Solar Kill

by Charles Ingrid

  The storm broke. It rumbled and flashed and poured so loudly, they barely heard the pounding on the door long minutes later.

  Jack opened it. A very rotund Fisher stood there, dressed in a jumpsuit, and the Purple stood next to him, both bowing their heads against the deluge. Jack grabbed them and pulled them in.

  Jack threw spare blankets over them, and watched them steam, as Amber left to bring out two more beers.

  “What’s up? We’ve been trying to get you on the com for hours. We finally decided to come over and see if there’s a problem,” the Purple said. Then, his brown eyes twinkling, he added, “Pardon me. This is Commander Poonum. He’s from the northern provinces and isn’t used to this much rain.”

  “Commander,” Jack nodded to the miserable Fisher. His black and gray striped pelt was almost dry already, but the jumpsuit hung, sopping. He looked back to the Purple, who finished an appreciative pull on the beer. “What com? I was told it wouldn’t be in until tomorrow.”

  Poonum’s black eyes flashed. “It was installed yesterday!”

  Amber stuck her head in the room. She delicately held out a piece of cable, snipped at both ends. “Is this supposed to be like this?”

  “Damn,” the Purple said. He got to his feet and took the cable from her. “This is part of the com line. No wonder we couldn’t reach you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jack returned. “We’ve been welcomed already.”

  “Who?”

  Jack looked closely at the Purple, then said, “By a Commander Skal.”

  Poonum let out a sound that was between a curse and a bark, and collapsed back into his chair, both hands wrapped firmly around the bottle of beer.

  The Purple smiled grimly. “Well, Jack. It appears the rebellion forces got to you first.”

  He turned the ceremonial knife over and over in his hand, then looked up at Jack. “Well, if nothing else, it appears that they consider you a formidable and honorable enemy.” The Purple glanced briefly at Poonum, whom Amber was trying to console by custom-tailoring his jumpsuit with a rear exit for his thick tail. The Commander was a far cry from Skal … short, rotund, and trying to fit into the mold of the Dominion, though it was clear the jumpsuit and boots made him miserable.

  There was a sharp squeak, and then Poonum said, aggrievedly, “Watch out where you stick that thing!”

  “Sorry,” muttered Amber. She flashed a look at Jack, trying not to laugh, and re-applied her scissors.

  Jack took the knife back. “That’s not the only consideration. I must have remembered his name from the tapes—but how did they know who I was, when I was hitting dirtside—”

  “Swampside,” interrupted Amber.

  “And where I was staying, and how they knew about the battle armor.”

  “They knew about the suit?” The air became charged with tension suddenly, and even Poonum drew to attention, irritably waving Amber away.

  “He asked to look at it.”

  “And you showed him?”

  Jack shrugged. “There was no reason not to.”

  The Purple slumped against the table. “Our surprise weapon just went down the tubes.” He clenched his fist. “Damn. I wish I knew where the leak was. Skal knew all the right buttons to push. How did he leave?”

  “Powerboat, down river.”

  The Purple waved at Amber. “Don’t bother unpacking. We’ll have you moved tonight.”

  “No,” said Jack and Amber together.

  The Purple looked at him. “But he knows where you are. For security reasons, I must insist you move.”

  “He found out before, he’ll find out again. Besides, if I stay here, I’ll know to expect him again—and he’ll know that I’m expecting him again.”

  The Purple let out a low whistle, and a grin replaced his tense expression. “All right, Jack. We’ll play it your way. But Amber—”

  “Amber can take care of herself. Believe me,” Jack said, as the girl tensed behind him.

  “Good enough. Well, we’ll leave you for the night.” The Purple paused, temporarily distracted by the sight of the very rotund otter-man trying to pull his tail out through the hole Amber had made for him. “I’ll send a skimmer by tomorrow morning for briefing.”

  “Done.” Jack said good-bye to the commander as well, and shut the door behind them.

