Humans

by A. G. Claymore

  “This way, my lord,” she gestured to the tunnel politely and Kittebar, of course, hesitated. “If we wished you dead, we would at least have had the decency to kill you in orbit and spare you the spectacle inside that… establishment.”

  She could feel the anger from him, the outrage to his dignity and to his entire species from what he’d just witnessed. It wasn’t why she’d waited until now to approach him but it certainly didn’t hurt her chances. What she really needed was the information he’d gone in there to retrieve.

  Kittebar brought his feelings back under control. He looked back at his small guard detail and waved their guns down. The four Humans behind them had weapons but they were still holstered.

  He couldn’t quite say why that galled him.

  They moved into the grimy tunnel mouth, taking care not to touch the filthy carbon-crete walls. Oliv stood facing Kittebar.

  “Lord Kittebar, I doubt you’re keen on meeting Melvin the Bastard, given the lack of respect he’s shown so far.” She felt a tint of amusement in the anger at this use of Memnon’s nickname.

  “If you allow us to attend in your place, I can guarantee you he’ll be so angry with our lord that he’ll forget he was even expecting you.”

  “And how do you propose to find him?” Kittebar was no fool. “He’ll have someone watching us. By now, they’re reporting this deviation to him.”

  She nodded, though it was hard to see in the dim light and Kittebar was unlikely to understand it anyway. “He did have you followed. Provost crewmen from his own ships. They’re good enough at rounding up drunk crewmen overstaying a ground-leave but they’re hardly trained as covert operators.”

  She activated a light on her left wrist and aimed it at the tunnel floor, a few meters farther in. Three bodies lay there. “Enough to execute a few handoffs,” she admitted, “but they were too alert for their own good. A good operator learns how to be alert without looking like they’re alert.”

  She looked back at the Quailu. “We’ve got the frequency they’re using and we’ve heard no more chatter from them since these three went dark, aside from their controller at Memnon’s location who’s, understandably, a little curious.”

  She stepped in a little closer. “And speaking of Memnon’s location…” She ended on an inquisitive intonation, though it was wasted on Kittebar.

  He smoldered for a moment, clearly upset at talking to a group of natives who, literally, had Quailu blood on their hands. It was the blood of his enemies, certainly, but they’d still been Quailu and it gnawed at the edges of his customary serenity.

  “You can’t guarantee Memnon won’t retaliate against me,” he said evenly.

  “True,” Oliv admitted, “but the chances of him having the inclination or even the resources to do so will be minimal, if you cooperate.” She stepped in again, more suddenly this time, forcing him to retreat a half-step.

  “There’s always alternatives, my lord. Apsu chose to take orders from Memnon…”

  It was best not to push an awilu too hard. Pride made them brittle and they tended to crack in unpredictable ways. She could feel him weighing the possibility of Memnon’s revenge against the certainty of Mishak’s wrath.

  “Menchuru 15 6 63,” the Quailu said.

  Oliv stared at him, one eyebrow raised. Incredibly, she could sense no attempt to deceive. They already had that address from two other sources but they hadn’t really expected Memnon to still be using the same place.

  They hadn’t even planned to check the address out, in case they tipped Memnon’s people that they were here. Using the same address for multiple meetings? Is he sloppy or is there a trap waiting for us?

  She realized that she was still staring at Kittebar. She composed herself. “My lord and lady have instructed me to express their thanks in the event of your cooperation. If ever you are in need of assistance, you need only ask.”

  She could feel the hackles of his pride smoothing down in response to her polite message. Pride. Such a useful thing.

  Especially when it belonged to someone else.

  “I would advise you to leave this planet, my lord,” she said earnestly. “The next few hours might go entirely unremarked by what passes for an administration here, or we might stir up a stinger’s nest.”

  Memnon only half watched as a barely clad Human twisted gracefully to the left, ducking her opponent’s war-hammer and darting in to slide her dagger between his ribs. She ripped it sideways before pulling it back out and her victim stared down at her in outraged shock, pink froth bubbling from his lips as the heavy weapon fell from nerveless fingers.

  Mot cackled in triumph. “I told you she’d win, brother! I suppose you were wise not to take my wager.”

  “I don’t like this,” Memnon muttered. “Kittebar is late and we’ve lost contact with his minders. If he’s pulling some sort of…”

  He turned his head at the fear coming from the three guards by his elevator. They were terrified but he could tell little beyond that. Why don’t they draw their weapons?

  The elevator sighed open and he watched, rooted to his seat, as five humans in EVA armor strode out. Three of them sauntered over to his guards, one for each, and drew daggers, slicing them casually across the back of each Quailu’s neck. Oh gods! Memnon thought. Why did they not draw their weapons?

  The fear was now horror and Memnon was caught in its grip, feeling his retainers’ emotions as they went into the final darkness.

  His sister was a different matter. She watched the dying guards with fascination, licking her lips as they clutched vainly at their necks. She looked up at the lead Human, not the least concerned for her own safety. She took it as a rule of the universe that none would ever dare to raise a finger against her.

  The dying minds faded, leaving Memnon with a heaving chest and a bloodstream filled with adrenaline.

