by Hank Davis
Bat could see Hammond’s line of reasoning. It made good commercial sense. He liked it. “So,” Hammond continued. “I refund the cost of your contract, it was an extra, I was coming here anyway, you didn’t do me out of another load. I’m out for the cost of the extra fuel for the weight, but I haven’t lost anything else, and we agree on an adjustment for that, okay?”
With his ear as sharply attuned to the audience in the corridor as it was Bat thought he could hear things that sounded a lot like well, if he’ll do that and she’ll do that, I guess I like it. Music to his ears.
“What I have in premium shocattli will be losing its value on the market, Dir Hammond,” Vilna said. “Because I’ve missed my connection. If you can find a buyer for me—while it’s still at full value—I’ll share the markup, and explain to my buyer. How about that?”
She was hungry. For her to have brought shocattli to Gonebeyond meant she had a narrow profit margin to begin with, because there wasn’t much of a luxury market where there wasn’t much by way of surplus money. She also wasn’t finished. “I’m a new trader here, I know, but I hope to find a niche in this market. If we do it this way, Dir Hammond, can we do business with one another again, can we build a relationship?”
And Hammond liked it. So she was already ahead: farther than she might know. “You’ve got shocattli? I like shocattli,” Hammond said. “Let me broker this for you, Dar Vilna. I’ll do my best to get a good price on it to help you forward, with a new cargo and a hull to carry it. If we’re in accord, yes?”
Bat heard nothing from the corridor beyond that wasn’t friendly. She’d won them over, she and Dir Hammond together, to the mutual advantage of them both. And all it had cost was her willingness to acknowledge her own part of the blame for the failure to disclose that had contributed to the problem.
“I’d consider it a significant benefit for me, and I’m indebted,” she said. “I hope you will accept an additional percentage, Dir Hammond, four parts in the hundred, perhaps, as a token of my appreciation for your understanding. If we can salvage the premium value of the commodity. Yes.”
Now he could speak. “Dir Hammond, are you satisfied with this arrangement?” he asked, because after all, Shurl was still taking notes. “And you, Dar Vilna? Because if we are all in agreement, we can consider the conflict resolved. I thank you both. On behalf of Langsarik Station and Port Neeks, but also personally. Thank you.”
He could stand up. He could finish his flask of still-chilled fruit-flavored beverage. He could enjoy the sense of having been part of something good. And now that the arbitration was successfully concluded he could maybe even make a small purchase, privately and anonymously and through a neutral third party, in order to present his thanks—in shocattli form—to the wolf-pack and Andrej Koscuisko, for their support and assistance.
Life was good, and there was good hope for tomorrow, and everything was beautiful. Bat Yorvik left the room as pleased with himself as he dared to acknowledge, before the next challenge presented itself.
•
Susan R. Matthews has been writing in her “Under Jurisdiction” universe for mumblety mumble years. Since her debut novel in 1997 she’s taken her story forward through eight novels and several stories, novellas, and so forth, all available from Baen Books. She’s currently off on a not-entirely-serious series about the plight of German U-boats who, having seen the Flying Dutchman, find themselves trapped in a wrinkle in the space-time continuum that has led to their sudden reappearance in 2005-ish in places like Lake Superior.
Meanwhile, in the latest “Under Jurisdiction” novels, the story’s setting has broadened from the brutally authoritarian “Jurisdiction” to include the desperately poor, but free, no-man’s-land of Gonebeyond space. In this story, Bat Yorvik, a rising star from a progressive Judiciary on a mission to Gonebeyond (and a continuing character from Susan’s latest Jurisdiction novel, “Crimes Against Humanity”) is faced with a question of critical importance for the future of all Gonebeyond space: how can conflict be resolved fairly, where there is no Law?
LAWYER FIGHT
Larry Correia
A member of a prestigious law firm had turned zombie (no obvious jokes, please) and they had called for help from Monster Hunter International. However, a rival firm got wind of the situation and sent a pistol-packing attorney over to try and poach a client out from under MHI’s corporate nose. And when poacher and zombie arrived simultaneously, writs and motions wouldn’t do, and the steel-jacketed sort of restraining order was needed…
•
Shane Durant had just entered the lobby when the cellphone buzzed in his pocket. He tapped the Bluetooth earpiece. “PT Consulting. Go.”
