Madame Guillotine

by Jason Anspach

  If not for Puncher, the LT would’ve gotten himself killed that day.

  So, they didn’t kick out the “discipline problem” leej because the point had high connections and the point’s family, and even the LT himself, were grateful. They knew talent when it started shooting its way out of an ambush.

  And then some staff sergeant who had brains and wisdom, despite the protestations of his two ex-wives, recommended Puncher for the Dogs.

  And in the Dogs, Puncher blossomed. Made sergeant. Third enlistment was in view, and retention wasn’t even a question.

  Now Puncher and his dog were the only members of the explosives/threat-detection team with the small Detron detachment. Mainly they’d been going out with the marines and making sure no one found any surprises along the roads. But he was still a leej. Him, and the dog.

  Puncher found Captain Kirk Walters, Repub Marine flyboy and pilot for the Reapers, as all the meetings were still underway. It was late, and Walters was drinking. Technically he had nothing else to do until reassigned. And he felt like a failure for letting Amanda get captured. Not that he could’ve done much about it. Other than use his rank and force her to follow orders.

  Other than that.

  “Hey…” said Puncher. He was small. Compact. Ripped. A fighter. But he had a smile that was either genuinely friendly or incredibly mischievous. “You’re that missing sniper’s driver, ain’t ya, sir?”

  Captain Walters looked around, bewildered. He hadn’t had a lot to drink. But he was stewing. Wrapped up in feeling like a failure for letting Amanda do something he’d known was patently stupid from the get-go. Half of him wished the navy would just drum him out, and the other half wished he were tough enough to fly over the Docks—the marines had secured the whole area—set down, and go looking for her himself.

  But he’d had only the one day with his sidearm during flight school—that, plus a fairly pathetic survival course. Captain Kirk Walters didn’t trust his skills enough to believe he could achieve anything of value. More than likely he’d end up another hostage for the other side.

  He stared at the legionnaire in fatigues who’d just waltzed right into the navy officers’ canteen. Then again… who in the navy was going to stop a legionnaire?

  “Yeah,” said the pilot. He heard the self-loathing in his own voice. He started to make some excuse for Amanda and how it wasn’t her fault. Command was already blaming her for as much as they could. They knew it was best to start shifting as much blame as they could as early as possible.

  “Don’t care,” said Puncher. “I just figured you’re all broke up about her.”

  Captain Walters stared at the leej. Certain the guy could beat him to death with the martini glass the aviator was nursing. He noticed the sergeant’s stripes.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “It’s my fault. If I could go back in there and get her out… well, I’d do it. No questions asked. They can bust me six ways to Psydon on the back side. Just… if I could just go in and get her out… that’d all be fine. I could live with that.”

  Puncher looked around and then leaned in close.

  “Well… you can’t,” he whispered. “But it’s your lucky day, flyboy. ’Cause I can. And you’re gonna fly me over the wire and drop me off where you lost her.”

  Captain Walters looked around. He wasn’t much of an officer, but he was enough of one to find it odd being told what to do by a sergeant.

  “Are you crazy, Sergeant? I mean, I’m asking that seriously. Like it’s a real question you need to answer. They will throw anyone who tries anything in prison for that kind of stunt. Not to mention, technically… I’d be stealing my own ship, which is currently locked down.”

  Puncher ignored the question. “Can you hack the controls, sir?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” said the pilot. “But that’s not the point.”

  “Don’t care what the point is,” replied Puncher, keeping his voice low and fast. “I’m going in, and I’m giving you the chance to help me out. You in… or out? Make up your mind right now. Sir.”

  Walters looked around. No one seemed much interested in them at this late hour. Just a couple other officers playing hyperchess over against the wall. Both seemed engrossed in the game and their nightcaps.

  “That’s not our—” Walters began.