  Amber waited until the sound of a motor cut through the rain, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s wrong. I can tell by the look on your face—and the way I feel,”

  He squeezed out a smile. “Nothing’s wrong that I can put a finger on. Let’s see if there’s anything besides beer in that foodkeeper.” He moved past her.

  Amber looked out the dark, unshuttered window. “It’s still raining,” she said mournfully.

  “Wait until tomorrow.”

  She followed him into the kitchen which had been brightened by Skal’s appearance, and dampened by the Purple’s and Poonum’s. She took a towel and mopped up the wet spots, then looked at the ceiling to see if it was holding under the steady drum of rain.

  “You’re not upset about giving away your secret weapon?” she asked, as she plopped down wearily at the table. The storm-darkened sky had given way to a night far blacker than she had ever seen, she who’d grown up in the underbelly of a beast that never really slept, amid the glow of neons that rarely went off. Malthen dimmed but never went out.

  “No,” he said, taking down two microwave packs from a cupboard. He sniffed at the contents before following the preparation instructions. “No … in fact, Skal’s visit will probably work to my advantage. He left with the distinct impression that I could never manage the suit in the swamp.”

  Amber flashed a grin. “You’d sink up to your ass, huh.”

  “Something like that. I’ve never had to use it on terrain like Fishburg, but I went through something like it as part of basic training. I know how to handle it. And, there’s something else that Skal is undoubtedly not prepared for—I can go native, if I have to.”

  Her grin grew wider. “You’ll run around in nothing but shiny yellow shorts?”

  “And a weapons belt. If that’s what it takes.” The microwave sounded. He pulled out the steaming pouches and set one on a plate in front of her. “Now eat up. It’s past your bedtime.”

  Amber cast a look at the dark window. “How ever can you tell?” she muttered, before grabbing a fork and digging in.

  Chapter 17

  You’re a real shit,” Sadie said. She glared at the man stalking the room in front of her, narrowly brushing past her art treasures and antiques, every step taking him closer and closer to disaster. She watched, knowing that he was trying to unnerve her, and hating herself because he was succeeding.

  “All you have to do is tell me where they are.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  Rolf pivoted on one heel. He smiled slowly, revealing uneven teeth ground to a slight point on one side, from years of chewing on that side of his mouth, and clenching his teeth even when he slept. He wore tight white pants of the smoothest leather, and royal blue boots that matched his royal blue shirt. Sadie found it only slightly disconcerting that he seemed to have no neck.

  “I got in here once,” he said. “You won’t be able to keep me out. I’ll get in again—and again. And worse, you know what I told you is true. I may not be big enough to ruin you, but I can cause a serious crimp in the cash flow of your smaller loans. A very serious crimp.”

  Sadie swallowed.

  He touched fingertips gingerly to a healing bruise above his right eyebrow. “I won’t hurt either of them. Amber’s my girl—I just want her back. She’s dangerous. Right now she’s in the hands of someone who has no idea of her potential or her training, and that can be deadly. It’s for their own good.”

  Sadie’d heard enough half-truths in her time to know it when she heard another one. She drew herself up in her chaise, la vender-flowered gown quivering with the effort. �
��Get out, Rolf.”

  He twisted suddenly, his elbow striking a vase, sending it crashing to the ground. He looked at the shards. “You shouldn’t startle a person like that, madam. So sorry.”

  “It was nothing.” Sadie looked at the vase in sorrow. Her first lover had forged it from a priceless Ming. It contained great sentimental value—and his ashes—but little else. Still, she’d been extremely fond of both. “I won’t tell you.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You will tell me. You’ll tell me because I know you don’t want trouble. You and I,” he checked the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, tugging them into place, brushing off the gray ash from the vase, “don’t need trouble.”

  “No,” said Sadie, sensing a change in the flow of negotiations, “we don’t.”

  “I understand you’ve done some business with a General Gilgenbush.”

  Her eyelids narrowed. “Perhaps.”

  “Strictly legitimate, of course, but the dear man doesn’t know where your base of operations is, as he dealt with one of your banking satellites. I’m told he would very much like to know where you’re situated so that he can—ah—pay his compliments in person.”