  “Sorry for the mess,” the female Human offered. She took a holo-ring from a mag pouch at her hip. “I bring a message for Melvin the Bastard. That would refer to you, yes?”

  “I’ve… I’ve been called that,” he said, hating himself for the admission, but he was too unsettled.

  “I like this one,” Mot purred. “I’ll have her fight next.”

  The Human turned to Mot, her armored head tilting. “I know who you are!” the intruder said, drawing a sidearm and turning to point it at her. “Funny how the universe works, sometimes!”

  Memnon jumped in shock as the weapon blasted a slug through Mot’s chest. He felt her disbelief, her honest inability to accept what had just happened, but he knew better.

  He was a vicious bastard himself but he’d never developed his sister’s misplaced sense of invincibility. Watching others die had only reinforced his own sense of vulnerability.

  “Hey!”

  He recoiled from the muzzle of the pistol when it rapped him on the forehead.

  “I’m talking here!” the Human said indignantly. She held up the ring. “I’m going to leave you this message from your brother. You understand?”

  “I do,” he answered flatly. He turned back to Mot, who was still refusing to believe she’d been shot, even though she was starting to fade. “You killed her,” he said, confused.

  “I had my reasons,” the Human replied curtly. She looked over at the Human who’d just fought for Mot’s entertainment – as close to naked as made no difference, a dagger in her hand and more in her eyes.

  The blood-soaked young gladiator was staring at Memnon with a frightening intensity, her knuckles white on the weapon’s hilt.

  “Take her,” the ‘messenger’ ordered.

  One of the armored Humans stepped over to the gladiator and convinced her to drop the dagger. He turned for the elevator and their leader rolled her eyes.

  “Gods save us, Meesh. You understand that ‘take her’ means bring her with us, don’t you?”

  Meesh must have responded but Memnon hadn’t caught it.

  “Then put something on her, you oaf! We’re not goin
g to drag her naked through the streets, are we?” She pointed down at Mot. “Get that dress on her.”

  Perhaps it was the indignity of having her clothing stolen for a slave or maybe she’d finally reached a point where her self-delusion collapsed, but Mot finally felt the fear she’d savoured from her guards. The same fear she’d inflicted on so many victims, over the years.

  The fear kindled a dull anger in Memnon. He’d considered shooting his sister more than once but to have someone else do it went against the grain. He watched the Humans walk out as if they hadn’t just shot up his apartment and killed his sister.

  The elevator door slid shut behind them.

  “Security!” Memnon shouted at the ceiling where the sound pickups were located. “Security!”

  There was no response, not even a truncated chime to acknowledge his attempt to communicate. A jammer! It made sense, he supposed. If they’d planned on leaving him alive, they would need to keep him from reaching help until they were well away.

  He pounded the couch in frustration, making the holo-ring buck up into the air before clattering back onto the cushioned leather. In a rage, he grabbed the ring, certain he was about to toss it over the balcony. He almost laughed at the idea of the damned thing smashing at the feet of the Humans as they exited the building.

  He looked down in disbelief at his own mutinous thumb, still on the activation glyph.

  Mishak loomed above him, life size and standing on his palm. He tossed the ring to the floor between his and Mot’s couches. Mishak landed facing the wrong way but his image rotated to face the only life-sign in the room.

  “I freely admit,” his brother began without preamble, “that I’m tired of finding your fingerprints all over every silly little plot in the sector. You’ve been doing my father’s bidding, I know, but what has he done for you in return?

  “Do your officers call you lord? No. They call you sire because you don’t even have a single system to your name.”

  The holographic figure leaned forward, thumping at its own chest. “I had Kish because I was his true-born son but I didn’t stop there. I took systems by right of conquest. I made myself into an elector by my own exertions.”

  The figure straightened, the better to glare down at Memnon. “I am done with you. It’s beneath the dignity of an elector to waste time on an untitled nobody.”

  The figure shimmered out of view, leaving Memnon staring at Mot’s body.

  A nobody? He thought, rage boiling up, displacing the shame. Perhaps we should change places!

  Oliv stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Ok, everyone disperse and make your way back to the shuttle. Meesh, keep an eye on our new friend.”

  She turned and headed off around the building, following the rim-edge street. Even though it only had buildings on the inward side, it was crowded because it was one of the fast-ways that ran around either edge of the planet-spanning ring. It also had heavy pedestrian traffic because the views from the outer sidewalk were magnificent.

  “If the underworld’s down below that mess, I hope they keep the roof in good repair,” she muttered glancing out at the hellish tableau of lava flows. After a kilometer of walking, she strolled into one of the bastions that jutted out from the edge of the ring every couple of kilometers.

  It gave an unobstructed view of the planet below and she walked up to the parapet, leaning over to look straight down. It was quieter out here, as most pedestrians were in a hurry to get wherever they were going. She casually looked around, checking to see if she could spot a tail.

  There were three suspicious characters, ex-pat Enibulans, from the look of them. They weren’t even trying to conceal their interest in her. They simply swaggered straight up to her.

  She pretended to ignore them, still leaning on the parapet as they approached from her left. They should assume she was armed, but she saw no need to advertise the fact.

