Madame Guillotine

by Jason Anspach

  Blaming the Legion and the marines would make what was coming next much more digestible for the ever-hungry masses and media begging to be deceived. They’d bought the fake stories of marines and Legion elements firing on peaceful protesters on day one, without anyone even having to provide evidence. All they’d needed was some idiot kid studying theater whose girlfriend did the makeup, and they came away with a narrative many in the galaxy were only too willing to believe.

  Because it was what they were told.

  They’d especially believe anything they were told about the universal boogeymen known as the Legion. The heartbreakers and lifetakers who had kicked in doors and decimated freedom fighters on a ton of worlds since the end of the Savage Wars. The galaxy needed to change, and before that could happen, the Legion needed to go.

  And this… this was but one step along the way to making that happen. An important step, a big step, but in the end just one step. There would be other Detrons. Other places to make the case that legionnaires were an anachronistic entity too militarized for the current state of the peace-seeking galaxy. Or worse, dangerous tyrants lying in wait to execute Article Nineteen, which desperately needed to be removed from the Republic’s constitution… and would be, if not for the fact that attempting to do so would initiate an immediate Article Nineteen.

  Or that’s what the play was supposed to make the dumb and the deceived conclude.

  Loth really didn’t care. He was a pro. Getting paid was all that mattered. If you wanted some dark stuff done and had the credits, well, then he’d like to do it for you. Lots of people would. The edge of the galaxy was filled with such people. That’s why there was a Legion.

  It was a vicious cycle. Until it wasn’t.

  Kill the leej, det the building, get out of Dodgistan. He ran through his orders from on high once more. Finish up here and pull a new trick on another world in six months if Mr. Zauro was willing to pay again. And it seemed the old mummy was. He had endless credits to burn for his quixotic quest which either involved destroying the Republic, or just the Legion. Loth could never really be sure which one the old lizard wanted more.

  Either way… Loth got paid.

  That was all that mattered.

  “What about the marine?” asked one of Loth’s lieutenants.

  “Leave her secured inside the building when we drop it. It’ll add to the outrage. Maybe the marines’ll get pissed too and do something stupid.”

  Zauro might give him a bonus if that happened.

  Someone made a joke about crayons. And how they ought to feed her some as a last meal. Forcefully.

  No one laughed. Things were tense. A lot of money was on the line and this needed to come off just right.

  Kill the legionnaire for the streams. Det the building with the Soshies inside to frame the leejes—which needed to happen before those knuckle-dragging war chiefs decided to actually do something about it. And make sure to be off-world in the freighter rigged for stealth before anyone could tie Loth and his team to the carnage.

  Close timing.

  And maybe, if it wasn’t today, one of these little incidents that were slowly making Loth rich would kick off the big bonfire Zauro prophesied the galaxy would have to endure. Purification through flame, paving the way for things to be remade. But this time better—with Zauro and his associates in charge.

  Loth sometimes wondered who those associates were. And then reminded himself he probably didn’t want to know.

  And anyway, by the time all that went down, he’d be retired and living like a king.

  40

  Captain Hess was already interfacing with General Sheehan’s staff. The bogus orders he’d contrived from Nether Ops, virtually uncheckable due to the obscure and arcane nature of the organization, didn’t need to pass much scrutiny. They were accepted as truth clean and incapable of infection. Nether Ops had always been good for getting things to work smoothly for its operatives. And the bevy of orders from fictional brass who appeared the real deal to anyone who bothered to look were a godsend when it came to mixing with other military types.

  Hess had requested intel the moment they gave him access to the ops center inside the Green Zone. Intel specifically concerning one Tyrus Rechs, known fugitive.

  General Sheehan’s chief of staff didn’t like Hess. Unlike most of the rank and file, his rank had brought him into contact with the reality that was Nether Ops. But that wasn’t the only reason he disliked Hess. He didn’t like the man’s air of assumed superiority. The naked discourtesy. The barely veiled contempt for combat marines, and the perpetual sneer on the man’s scarred and twisted face.

  He also didn’t like, within minutes of receiving the report that it was believed Tyrus Rechs was operating inside Detron, that here was a Nether Ops officer suddenly appearing out of a cloud of black smoke and brimstone, asking for everything he had.

  “Right now, Captain Hess,” began Sheehan’s chief of staff, “we have only a single uncorroborated report from a local criminal that he took Tyrus Rechs through to the city via a secret underground route below the Docks.”

  “Where did Rechs come out?”

  “Assuming it is Rechs, no one knows. Including our sole source. He claims the bounty hunter attempted to murder him rather than pay the agreed-upon rate prior to them reaching the surface.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “About Rechs being here? To what purpose?”

  “Not that. He’s lying about what happened down there.”

  The chief of staff shrugged. “Captain, that’s all we have to go on, and that is, I presume, what brought you here. You may as well turn around. We have no scans, drone footage, or anything else to corroborate the smuggler’s claim that Tyrus Rechs is operating on Detron.”

  “He’s here,” said Hess through gritted teeth.

