people. Tony must’ve gotten his people skills from momma. As SynCorp’s CEO and head of the Taulke Faction, he’s a master at keeping the other four factions off-balance and everyone toiling toward the Company’s bottom line. Maintaining the status quo means everyone wins.

  That’s what made this move by the Erkennen Faction even more odd. The Erkennens developed tech for the Company. That was their main contribution. But apparently Ra’uf Erkennen had decided to conduct this particular project off-book. He was risking a lot taking on Tony.

  As the decks flashed by, I pulled my left bicep against my side to find the comforting curve of my stunner in its holster. Comforting yes, but stunners are new tech, only out a few years, and I don’t trust ’em. That’s why I carry backups. Strapped to my right wrist, my knife in a spring launcher. Inside my left ankle, my .38, what they used to call a police special a couple hundred years ago. The knife and the pistol were my old reliables.

  Given what Tony wanted done, the stunner might be too humane anyway. The stunner tech, which I still didn’t really understand, somehow causes a living being’s EM field to shock them to death. It’s a quick and supposedly painless way to go. And it requires less mopping up afterward.

  But sometimes in this business you want to make a mess. The .38 would leave a weeping hole for everyone to gape at on CorpNet. I’d just have to make sure the wound was visible to make Tony’s point for him: taking on Tony Taulke is no Sunday afternoon stroll with the family. It always has real consequences—deadly consequences. With that in mind, I walked off the vator appreciating Ra’uf Erkennen’s testicular fortitude.

  One quick valet delivery later, and I was back in the Hearse’s cockpit. There are few places I feel safer. She’s a fast, sleek little ship with black and silver lines and an oversized trunk for … well, you know … cargo. The Hearse—I named her myself—exchanged bona fides with SynCorp Control, and we were on our way to the moon and its main colony, Darkside. It’d be a few hours before I got there, so I went over the briefing from Tony again in my head.

  The Erkennen Faction had first said that Mason Blalock, one of their own scientists, had stolen groundbreaking tech, maybe to hand over to the Resistance—called Ghosts because their favored way to resist is to gum up the works of the corporate machinery. Ghosts say they’re fighting for mankind’s freedom from the indentured servitude of life under SynCorp, but most of Sol’s citizens are perfectly happy to let the Company run their lives. It wasn’t forty years ag
o we all thought we’d expire right along with what was left of Earth. Then the corporations came along and saved us: colonized Mars, developed Titan’s resources. So who can blame the citizenry if they trade a little freedom for survival of the species? When the Ghosts sabotage the assembly lines or blow up Company assets? Well, it strikes me as damned ungrateful.

  When it looked like just another corporate espionage job by Blalock, SynCorp had dispatched the Marshals Service to set things right. But you only engage the marshals when you want the law enforced and the citizenry to see you’ve enforced it. When you need a message sent that’s a little more direct—like to big-balled Ra’uf Erkennen, keen on taking Tony’s job—well, that’s where I come in.

  I let myself relax a little and looked up through the Hearse’s canopy. I was finally away from the bright blue marble, and the dark silver of the stars shone in. Other than the getting paid part, this was my favorite part of the job—traveling alone in the Hearse, carefully planning my next steps.

  I still had hours to Darkside. With the starlight streaming in and my racing thoughts finally starting to calm, I pulled up the Hearse’s reading library. This was my thing to do while I waited on the flight time. Waiting is ninety percent of my job. Some assassins play games on their padds. Some eat ravenously, mechanically. Some drink, but not too much. None dare to sleep if they want to stay alive.

  Me? I like to read books. That’s where I get my nickname from, by the way—my love for reading stacks of books. What, you thought it referred to how many bodies I’ve piled up in my career?

  I pulled up Mickey Spillane. He’d do.

  The Investigation

  Founded as Darkside’s End, the largest settlement on the moon had once been the hope of humanity. It was supposed to be the first giant footprint for mankind off a dying planet, a springboard to a second chance among the stars. Then everything went to shit on Earth even faster than the experts predicted. Instead of a shining city on a lunar hill, the moon became a way station where people stopped off on their way to more important places like Mars. I remember a line from some old vid: a wretched hive of scum and villainy. That describes Darkside perfectly. Yeah, that’s what everyone calls it now … no End in sight.

  Once I landed, I headed for the Fleshway—a long, dirty bazaar of overpriced drinkeries and brothels, and peopled by pickpockets. If Blalock really was in Darkside, that’s where I’d most likely find him, indulging in the local diversions. The Fleshway is so-called not only for peddling access to everyone’s favorite fifteen minutes of the day, but also because foot traffic is so thick on the bazaar, it’s hard not to stick your fingers in other people’s pockets.

  The smell of sweat, vomit, and other bodily fluids wafted up from the gray mud of the double-wide, prefabricated thoroughfare. The sounds of drunkards, hucksters, and a slurred desire for death sooner rather than later mixed in the murmur of the crowd.

  I pushed my way through, heading for Minerva Sett’s Arms of Artemis. The Arms is considered the best little whorehouse in Darkside, which isn’t saying much for the place. The owner—Minerva, aka, Minnie the Mouth—and I were old friends. Whenever I prowled Darkside on a job, I’d stop in for a Scotch and a beer and sometimes help her muscle out a drunk john demanding more than he’d paid for. Though she never paid me for the service, Minnie was always grateful for my assistance, if you know what I mean.

  I pulled my hat down when I entered the Arms. Last thing I needed was someone spotting me and tipping off anyone watching Blalock’s back. I spotted Minnie holding court and angled in her direction. When she saw me, I jerked my thumb toward her office behind the bar. She nodded and began to wind down her conversation with the client she’d been chatting up.