“Shane, are you at the address I sent you?” his boss asked.
“Yeah, Armstrong. I got your text. I was about to go to the gym.” He risked a drink from his Starbucks, but it was still too hot. “Barely even had time to get my venti. So what’s the deal?”
“There’s a law office on the sixtieth floor, Hastings and Shapiro. Know them?”
Just because he was an attorney, Armstrong automatically assumed he knew every lawyer in the city? “No.” He passed a security guard and asked, “Elevators?” The old man pointed to the side and Durant kept on walking.
“They’re high-powered, big-money types. I just heard through the grapevine that they’re looking to hire MHI for a protection gig. That new guy that replaced VanZant is either already there or on his way over to negotiate, but I want to steal this contract from those Alabama bastards. It’s a bodyguarding job, how hard could it be?”
“Depends on what body it is and what we’re guarding it from.”
“I don’t have all the details. Apparently one of the partners at the firm dabbled in necromancy or something…”
“Necromancy? You’re kidding, right?” He reached the bank of elevators, pushed the up button, and waited. “What is it with lawyers and necromancy, anyway?”
“Well, apparently everybody thought Mr. Shapiro was dead, so they wrote him off, turns out he’s actually undead, and now he’s back and making threats. I don’t know. He was having an affair with his secretary, wants to drag her to hell or something like that. You’ll figure it out. Look, this is a rush, but you speak their language. Paranormal Tactical is counting on you, Shane.”
Durant sighed and looked down at his normal street clothing. He was wearing cross trainers, jeans, and a polo shirt. The only reason he’d thrown on a sport coat was to conceal Mindy on his belt. “You should’ve warned me. I would have worn my suit.” The elevator chimed as the doors slid open. “I’ll call you when I get done.” He hung up, stepped inside, and pushed the number 60. “Damn it, Armstrong. I’m missing Krav Maga for this.”
A man stopped the doors right before they closed. “Sorry,” he rasped as he shuffled inside to stand politely on the far side of the elevator. The new arrival was wearing a long, dark grey wool coat with the collar turned up, a wide brimmed black hat pulled down low on his head, dark glasses, and leather gloves. The doors slid closed behind him.
Durant took a sip of his latte. Still too hot.
There were buttons on both sides of the doors. The man went to select his floor, but he paused, gloved finger hovering right over the already illuminated 60. He slowly lowered his hand.
They started upwards.
They were in a very enclosed space.
The man turned, just the slightest bit, revealing that the skin of his face was a bit too stretched.
“Looks like I might be getting my workout in today after all.”
He looked Durant over. The man’s cracked lips opened just a bit, revealing black, broken teeth, and by then Durant could smell the decay.
“This is going to tick those MHI guys off,” Durant said bemusedly.
“Eh?” The thing that used to be Mr. Shapiro asked.
“Lawyer fight.” Durant threw his Starbucks into the monster’s eyes as it lunged for him. His other hand was already drawi
ng his Browning, Mindy, from her holster. This was about to become extremely loud.
* * *
You wouldn’t think that a law degree would be that useful in the secretive world of professional monster hunting, but on the contrary, Shane Durant had found it very handy. The business wasn’t all just blowing shit up or shooting supernatural beings in the face with silver bullets. It was also a lot of paperwork, contracts, figuring out how to operate legally in various jurisdictions, negotiations, so on and so forth.
Not that he didn’t like the blowing shit up part too. He was multitalented like that.
* * *
Mr. Shapiro shrieked when the scalding hot coffee hit him in the face. Armstrong hadn’t said what kind of undead they were dealing with, but whatever it was still felt pain. Or at least it remembered feeling human pain so wiping at his eyes was just reflex. Either way, it worked to Durant’s advantage.
Mindy came up barking. The elevator was so tight he just fired from the speed rock, and nailed Shapiro twice in the chest. The undead thing stumbled back against the wall but he didn’t drop. So Shane moved back, taking up a two-handed grip, and started hammering away.