  “And how can you be so sure of that, Captain?” asked the colonel. “And furthermore… why should we care? Tyrus Rechs isn’t our mission here.”

  “Come on!” snarled Hess indignantly, his demeanor changing like a wild animal who’d been caged. “City out of control. Rampant death in the streets. Scores being settled. Credits being earned. This has got Rechs written all over it. The only thing missing is a giant holographic landing zone display crying, Welcome, Tyrus Rechs. Start killing this way! Man’s a homicidal maniac. A war criminal. And as to why you should care… because it’s your job to protect the galaxy from him. The directives you have state ‘apprehend on sight.’ I shouldn’t have to remind you of that!”

  “Remind you of that, sir,” prompted the colonel, not liking the Nether Ops captain’s insolence. Making sure to point out the difference in rank.

  Hess made a pained face that caused his scar-twisted features to look like he’d tasted something incredibly bitter.

  “Sir,” he muttered grudgingly, “you shouldn’t need me to remind you of your orders. Sir.”

  The colonel nodded.

  “That’s better, Captain. I know there’s a pucker factor whenever those with the higher clearances hear Nether Ops is involved, and you might be able to throw your weight around with the lower enlisted and officer corps by playing pretend legionnaire with that uniform you ghouls requisitioned. But the Republic marines are in charge on Detron, not you. And while we can certainly incorporate you into our operations, if you want to look for Tyrus Rechs, he is not a priority for the marines at this time. Restoring order to the city, and a few other objectives I am not at liberty to discuss with you, are. Is that clear?”

  Hess considered this for a moment. Then boldly stepped away from the chief of staff to the holographic table displaying the city and the units moving through it, updated in real time. Usually it would be surrounded by staff officers, but Hess’s Nether Ops ties had gotten him the room cleared out of anyone who didn’t need to know what he was doing. Which meant everyone other than the general and his chief
of staff.

  “Well, sir,” began Hess, venom in his voice as he spat out each word. “I advise you to make it a priority. Because if Tyrus Rechs gets it into his head that the only way to do whatever criminal job he’s here to do requires attacking your troops… he most definitely will. And I can personally assure you, you will lose a lot of men and women in the process. He may be a homicidal maniac war criminal. But he’s highly capable.”

  The chief’s mouth was hanging open. He closed it.

  “He’s here, Colonel,” Hess continued. “And so are a lot of high-profile House of Reason delegates. The man is already wanted, already a criminal. And if he does what we believe he’s here to do… Oba help you and General Sheehan for letting it happen.”

  “You’re suggesting he’s here to… assassinate one of the delegates?”

  For the first time, the face of the marine seemed concerned. Hess resisted the urge to smile. “That’s not a suggestion. It’s a statement of fact. I have actionable intelligence that Rechs is behind everything happening on Detron. And you can be damned sure he plans on killing the last legionnaire and your marine, too. Along with a few platoons of your men just because he can. Then he blows Delegate Hamachi-Roi’s brains out during her next speech in a wildly uncontrolled environment with lax security at best because the whole city is a war zone.”

  The man looked ready to concede. He just needed a reason. Something he could take to General Sheehan. “Help me to understand why, Captain.”

  “Tyrus Rechs has been saddled with a substantial bounty on his head for high crimes against the Republic. That bounty has followed the scumbag everywhere he goes—and it’s seriously hampered his criminal operations. I’ve followed him too, and I’ve seen the number of times the maniac has had to scrap whatever criminal plan he’s tried—like the hits and robberies at Cassio Royale—because of all the bounty hunters looking to cash in on him.

  “His actions here on Detron—spurring riots, killing legionnaires, and his planned public assassination of a House of Reason delegate… it’s a worst-case scenario, and it’s happening. Analysts have this scenario pegged as a catalyst for civil war. And if that happens… well then, Tyrus Rechs will be free to get lost in the shuffle. We’ll all be too busy trying to hold the galaxy together to finally make him accountable for his crimes.

  “And if you don’t think he’s exactly the kind of man who would see millions killed if it was in his interest… then you, quite frankly, Colonel, don’t know Tyrus Rechs.”

  The chief clenched his jaw.

  This time Hess did smile. “I urge you to consider this carefully. Sir.”

  41

  Tyrus Rechs studied the once-futuristic high-rise in the center of the Heights section of Detron. Lyra was feeding him data off the hack she’d run on the city’s database. All normal stuff. Floors. Basement levels. Grid access entry points.

  Rattclopp’s datapad had pointed Rechs here, to this loc. And now Rechs was doing the meat and potatoes of bounty hunting: surveillance. Which was best done with patience. But the time for that was all but gone. In fact, who knew if it hadn’t run out already? Maybe the last legionnaire and the marine had already been executed and the streams recorded for release at politically opportune moments.

  But he had to play as though they were still alive. Had to think they still had a chance. And any chance Rechs saw for them involved him storming the old Excelsior Arms high-rise Rattclopp’s device indicated was the latest holding point.

  That didn’t look like it was going to be easy. Not if everything he’d collected off the device along with what he’d observed on the ground in the area of operation proved to be true.

