Now that Rechs had the old bartender talking, it didn’t seem he would ever shut up.
“Seventy-five heavy blasters. Fast. Real fast. Crew of ten thousand. Had a planet killer fore… and if you can believe this, it had one aft, too. I was really proud of that girl. She woulda’ been a fighter.”
Rechs drank a bit and nodded. Agreeing. Casper had been the spearhead on the Constellation program. His “death” had been the death of the project. One Constellation X-class would have prevented the Sack of Takyo. And saved seventy million lives.
“Just like it always was,” mumbled the oldster to himself. “I’m the last in this David Sanford franchise, and I do things the way we were supposed to do ’em according to corporate guidelines. ’Cept there ain’t no corporation anymore. But I keep doin’ ’em just the way you’re supposed to. Boil ’em first, the hot dogs. Then you grill ’em. That’s the secret. Brush ’em with a little Sanford’s Secret Recipe Sauce and grill for another thirty seconds. Then some spicy mustard. I like onions, but they don’t agree with me none too good these days. But… that’s the way we had ’em back when the galaxy was a better place instead of a bunch of whiny kids constantly demanding everything be set to easy for them.”
“That what happened here?” asked Rechs.
“Sure did,” erupted the bartender. “They were giving away everything as the whole city went right down the tubes. Long story short, there’s nothing left to give, and they’re demanding more be given away. They never let a crisis go to waste. That’s what all that’s about out there. Why the marines are here. It’s all a photo op to grab more power.”
14
Rechs took the big lift “up dock,” as the locals liked to say, and arrived at the surface on the outskirts of Detron City.
The first thing the bounty hunter noticed was the smoke in the air. The skies smelled like all the battles he’d ever fought in. There was always smoke. Because there was always fire, eventually. After the killing had begun and things had gotten out of hand in ways neither side had ever expected.
The people of Detron might not have thought this was a war. Some might have even wanted to believe that. But from the smell of the smoke in the air and the look of things on the ground, it was clear this was a war whether anyone wanted it or not. And the battle was being fought on Detron over ideas that others wanted to spread to the corners of the galaxy like a wildfire gone completely out of control.
This section of the Docks, effectively the outer ring of the city, was firmly under control of the navy and the Repub marines on the ground. Small Green Zones, reminiscent of any war zone’s firebase design, had been set up all around the edge of the massif, and Rechs had been funneled right into one. The chance of getting through the marine-held lines and into the city itself, especially in his armor, instantly recognizable as the infamous Tyrus Rechs, was slim to nil. He could have hot-shotted in the Crow to a spot above where he needed to be, then taken a low-alto drop from the bay with jump jets to give him a safe landing. But he needed to know more about the military situation inside the city. Only then could he make his move. Once they were aware of his presence on the ground, the window to successfully execute the rescue would begin to close. He had to know as much as possible before that happened.
He walked the streets of the Central Command Green Zone, overwatched by armored sleds and squads of marines peering out from behind their meticulously dress-right-dressed sandbag forts. Inner perimeters not accessible to civilians contained landing pads where outdated SLICs full of marines seemed to depart every fifteen minutes for destinations inside the city. The dropships were overloaded with young marines hanging off the skids. All of them had the dead-eyed look of stone-cold killers just looking for an excuse to light up the protesters with some return fire. The protestors would be sadly mistaken if they thought they somehow owned the right to violence in this moment of disobedience. Fires spread. Consequences resulted. The marines were ready to do their best impression of “going Legion.” Rechs could tell that as he watched them go.
He’d seen the look more times than any known living being in the galaxy.
Still in the guise of just some drifter freighter jockey on his way to a contract drop-off, Rechs passed by all the march-toward-conflict battle-rattle, all the while subtly observing where command was and how everything was laid out inside the military-held sections of the Docks. Ahead lay a massive razor-wire fence at least five stories tall. Beyond this came the inevitable kill zone and a smaller razor-wire fence just to let people know how many steps it took for things to get really serious. The marines had their prefab spotter towers up. Each emplacement bristled with the marine-variant SAB and more dead-eyed killers watching the growing street mob behind the razor wire.
It was late afternoon by the time Rechs reached the emplacement fencing, or at least as close as he was allowed to approach. There was no way he was getting through that without a fight. And though he’d tussled with the Republic military in times past, he was not here to fight the marines.
He walked the fence’s length, more to observe the rioters beyond than to find out anything more about the marines. The Soshies had flooded the streets even here near the marine-held Docks. They moved in both small and large mobs, like herds of jackals and other pack hunters, hurling debris over the wire at random intervals, or even into the wire, cheering like this was some victory gained on a hardened objective they’d managed to overrun. Small moments of heroism in their own eyes. Occasionally someone would toss an incendiary cocktail or gas bomb, but those things fell into the kill zone and did no damage as the flames spread out and the marines hit the spot with water cannons on standby.