  “Malthen is neutral territory. Gilgenbush would never be so stupid.”

  Rolf looked up, his black eyes glittering like onyx. “There are clandestine operations, and then there are clandestine operations.”

  She made a decision and sat back. “If, of course, he were given my address.”

  “Correct.”

  “Which he will not be if I—”

  “—give me the information I need,” finished Rolf smoothly.

  “They’re off-world.”

  “I know that.”

  Sadie examined one gold and diamond nail. It needed buffing, she realized. “You don’t intend to harm them.”

  “Of course not.”

  “All right then. The Owner of the Purple has taken them. You’ll have to trace down the flight pattern … Dock 42. That’s all the information I have.”

  Rolf nodded, saying, “That’s all I need. Good day, madam.”

  “Show yourself out,” Sadie said. She waited until the bootsteps faded, and the heavy doors clanged shut. Once, there was a time when she would have taken the bastard to bed, then chewed him up and spit him out later. Her advisors were right … she was growing soft. She touched the intercom button.

  Jack headed the skimmer toward the island, watching the lights of the base come on as the pending storm set off the dimmers. He had used those lights as a beacon more than once the past few days. The island had been a hilltop, then a high peninsula and now, with the storms growing more and more frequent, the only high ground for quite a way with the exception of the palatial city, where mercenaries were strictly persona non grata. The sky was a dark, glowing blue, but the boil of clouds as dark as pitch marred the horizon and blew in as the wind rose. Their platform house on the riverbank was now surrounded by water, which Amber said, in some ways was better—at least she didn’t have to worry about lizards scampering up the stilt legs, and dinner was certainly easier to catch now.

  Jack wouldn’t have been worried either, except that he knew that, even for a watery world, this amount of rain in this territory was abnormal. And that bothered him. The rainy season, in all its glory, could not account for half the amount of rainfall they’d had just since Jack had arrived.

  A tree branch whipped across the windshield of the skimmer, snapped under the burden of the wind and rain and caromed off the side fender. Jack fought the skimmer steering and righted the vehicle. He turned the wipers on, as all of a sudden, the blue sky was swallowed by the maw of the storm, and the rain came pelting down.

  The skimmer buffeted over the waterway which had once been dry land, and Jack saw a disturbance down on the shoreline. Some of Poonum’s men, well-dressed in Dominion jumpsuits, looked to be harassing an older Fisher, forcibly beaching him and his old powerboat. Jack nosed the skimmer down and stepped out, feeling the slick, chilled rain hitting his bare chest. He’d done as he’d threatened to—gone native, at least until he could reach operations and be assured of staying reasonably dry. His uniform and battle armor stayed in the skimmer. He wore thongs which kept the silt-like mud from between his toes and afforded him some hold on the slippery ground, in addition to the dark blue shorts and weapons belt.

  Poonum’s men growled in surprise, twisted around and saluted when they saw Jack approach. The older Fisher, dressed in a drab kilt of lizard skin, frowned, wrinkling his grayed muzzle. He was a deep russet, with whiskers of red-blond, and lively dark eyes that showed surprise at the amount of respect Jack commanded from Poonum’s men, regardless of his manner of dress.

  The rain slowed a moment.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Appropriating the boat, sir,” the bigger of the two said, so burly his neck fur and muscles bulged out of the khaki jumpsuit. His whiskers twitched in a manner which told Jack, after several weeks of study, that the Fisher was extremely irritated.

  “At ease, soldier,” he said. “Appropriating it for what?”

  “The war effort. We need every mode of transportation, and,” he drew his lips back at the old Fisher, “we don’t want to leave the enemy with anything he can use.”

  “What enemy?”

  “This enemy, sir.” The burly Fisher stood tall, his sable pelt glistening in the storm twilight, his light colored whiskers fairly twitching with his emotions. His second, a skinny, sloppy-looking Fisher, said nothing, but trembled in his shadow. “And, he’s trespassing. Commander Poonum says that no unauthorized personnel is to be allowed to approach.”