The customized Browning Hi-Power had been a gift from his dad for graduating law school. He probably should have carried something more modern, like everyone else in the company, rather than a flashy antique, but Mindy had a certain sassy charm to her. On the downside, in a six by seven metal box, she was really fucking loud.
He aimed for the head, but whatever kind of necromantic curse Shapiro had, it came with inhuman speed, because when the monster swung he knocked the gun from Durant’s hand. It was like getting hit in the hand by a bat. It stung, and Mindy went bouncing across the floor.
The indignant undead screamed something at him.
“What?” He shouted back because he couldn’t hear a damned thing beyond the ringing in his ears. The words had probably been something like how dare you? But that was just a guess based upon the way Shapiro then launched himself across the elevator like a rotting meat missile.
The freshly undead lawyer had some crazy supernatural speed, because he hit like a freight train. And holy shit, necromancy worked better than steroids, because it really hurt.
The disguise of glasses and hat had been lost, revealing a face that was puffy with death bloat and sagging greenish skin. So at least Durant had guessed correctly and attacked the right guy, and not just assaulted some poor ugly dude. Because that would’ve been awkward. But then Mr. Shapiro started trying to tear Durant’s head off.
The digital display above the door said they’d only reached the 5th floor.
* * *
The Army had paid for college. Since he hadn’t minded Iraq, that hadn’t been a bad trade. Durant being the driven sort, school had been easy. Practicing law had been relatively easy too. Shane Durant was the sort of guy who needed challenges to keep life interesting. That’s why becoming the in-house counsel for a monster-hunting contractor suited him so well.
However, his very favorite thing in the world was fighting. Not with guns or bombs, but with his bare hands.
When he was young he had fallen in love with martial arts. That love had translated into years of nonstop learning and constant improvement. If there was a style, he’d tried it. Most were silly, some had some good bits to steal, and a few were gold. If there was a gym, he’d checked it out. If there was somebody to fight, he’d fought them. In fact, you could probably go so far to say that fighting was sort of his passion. All the other stuff he did just paid for the fighting. He’d gone from being a weak, noodle-armed kid to an adult who had competed at some of the highest levels in MMA and loved every minute of it. The more sweat and suffering the better.
Not that you got to use mixed martial arts in professional monster hunting very much. More often than not, the things they dealt with simply wouldn’t give a shit, because they were too strong, and they’d be the gorilla and you’d be the suitcase in one of those old luggage commercials. Or the monsters were venomous, or contagious, or covered in spikes, or on fire, or some pain-in-the-ass thing like that.
But every now and then there was one of those brief, glorious opportunities, when you were dealing with something that was sorta human-shaped, and not too insanely powerful, and he could use the things he’d learned. Then it was game on.
Owen Pitt had once called him Ultimate Fighting Lawyer. The title had stuck for a reason.
* * *
7th floor.
Mr. Shapiro had him smashed against the wall. Up close, the smell was even worse. A cloying stink that had somehow been made worse because he had tried to hide it by drowning it in cologne. The monster was incredibly strong, but it seemed like he really didn’t know what to do with that strength. Those rotting, nasty-ass teeth were right next to Durant’s face, but he wasn’t going for the bite. Good. Shapiro was too strong and coherent to be a zombie, so the bite might not do anything other than hurt, or it could be immediately fatal. Who knew? Better not to find out.
The monster had a handful of his shirt, but trying to sling around a guy who grappled for fun was just stupid. He kept trying to pull Durant away from the wall in order to slam him back into it, but the dead lawyer seemed clueless about how to accomplish that when the alive lawyer was locked onto him.
The bullet holes in Shapiro’s chest were leaking, but the substance looked more like reddish oil than blood. Whatever it was, it was getting all over the floor and between that and the spilled coffee it was making things slippery.
Durant threw an elbow to the monster’s head. That rattled him enough to allow Durant to clamp onto Shapiro’s wrist. He twisted hard and brought his weight down on it. A wristlock like that ground the hell out of the joints. A regular human would have been crying, but Mr. Shapiro only held on, swinging Durant around like a kettlebell and throwing him into the doors.