  The bottom levels were teeming with the low-level Soshies, the protesting kids constantly streaming in and out and heading off with more supplies for the rioters or more pamphlets or whatever else they deemed crucial for victory in their cause. Not that they would be a problem. In fact, the marines probably already had a handle on the location and had identified it as some type of command node for the Soshies, even though Rechs saw no SLICs or conspicuous observation bots.

  Of course, the House of Reason had probably ordered the hullbusters to leave the hornets’ nest alone. Because of these kids. Republic citizens. Untouchable.

  The Soshies, or at least the pros, had to know that, too. So you’d expect them to act without concern or care that an old SLIC full of marines loaded for bear might arrive at their locale and begin dishing out violence. Only that’s not what Rechs saw. The pros were guarding the entrances and the adjoining streets looking ready for just such a scenario to occur. And to Tyrus Rechs, that meant that it was likely the legionnaire and the marine prisoners were inside.

  Somewhere.

  There was also a sizable quick reaction force located in an abandoned department store. Rechs could see the team jocked up inside through the few large windows that weren’t boarded up. They were on their feet with nervous energy. Ready to go. And in a couple of rundown towers that had once competed for pride of place until the Excelsior had been built, Rechs saw sniper teams, shooter and spotter, working what looked like high-speed gear.

  Parked by the curb were several two-panel sleds that most likely concealed heavy blaster teams ready to lay down fire and clear the street when it was time to evac. Add in what looked like a well-armed force of pros in the lobby, mingling with the kids and ready to use the unsuspecting resisters as human shields, and taking the building head-on was going to prove bloody and costly.

  That about covered the lower levels.

  And then there were the top five floors.

  All of the windows up there had been covered in IR-masking spray. To the naked eye they merely looked badly tinted. But the masking spray denied observation on the imaging spectrum while also generating its own scrambling signal. In fact, using electronic surveillance to scan those floors literally hurt Rechs’s eyes.

  And on top of all that, there was probably a team inside ready to do the prisoners, rather than lose them, at the first sign of a meaningful firefight.

  Rechs switched off imaging and settled back into the shadows of an alley far down the street. It was time to think this out.

  They were totally in control.

  So…

  Force them to a new location.

  The bounty hunter considered what he could do to make that happen.

  42

  Baldur literally soared though the air and brought down the runner.

  They’d just finished searching another hideout. One of the Soshies’ holdings his brothers had used to hunker in for a few hours. Again, the site had gone dead, but the feeling someone had just been there was so palpable, it was as though it could be reached out and touched.

  Puncher, with the SAB unlimbered, threaded the darkness. Scanning on all spectrums of the leej armor for IEDs.

  The armor should’ve spotted it. Should’ve caught it in the detection scan and then alerted Puncher via a heads-up message inside his bucket.

  But it was Baldur’s barking that alerted him.

  “What?” asked Puncher. Over audio. His voice dialed in low. They still weren’t bonded enough for reliable two-way telepathic communication.

  Explosives in walls. Connected to floor.

  An image of a pressure plate flashed across Puncher’s mind. They’d rigged the building to blow so when the marines showed up they’d get some kills. He’d call them animals, but animals didn’t deserve being compared to low-life anarchist sketbags who blew people up rather than fight like men.

  “Where?”

  The dog made it clear, nose pointed exactly where the pressure plate was in the floor, burning brown eyes staring intently at the spot.

  “Okay,” said Puncher slowly. “Place is rigged. Let’s back out, boy, and pick up the trail somewhere else.”

  Let them know.

  The dog meant
the marines. He knew they’d come here, or someone would, eventually. The dog didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Baldur had seen enough of that, and it bothered him.

  “I will,” said Puncher.

  Yeah, the legionnaire thought to himself. Animals can be way better at being human sometimes than some actual humans.

  They left the building the same way they’d come in, re-checking everything, taking no chances. Then they circled around the outside of the structure looking for the exit the capture team had taken.

  That was when they spotted the pro. He was coming back. Probably forgot something. His team had made the next hideout, and now he was headed back on foot to get something that had been left in the mad rush to arm the place and get the prisoners to the next location.

  That was the story Puncher put together in his head. Both he and Baldur were out in the sunshine, crossing through a trash-laden alley, when they saw the pro jogging back. Subcompact held down and out of the way so he could make time. Not worried about anything except catching hell for whatever he’d forgotten.

  Puncher was glad he’d stuck to SOP. Something he’d learned in urban warfare dog handling. Using the homeless disguise meant obeying a set of protocols when on the streets, and he’d done that. He’d stowed the heavy SAB on his back and covered himself with the poncho and the rest of his homeless gear. In fact, he’d just been finalizing that when the guy, dressed in red and black to fit in with the Soshies, came into view down the quiet street that led to the booby-trapped hideout.

  But, thought Puncher quickly, maybe there’s another reason he’s here. Maybe they’re coming back and he’s been sent ahead to disarm the explosives before they reoccupy.

  Baldur was growling.

  “Easy, boy.”

  Don’t like, said the dog.