  Jack looked at the elder Fisher, who huddled in the bottom of his boat, looking for all the world as if he was trying to hug the wooden frame to himself. A few sacks of what might be rin, the local equivalent of rice, took up the hull of the boat. “What’s your business here, elder?” Jack asked.

  “Selling rin, your honor,” the Fisher quavered. “Business is slow downriver. I thought the eminences here would appreciate the stores.” Liquid brown eyes glanced resentfully at his kin. “It’s too bad I was mistaken.”

  Jack had had trouble getting rin. He reached over and poked the sacks. Grains of rin moved under his inspection inside the fabric bags. “Have you been up to the base?”

  The blond whiskers flattened. “No, your honor. These two—” and the Fisher broke into native speech which Jack roughly translated as ‘jerks’—“stopped me. They think my rin is poisoned.” He spat over the side of the boat, dangerously near the high gloss surface of their boots.

  The bulgy one said, “Orders, sir,” to Jack’s questioning glance.

  In the days Jack had worked with the Fisher commander, Poonum’d been nothing if not paranoid. He sighed. The soldiers had been doing their job, though he suspected they had been harassing the old Fisher with more enthusiasm than the job called for.

  As Jack looked at the three of them, three blunt-nosed alien faces looked back and he reminded himself that he couldn’t tell by looking at them who was the enemy and who was not. “Is your rin poisoned?”

  “No, your honor,” the elder returned. A quiver ran down the back of his pelt.

  “Then I’ll buy it. What would you consider a fair price? Five Dominions a bag?”

  The elder moistened his lips as Poonum’s two men shifted uneasily, and Jack guessed for the first time their game. They had been planning to confiscate the rin for themselves. Four big sacks loaded the boat, and he said, “A bag each for my alert sentries here, and two for my command. A deal?”

  “A deal, your honor … but not for Dominions. Have you flake?”

  Jack smiled, then curbed it. The elder was asking for gold flake, no fool he, to take plastic Dominions in an environment which might or might not accept his money. “Yes, a little.”

  The elder made the facial grimace Jack had grown to interpret as a smile. “My wife and I have humble needs. A little is all we ask. Ten flakes?”<
br />
  That seemed high to Jack, who seldom carried more than twenty leaves, or flakes as the natives called them, at any one time. “Eight flakes,” he responded, “and keep your boat.”

  The burly Fisher positively quivered with agitation as the elder bowed so low his whiskers touched the rin sacks. “Your honor! For so generous an offer, I must tell you I will only take seven flakes. And thank you! Thank you!”

  The two soldiers waited until the old man had unloaded the rin sacks and then kicked his ancient engine into service, and disappeared down river, as a new curtain of rain swept in, obscuring him. Then the big soldier turned on Jack.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “How’d you expect him to get home?”

  “Swim.”

  Man and Fisher squared off, then the soldier seemed to realize who he was facing. He saluted reluctantly, and the two troopers slogged off along the shoreline, continuing their patrol, shouldering their share of the rin. Jack got back into the skimmer and checked the onboard monitors. Not that he didn’t believe the old Fisher’s gratitude, but he would have made a damn good diversion. The monitor showed no other activity in the area, however. Jack pitched the rin sacks into the back seat, brushing the suit’s sleeve.

  Hi, Jack! We kill today?

  “Not today,” Jack said absently. He put the skimmer into gear as the rain swept back in around him, and the lights of the base shone like a yellow-gold beacon marking his way.

  The suit’s talking didn’t bother him as much as it used to when it first began to happen. Amber and Jack had come to the conclusion that the damp and warmth of Fishburg had nurtured the being inside the suit into full consciousness. It hadn’t taken the suit long to identify Jack. Jack’s skin still crawled when they “talked” though, even with Amber’s help as a bridge between Jack’s mind and that of the alien presence. She’d assured him the suit could be kept harmless as long as Jack repulsed it.

  Sooner or later, though, he knew the killing urge would become impossible to repress. It was a drug he needed to function while he wore it. He was on borrowed time. Would he be able to keep the suit repressed when he had to wear it into battle?