  “Yeah,” interrupted Puncher. “It is. It is our job. That’s what the military does, sir. My brothers are being held by some piece of sket who thinks he’s king banana. Ain’t gonna happen. Legion don’t leave Legion behind. That ain’t what I signed up for. And they’d come get me if I got myself in trouble. May not be the navy way… but that’s what Legion does, whether they’re supposed to or not.”

  “Then how come you and the rest of your detachment aren’t marching out through the gates and getting it done right now?” the pilot shot back.

  Puncher looked, for a moment, like he had no answer to that. Then he said, “Don’t know, sir. Not my problem. So, you in or out? We leave the pads in an hour. You fly me out quick and drop off me and my dog. Baldur can find ’em. I’ll get ’em back, activate a locator, and they’ll come and pick us up. Then… the whole thing ain’t an issue, sir. I’ll even get your shooter back.”

  Captain Kirk Walter hadn’t had a lot to drink. But he’d had enough that this… this was somehow a way of making things right with the galaxy. This was… he didn’t know what it was. But it felt like the one right thing to do in a sea of wrong choices. Each one ending with no one doing anything.

  Amanda. They were more than a team. They were friends. As much as the Reaper could allow anyone to be her friend… well, she’d let him be just that. Even if they didn’t say too much to one another. And yeah, if the roles were reversed, Manda would do exactly what this sergeant was offering to do on her behalf. Hell, she’d done it before.

  Like heroes do.

  You ain’t no hero, the captain told himself.

  But maybe this guy was.

  It didn’t seem like much of an offer. More like a statement of fact. The leej was going, with or without him. But it’d be a heck of a lot easier on the legionnaire if he could make the last known location without first having to fight his way out the main gate, past the marines and the Soshies waiting for just that.

  Fifteen minute round trip.

  He could say he needed to… hell, there really wasn’t a good excuse. But maybe they were past excuses. Maybe what Amanda, and the leejes out there—most likely with bags over their heads—needed, what their families needed right now, because everyone’s got a family, was for someone to forget the excuses and consequences and just do something.

  A bad decision was better than no decision. They’d at least taught Kirk Walters that much in officer school. And he’d learned it just so he could fly.

  And after this… you might never fly again.

  “In,” mumbled the pilot. Feeling sick and unheroic in the same moment.

  Yeah, that other voice told him. You ain’t much of a hero.

  “I’m in,” he repeated. “Pad sixteen in an hour. Just find her, Leej.”

  10

  The skies over Detron were summer-storm-tossed. Boiling and violent and yet with no rain that might back everyone off. Give some space and a moment to let cooler heads prevail. Here, like on Suracaõ, it was late summer. The Obsidian Crow had fled one burning season for another.

  Rechs had just barely escaped the wrath of Gat Hathor’s fighters in hot pursuit as the agile light freighter raced for its jump point. Then he had stopped over in a quiet system to make the transfer with a Guild-approved detention transport. Gat Hathor, bandaged and still unconscious from the beating Rechs had administered, growled from within dreams that must’ve been about revenge, violence, wealth, and power, as the handoff was made at the bottom of the boarding ramp.

  Rechs didn’t feel too bad that the lizard would wake to a n
ightmare that was only just beginning. If he didn’t sleaze his way out of the Republic’s justice system, he was likely to do several decades on a UM dead world.

  Something no one had ever escaped from.

  After the transfer the Crow jumped away. A week’s journey had been reduced to three days as Rechs ordered Lyra to override the navigation safety parameters and decrease flight time. Something she noted as “extremely inadvisable, Tyrus.”

  But the situation on Detron was getting worse. Much worse. The Soshies had taken control of both downtown and the Heights section of the city. The marines had been ordered by the House of Reason to withdraw and were now at the Docks, currently drawing down. The House wanted to de-escalate the situation despite the fact that two legionnaires were dead and two more, as well as a marine, were currently missing and presumed captured by the Soshies. Or perhaps the House was de-escalating specifically because of that. One thing Tyrus Rechs knew well was that not everyone shared the same instincts when a crisis hit.