  Entering her office felt like slipping into an old coat. “This place looks the same,” I said after she closed the door behind her. The fake friendliness of the negotiations under way in the front parlor, as Minnie called it, faded to a dull roar. “It’s what I like about it.”

  “You and everyone else,” Minnie said, amused. “My customers like to know what they’re getting, each and every time.”

  I turned with a grin and noticed her absently wiping her lower lip. They don’t call her Minnie the Mouth for nothing. Actually, for two things. I was here for the second.

  “I need information,” I said.

  “Yeah? And Mars has two moons.” Minnie strolled over to her desk with lazy legs that knew a paying customer wasn’t watching. She kicked off her heels and flopped into a chair. “You know, you never come to visit when you don’t need something. Not even a ‘How you doing, Minnie? Business been good, Minnie?’ first.”

  “No time for pleasantries. I need what I need and I’ll beat feet out of here.”

  She blew out her disgust. “Typical male. What is it this time? Someone steal something from Tony Two-point oh? Make the Big Boss Man mad, did they?”

  Maybe it’s because every job I do is basically the same, or maybe it’s because, after celebrating her fifth 39th birthday, Minnie has a lifetime of hard-earned expertise in reading people. But sometimes she hits the nail too squarely on the head for her own good. Someday it might get her killed. I decided not to add to those odds today.

  “I can’t tell you the what. I just need help finding the who.”

  “You’re no fun, Stacks.”

  “That’s not what you said last time I was here.”

  “I owed you for running those twin thugs out before they hurt another one of my girls.”

  “I remember.”

  “I felt I owed you big time.”

  “I remember. You delivered, too.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I did.”

  “Does that shared reminiscence count as a pleasantry?”

  “That particular one?” Minnie gazed off and closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah, that counts.” She reached across her desk and pulled the top off a decanter. “How much of a hurry are you in?”

  “One drink’s worth of a hurry.”

  Minnie filled two glasses with amber ambrosia and pushed one in my direction. I picked it up and said, saluting, “Bottoms up.”

  She saluted back. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  That woman doesn’t miss a beat. She downed the bourbon in one gulp. I followed suit out of courtesy. “What I prefer is Scotch.”

  “I prefer girls, and see where that’s gotten me?”

  That plussed my non for half a second. Minnie was diverting me, as was her wont. I set my glass down and said, “I’m looking for a man named Blalock. Mason Blalock. Ring a bell?”

  Ignoring my pressing schedule, Minnie poured us a second round. I let mine breathe. She didn’t.

  “The EF geek that stole the super-secret tech?”

  Shit. Minnie, you live a dangerous life. And I’m not talking about the daily need for antibiotics. My silence answered her question.

  “I heard the marshals were hot on his trail,” she said, still fishing.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Whispers in the Basement.”

  Ah, the Basement—that second tier below the sanitized top layer of CorpNet—where only those who pay to play can get access. Taboo porn and SynCorp stock tips are the most popular search returns. And something called The Real Story, a series of non-stop real-time videos streaming the most recent rubbernecking eye-bait—whatever puerile happening will get viewers to tune in for the flash-ads that pop up in-between. The Company considers what shows up in the Basement as a safety valve for public angst. Sometimes SynCorp even seeds content to push public commentary in a certain direction. When things get a little too close to the truth, plugs get pulled. And I’m talking more than power plugs.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said.

  “Honey, I don’t believe half of what I hear, and less than half of what I see. It’s the only way to keep your sanity in a place like this”—she finished off her second bourbon. Then, chuckling—“and your sense of humor.”

 
; I nodded. I could relate. My line of work demanded a similar indulgence of the darker side of human nature. “Anyway, Blalock? If all you know is what’s in the Basement…”

  Minnie poured herself a third drink. Either it was the end of her shift or the beginning. Hard to know which one she’d need the liquid meds for more.

  “Don’t insult me,” she said. “Do I question your professionalism?”

  She watched me slowly shake my head over the rim of her empty glass. Sometimes I’m smart and keep my trap shut despite my knee-jerk tendency to mouth off. There were only the distant sounds of loud-mouthed braggarts and half-hearted gigglers bubbling in from the bar.

  “Aw, hell, Stacks,” she said finally, the bourbon already making her s’s lazy. Beginning of shift, I guessed. Minnie prefers to work on an empty stomach. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t mention it. Now, about Blalock?”

  Minnie’s a good kid and I didn’t want to be rude, but I really was in a hurry. I had no idea what Ra’uf Erkennen’s time table might be. But with the marshals called off, he might advance his schedule to move against the Taulke Faction. However that shook out, Tony was convinced it’d be in the public space, and it was real hard to put a bad-news genie like that back in the bottle. Any evidence of open warfare among the factions would only encourage the Resistance. The sooner I completed my contract, the better.

  “I hear he’s gone way deep,” she said, kicking into business mode.

  “The slums?”

  “Deeper.”

  “Lower London?”

  “Uh-huh. You gonna drink that?” She motioned toward my still-waiting glass.

  “Help yourself.”

  I thought how that made sense. Lower London, wholly underground beneath Darkside proper. Originally built as sustainable housing by some Englishman and his millions. Now, like the rest of Darkside, it was a bleaker reality of its promised potential. Most people just called it the Sewer because, well, shit runs downhill, even on the moon. If you wanted to lose yourself among the refuse who populated Darkside, Lower London would be the best place to do it. No one stepped into the Sewer who ever wanted to come out again.