  “Well, well, well,” their leader drawled. “What do we have here? A contraband Human! Know what they do to contrabands here, Shegga?”

  “Arrest them?”

  She felt confusion from his cronies and, making her skin crawl, lustful avarice from the leader. Well, that’s a relief, I suppose, she thought. At least she wasn’t dealing with someone tailing her for Memnon.

  Yeah, she added darkly, they just want me to whore for them.

  “What?” The leader frowned, darting Shegga an irritated glance that he gave up on before it even got halfway there. “No. They sell ‘em off at auction, and you wind up with the worst owners at those assizes sales.”

  He leaned in close, especially for an Enibulan. This one undoubtedly had plenty of experience at intimidating young runaways. “You want to come with us, lass. Stay out here on your own and you’re bound to run into someone unsavory.”

  Oliv snorted. “I can only assume you’re being ironic.” She was still looking out to the horizon. “And what happens if I decline your generous offer?”

  “That isn’t really an option,” he replied, adding an angry edge to his voice for good measure, “technically speaking.”

  She could sense his growing frustration at being defied by his own victim. She also sensed that he’d done something she was supposed to take notice of, something that would win this argument for him.

  She turned halfway, just enough to face him without revealing her sidearm. He’d pulled back his jacket to reveal the handgrip of a small pistol peeking out of his waistband.

  She darted out her left hand, yanking his weapon out, leaving an angry red scar on his abdomen where the back sight had gouged a shallow furrow. “Mihanneh-Hidges-seven,” she said, giving a shake of the head to his two henchmen, who were starting to give off a spring-into-action vibe.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she told them. “I really wouldn’t.”

  They held their hands out to the side, an almost universal gesture employed by those who wish to avoid getting shot.

  “I commend you,” she told her would-be pimp. “Not many males are comfortable enough with their sexuality to be seen with a MH-7.”

  “Wh… what’s wrong with it?” he spluttered, exuding indignation with a strong tracery of fear.

  “Oh, nothing,” she reassured. “It’s just a little dainty for my tastes but, if I ever have a little girl, I might get her one of these until she’s strong enough to hold something bigger.”

  She jammed it up under the Enibulan’s chin, making him squeak in alarm. “Will a seven even penetrate your skull or is it just good for soft-tissue damage?”

  His fear ebbed slightly as she lowered the weapon from his chin but it came roaring back when she whipped out her own weapon.

  “The Khesh-fifteen, on the other hand, is more of an all-purpose weapon. This particular one has killed more Quailu than you can even count, seeing as Enibulans only have six fingers. It’s more than enough to kill some low-level pimp for threatening an officer who was commissioned by our next emperor.”

  The fear was swamping them now. The three Enibulans now fully understood just how badly they’d judged the power-dynamic of the encounter. She could kill the three of them with impunity.

  Oliv sensed the leader’s embarrassment and, on a hunch, looked down. A dark patch was spreading down the lead Enibulan’s legs. She chuckled. “Let’s get you fellas out of those wet clothes.”

  They stripped down, casting embarrassed glances at the few who wandered into the bastion. Most of them wandered back out, upon seeing the guns. Finally, the three were standing next to piles of clothing, their hands clasped in front of their groins.

  “First smart thing you idiots have done, so far,” she told them. “None of us want me to see what’s behind those hands but you’re gonna need them to toss this mess over the side.”

  “But all our credits are in there!” one of them protested.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t figure you were using your implant chips on a world like this,” she said, grinning. “You can either toss your shit over the edge or I’m
gonna toss your brains all over the pavement. Your call…”

  They saw the sense in her argument. Really shouldn’t be wasting so much time on this, she thought, but I really hate pimps and, now that I think of it, they can serve as a distraction, while I move on.

  “Turn around,” she ordered.

  “Trackers,” she commanded her weapon, feeling the gratifying syntactic vibration as it confirmed the change of ammunition. She lowered the weapon’s aim.

  “I really hope you boys don’t have any explosives stored up your prison wallets.”

  “Wait, what…?” The one on the left yelped as the tracker round buried itself deep in one of his ass muscles. The entry wound was small enough but it was bleeding freely.

  “Hey!” she admonished the other two. “I can just as easily put these in your skulls but you’d end up unfit for anything but government service afterward.” She twirled the muzzle at them and they turned away again, shaking with the anticipation of being shot in the ass.

  She planted trackers in them, drawing out the time before the last shot. “Fin-stab-guided,” she ordered, hefting her pistol.

  “You boys understand what I can do with this ammo and your sorry asses?”

  They nodded.

  “Good! I’m gonna leave now. You’re gonna stay here and beat the shit out of each other for at least ten minutes. If I think you’re shirking, I pull the trigger. BANG!” she shouted, making them leap in fright.

  “I’m tied into the surveillance system,” she lied smoothly, “so you boys better put in a good effort or you won’t regret it for very long.”

  She stared at them for a moment, then tilted her head, raising one eyebrow.

  One of the henchmen darted a glance at his leader, then slapped him hard on the side of his head. The Enibulan staggered sideways while the other henchman saw an opportunity and darted a left jab at his compatriot’s abdomen.