That would leave a mark, but Durant kept hold of the arm, and with distance came leverage. He cranked it hard, dragging Shapiro’s body down, and with it went his head, so he could kick that undead son of a bitch square in the mouth.
The monster’s head snapped back. Still controlling the arm, Durant swept the leg and took Shapiro down, planting him face first to the floor hard enough to shake the whole car. He dropped his knee onto Shapiro’s back and twisted his arm like it was a pry bar. It was all about control and leverage. This was the part where a human would tap. But monsters? No mercy. He twisted hard. Even with the ringing in his ears he still heard the bone break.
Unfortunately that injury awoke some primal undead survival instinct or something, because Shapiro somehow managed to leap up. It wasn’t particularly acrobatic. It was more like the violent thrashing of an insect that had been flipped over. The unexpected movement caused Durant to lose control, and he crashed into the back wall.
Shapiro landed on his feet. One arm was dangling, useless and floppy, but then he flipped it around a few times—there was a bunch of pops and crackles—and then it wasn’t useless anymore. The undead shook it out like it was normal.
This motherfucker regenerates? No fair.
He looked around for Mindy—because they’d see how good he regenerated with his brains painting the ceiling—but she was lying in the corner on the other side of Shapiro.
20th floor.
There was a pause. Durant wasn’t even breathing hard, but Shapiro was gasping. Normally undead didn’t have much use for breathing, but it was probably habit. Like most senior partners, Shapiro had gotten pretty fat in his old age. From the look of him it was a good thing he’d plucked his heart out in a necromantic ritual or whatever, because it had probably needed a quadruple bypass anyway.
The monster came at him, but this time with his gloves up. It was apparent that while alive Mr. Shapiro had never learned how to fight, because his stance looked goofy as hell, what with the moving his fists in rhythmic circles and all.
“What’s that supposed to be, old-timey fisticuffs?”
Shapir
o swung. He was super strong and scary fast, but the haymaker was just ridiculous. Durant went under it. Then he went to town like he was working a heavy bag. He hit Shapiro in his gut several times, easily dodged the counterswing, went over it, and rocked Shapiro’s world with a shot to the jaw.
A human being, you break their jaw like that and they’re pretty much done. But not Mr. Shapiro. He was flabby, clumsy, and when he was alive he had probably considered golf to be cardio, but he did have some fight in him.
30th floor.
The monster came in swinging again. He had shit technique, but undead strength meant Durant really didn’t want to get hit by one of those blows. That was made extra clear when one missed shot hit a door and left a knuckles-shaped dent in the metal.
So at his next chance Durant shot in and took the leg. The slick floor made taking Shapiro down easy. Then he just needed to figure out what to do with him once they got there. Breaking bones didn’t work if they just fixed themselves, so might as well go for a choke. Maybe he’d need air after all?
Rolling across the floor, Shapiro kept trying to hit him, but Durant kept calm and controlled the limbs. All the strength in the world didn’t do you any good if you didn’t know how to get it where it needed to go. He’d rolled with the best. He’d be damned if he was going to get killed by this squishy bastard. Durant had ten years of Brazilian Jiu-jitsu experience under his belt. Compared to all those struggle snuggles, this shouldn’t be that complicated.
Come to think of it, Durant had never actually fought something like Mr. Shapiro before. He probably should have been scared, but really, he was more focused than anything. First, he got the back mount, and with his legs and arms wrapped around him, there wasn’t much the increasingly frustrated Mr. Shapiro could do about it. Then he got the choke.
He had one arm under Shapiro’s chin and the other hand on the back of his head as the monster kept crashing around the elevator. Against a regular opponent all he’d have to do was stretch his body while keeping his legs on the other guy’s hips, and they’d be stuck, and with the arteries cut off it would be lights out real quick. But Shapiro was so unnaturally strong he managed to climb his way back to his feet, and all Durant could do was play undead rodeo as he collected a bunch of bruises from bouncing off the walls. But he didn’t let up. He would squeeze that neck like he was an anaconda. He was going to Jeffrey Epstein this son of a bitch.