  Rechs had watched the holofeeds of a legionnaire identified as Sergeant Sean Lopez, now a captive of an organization called the Crimson Guards, a paramilitary front for the Soshies. It was obvious the leej had been beaten or badly injured in the capture. Lopez said nothing for the cams, but a Crimson Guard spokesman wearing a typical guerrilla costume of black and red, face obscured by a black knit balaclava, indicated that Sergeant Lopez had apologized for his crimes against the “free peoples of the galaxy” and was urging the Republic to dissolve the current government.

  Lopez tried to blink some kind of message, but one eye was so battered shut it wasn’t moving.

  “I ran it through all the known codes the Guild has access to,” said Gabriella over the hypercomm as the Crow swam through hyperspace. “Best I could come up with is he was basically trying to blink what they could do with themselves and that he knew he was still somewhere inside Detron but didn’t know exactly where.”

  Rechs remained silent, as usual. And as usual, Gabriella filled the void.

  “But I don’t know how the Legion runs their E-and-E schools and the codes they use. You’d have a better idea about that, Tyrus.”

  “It’s been a long time,” he rumbled from the cockpit. “Things were supposed to change once a year.”

  “Still,” continued Gabriella, “seems like a pretty fair guess. He’s somewhere inside the city. The Repub Navy is running a pretty tight cordon around Detron. No one’s getting in or out without the proper clearances. The House hasn’t shut that down. Even though the rioters have some delegate ally claiming the interdiction is unjust and inhumane. But she’s being voted down.”

  This piqued Rechs’s interest. “Not often a delegate runs the risk of getting shot down in a public hearing.”

  “Well, this one is an idealist. And she says people are starving on the ground. No proof of that happening, mind you, but she gets a lot of play in the media because she’s young and says everything they want to hear.”

  “Were you able to get the new idents for the Crow?” Rechs asked, switching gears. “I’ll need to get through the blockade.”

  “Yes. I’ll send them now.”

  He could hear her type like the Furies were hovering over her, her fingers thudding on a flat control screen. Her voice remained calm. Rechs wondered if she had a cup of tea by her workstation. If it was afternoon wherever she was at. Maybe raining outside her window.

  He shook his head at the thought of her having a window. He’d been making a reality of baseless speculations when imagining this girl he’d never seen.

  Fall would be nice right now, thought Tyrus.

  He shook his head again, striking just behind his ear with the heel of his hand.

  Why are you even thinking about her? And these things?

  “Thanks for the idents,” he murmured. “I owe the Guild.”

  “No,” she said. “Not this time, Tyrus. And not because it’s on me, either. Archangel is giving you full Guild support on this. Unofficial of course. But full support. A lot of bounty hunters are former Legion, and the rumor was a bunch of them were planning on teaming up for a one-time op to pull those guys out. Suffice it to say, Archangel knew that would get pretty messy and… probably bad press for the Guild the way the media is playing the outrage card every six seconds these days. So, he’s hoping you’ll make things easier for everyone. And he wants you to know… he’s hoping you get them out.”

  Tyrus said nothing. Made no promises. He’d seen this type of situation before. It could go bad way too easily. If the captors were wired a certain way and sensed anyone getting close to their prizes, they’d kill the hostages. He’d have to hit like lightning. Surprise them all at once. Best-case scenario. Only way it could be done. Even now his mind was running and refining the plan he’d come up with. Flexible enough to adapt, absolute enough to ensure success when the moment came.

  “Thank you, Gabriella.”

  “It wasn’t me, Tyrus.”

  “I know… but thank you all the same.”

  A long awkward pause fell between them.

  Gabriella cleared her throat. “The situation is getting worse by the hour, and this delegate who’s enabling things, using her position to lend credibility to thugs, she’s… well, I won’t say what I think of her. But she’s typical. Not as smart as she thinks and zero common sense. Got into all the right schools for all the wrong reasons. More looks than brains. Lucked into the House of Reason. She’s going to make things worse on the ground, Tyrus. Much, much worse.