Rechs also noted how keyed up the hullbusters were. They were ready for a fight and just looking for an excuse to make it one. If the rioters decided to push, the marines were going to give back with interest until their superiors could rein them in. There would be mass casualties. Definite fatalities. It would be a massacre, no two ways about it. And massacres went down in the history books.
Rechs knew that from personal experience. Like the time at Sayed. And there were no winners. That would be the last thing the marines, or the House of Reason, would want to live with.
But even that wasn’t entirely true. There were probably some who’d love a solid massacre with lots of dead bodies in the street. The optics would play, as they say. And no crisis ever went to waste with that bunch. Nothing was too low for them to abstain from profiting off. Even the dead lying in the streets. The younger the better.
The pretty little liar… she’d want something like that. It would be her moment to get more camera time. More coverage. More her. No crisis wasted.
You could read that in those calculating eyes she’d tried to make big and trick the cameras with. It was when no one was looking that they got narrow and mean. Hateful. Convinced of her own certainty that she alone was right in a galaxy of wrongs.
It was a pattern of evil he’d seen countless times.
He’d seen it in the Savages.
And…
In the Dark Wanderer. A being he’d been chasing the ghost of for almost fifteen hundred years.
But that was a story for another time.
Dusk was coming on soon, and the wind off the desert plain beneath Detron was starting to pick up and howl through the great canyons and rusting starships below. Far out there in the distant desert, great dust storms swirled up and turned the end of day to blood red like some kind of warning or promise. Mixing with the smoke, and then blowing it away for a time… all of it seemed like the end of the world.
Again, thought Rechs. Who’d been to the end of the world a time or two in all his journeys across the galaxy. Who’d even been born and raised at the end of a world.
15
Almost thirty-six hours on the ground for Puncher and Baldur. A day and a half of following the faintest of trails while trying to stay clear
of the roving Soshie mobs that seemed to move and flow with no clear sense of purpose. That committed random acts of violence and theft for some greater indefinable purpose. Because that was easier than calling a heart bent on hurting others what it was.
Puncher saw what he considered the sane and sensible citizens of Detron, too. Most were hiding behind their shuttered businesses and blast-door-sealed homes and apartment towers. Holding out. Some were forced to see the face of the mob up close, pulled from their homes for a bit of looting. The Soshies called it redistribution. And it didn’t matter how hard they’d worked or who it was passed down from. If the mob fancied what one of their citizens had, it was the new civic duty to take it for themselves.
Blast doors were pried open by teams with hydraulic tools. Sometimes even plate-cutters. Puncher had seen the suddenly displaced standing in the streets, beaten and bloody, their children crying and clinging to their shaking legs, as strangers clad in red and black carried their possessions out into the street, taking what was worth taking and burning whatever wasn’t. Just because. Laughing like it was some kind of circus. Instead of the crime it was.
The dog, Baldur, would growl and whine, and Puncher had to keep them moving and away from these scenes. Because even the dog knew it was wrong. It had a better-developed sense of what was just and unjust than most humans Puncher knew.
The dog was a Malinois from Schwarzenwald, that dark, strange, and once-lost colony world. He was semi-telepathic, as all dogs of his breed were. Which made them perfect for working with the Legion. Once they bonded with their handler.
That took time. But Baldur had been starting to get through to Puncher in the weeks leading up to the incident on Detron. The handler was starting to pick up the more basic thoughts. The stronger emotions the dog tried to telegraph. Before that, it had been all verbal and visual commands, like you would do with the other canine-like species used through the military, police, and all too often, the criminal underworld.
Disguised and watching the mob loot another apartment tower as the displaced families hustled away into the gathering dusk with the night’s desert wind coming on, Puncher had to bend down and whisper to the agitated dog whose big brown eyes watched the scene on the street with a mix of concern and anger.
“It’s okay, boy,” whispered Puncher over subvocal. “Let this go. We’re looking for her. Just find her.”
The Reaper’s pilot had given Puncher one of the marine sniper’s T-shirts. Puncher now held it under Baldur’s muzzle like a dirty rag, perfect for their disguise, to remind the dog what their mission was.
But Baldur wasn’t having any of it. The dog wanted to get involved. It knew a bad pack when it saw it.
And then the dog’s mind came through to Puncher’s loud and clear.
This is bad. This isn’t good.
Baldur whined and beat his tail against the dirty street.
“I know, boy,” soothed Puncher. “But we’re here for someone else. We’re here for her… and our brothers.”
Baldur whined again and gave a little growl as the mob began to break up furniture in the street. They would light it for their fire for the night. Other people’s things would serve. For just tonight.
“Plus, we’re homeless, boy,” Puncher reminded him. “Won’t do for us to go in there and fix things.”
The dog came back with…
What that?
Puncher thought about it for a moment. How to describe their camouflage to the dog. After inserting on the rooftop, Puncher had deployed a standard hostile urban area operations disguise, covering his armor in an old coat—specifically constructed in handler school as part of the course and testing—and greasy old rags. A tent-like canvas poncho covered all this and the SAB he was strapping. His bucket was obscured by a large desert tribesman’s head scarf. He’d even put a bandana and a ragged leather collar around Baldur, despite some protestation. But he hadn’t explained to the dog why. Baldur had made it clear on many occasions that he thought humans were strange.
“Nomad,” whispered Puncher. “We’re nomads.”
The dog seemed to understand that word and again grew distracted by the injustices on the street. The wrongs it wanted to right. The comfort it wanted to give the crying children clinging to their parents.
No pack? asked the dog.
On Schwarzenwald some Malinois could become separated from their pack. These were held as either cursed, or prophets, by the other Malinois who roamed that planet alone for centuries after an early-generation colony ship had gone down there, killing all its human crew. They were packless. There was nothing worse for a Malinois.
“No,” said Puncher, rubbing the dog’s fur-covered chest. “We’re here to find our pack. Find her. Find our own.”
The dog suddenly raised its head high and paced about, smelling at the smoke-laden wind. Seeking.
This way. Maybe.
“Good boy. Good Baldur. Let’s find her now.”
And they were off into the gloom of the gathering night. Just a homeless wanderer and his only friend. Looking for something no one bothered to ask after.
Looking for their pack.
16
It was early evening by the time Rechs made it back to the David Sanford’s bar. The old bartender, the owner, was still there. His face red. His gray hair combed. Slicked back like they used to do it when he was young. The same constant news cycle, whose facts clashed with the actual events on Detron. Reporting that House of Reason junior delegate Syl Hamachi-Roi had departed to the system on an urgent fact-finding mission.
She would only make things worse, Rechs thought as he tried to put his plan in order. It would be tougher once she got here. And things were already out of hand and getting crazier.
He sat at the bar once more, and the old guy appeared with another pale draft fresh from the tap.
“You’re back for somethin’,” he mumbled as he wiped the bar and watched the other customers. “Been around the concourse long enough to know trouble when it comes lookin’. No offense, mister, but trouble and you are well acquainted by my guess. Don’t mean nothin’ derogatory by that. Sometimes that’s a good thing.”
Rechs smiled and took a sip of the beer. “I need to get into the city without being noticed.”
“That so?” the old man asked, leaning against the counter and inviting Rechs to speak low.
Rechs nodded. “It’s so. Someone’s always got a way to run OS&D freight direct to the supplier. No customs. Know anybody that might provide that service here in the Docks?”
Rechs reached into his coat and laid down a pre-authorized credit chit. The amount shimmering across the front was enough for passage back to any of the core worlds, and then some.
The old man’s lined face was a disbelieving mask as he studied the amount on the chip.
“For your time in the navy,” Rechs said. “It takes more than one hand for me to count the number of times me or a buddy was saved by you spacers.”
More than a lot of hands. And feet. Two thousand years made for a lot of battles. A lot of deaths. A lot of buddies lost. And saved.
But the old man didn’t need to know about all that.
The man suddenly beamed and Rechs could see the young man he’d once been, proud of his uniform and service stripes. The battle hashes on the left sleeve. Young and unable to believe he’d one day be so old and out of options.
“We did indeed. Thought you was Legion.”
Rechs nodded. “Yep.”
And for a moment the old man was back there. Just a kid on an Ohio-class battleship.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, still holding the credit chit like it was the golden ticket of all golden tickets. Never having imagined he would live this long. Especially on that day. “Deck fifty-four… way down Dock, as we say. Corridor Green. Past the old Star Mart. It’s rough down there, Leej. Ask for Giles Lon
gfree. He runs a network that gets into the old sewers. Moves cargo up into the Heights.”
“Thanks,” Rechs said, turning to leave.
The bartender held out a hand to stay him. “But I gotta ask why you wanna go into the city. It’s dangerous. Total collapse. No police or anything.”
But Rechs was already gone. Walking out into the constant foot traffic of the concourse.
17
That night they moved them out of what Amanda had come to call the “student union.” She’d named it that because most of those in the basement operations warren were little more than kids pretending at playing Freedom Fighter. And it wouldn’t have been so scary, in fact it would have been laughable, if they weren’t carrying blasters and waving them around like they knew how to use the incredibly lethal weapons, their fingers carelessly on the triggers. Usually the safety was on. Sometimes it wasn’t. She wasn’t sure whether they knew it was even there.
They came by in small groups to spew hate at the wounded and semi-conscious legionnaires lying on the cement floor of the holding pen. And her as well, of course. She tried to protect the legionnaires from the spit and piss that came through the badly constructed cage. She could handle that. It was better than a blaster bolt. It would dry up and wash off. Marine boot had made her tougher than that.
But she knew something was up when a new team dressed like the Soshies came in. All of them big ex-military types. Pros. Probably veterans from the local militaries of a dozen different worlds. Probably MCR. The growing problem the political types didn’t want to acknowledge, because of how big it had the potential to be. And that wasn’t supposed to happen in this gilded Age of Reason. The Savage Wars were over. The sundry wars for independence like Psydon had all been squelched. The Republic was supposed to be entirely secure in its power.
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