  “As of an hour ago she defied the House of Reason’s governing council and left for Detron in a show of solidarity with the Soshies. Her words. She’s only looking to score political points by turning a powder keg into a fireworks display featuring her. The rioters on the ground are already whipped up into a frenzy and looking for a fight. She’ll give them legitimacy.”

  Rechs had been researching all the players. Or he thought he had. He had no idea who this opportunist was.

  “And who is this clown?” he asked, opening up a file.

  “Name’s Syl Hamachi-Roi. They call her the Ghetto Queen. Except she’s not really ghetto. Came from a rich immigrant family that ended up on Utopion. Was elected as junior delegate from the sector of space she once lived in—despite not actually having lived there in two decades. Plays the accent of her home world when she needs it. Best schools, like I said…”

  Rechs detected a little bit of jealousy. He guessed that perhaps Gabriella hadn’t gotten into the right schools. Probably had the bitter dreams of a hardworking kid who knew she could have aced those schools on talent, brains, and work ethic. Rechs believed it, from having worked with her. If only she’d gotten the chance.

  Working as the contract admin for the infamous Bronze Guild, though… that was not a bad landing spot for someone with brains and skill. It surely wasn’t a position people vied for out of their higher educations, but the money was far better than anyone knew. Better than anyone was allowed to know. That was the Guild. Talk just wasn’t done. Information was power.

  “My plan is to get on the ground, get a lead, run them down. Fast as I can I’ll pull them out and get them into friendly hands. And if I can… I’ll do it without the Repub having me arrested. I’m not planning on getting involved.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “It’s just that this is turning into a typhoon, Tyrus. It’s getting messy and everyone’s making it about way more than the missing leejes and the marine. She’s making it all about her and her agenda. She’s a pot-stirrer, as my…”

  There was a micro-second pause.

  “… as my grandma used to say.”

  Personal information. They didn’t do that in the Guild. And when it was done… it meant something. Trust. Care. This is me.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Gabriella hadn’t said that. Hadn’t told Tyrus Rechs, the mos
t wanted man in the galaxy, to be careful. She’d said that too many times before.

  But it was always there.

  They both knew it.

  Then the connection between them went dead. And Tyrus Rechs was gone.

  11

  The light freighter out of Ankalor was granted clearance to land on Detron, Dock Sixty-Five. The captain of the Accadian Comet signaled his acknowledgement of the landing instructions and cut the link as he flew the tight corridor through the interdiction blockade.

  Approach Control took the handoff from the Republic Navy commercial traffic coordinator aboard the destroyer Castle. For all intents and purposes, the Obsidian Crow, masquerading as the Accadian Comet, was just another inbound merchant dropping off goods for the marines. Running with an approved and fully vetted supply contract. Headed for the central massif that supported the city itself, and which was surrounded on all sides by the Docks.

  That giant rock, over two hundred kilometers wide and just as long, rose up over three thousand feet above a sprawling desert plain of burnt rock and enormous fissures that ran in all directions away from the massif. And within these canyons were the once-fabled shipyards of Detron. Each canyon had been outfitted with a state-of-the-art shipbuilding works that had long since turned to little more than rusting gantries and collapsing hull-assembly scaffolding. In some canyons the remains of half-completed battleships still lay, forever turning to rust, never to be finished. For a while work continued in the smaller factories, and in a very few it still did—sending parts to Tarrago. But Detron was on economic life support for anyone not lucky enough to have a hand in off-world interests.

  The Docks, built during the halcyon days of capital shipbuilding, were a ring of bunkers fifteen stories high that encircled the entire massif. Each dock contained its own hangar balcony and access to the central cargo lifts. The architectural feat of the Docks had once been considered one of the Nineteen Wonders of the Galaxy. But now, vast sections of the Docks had been abandoned, and many had collapsed like the ruins of some long-dead civilization. Piles of gray rubble fell in forever-frozen rubble waterfalls and mounds of debris.