by Rick Partlow
He was tall and skinny and silhouetted black against a snow that glowed even in the low light of a moon trapped behind the clouds. He ran away from the rover we’d come in and towards a battered, patched-together hopper they’d landed about fifty meters away on a wide stretch of road. I could hear its fans whining, not quite able to drown out the chug of the alcohol-fueled rotary engines, sending fountains of snow spraying out behind the shrouded rotors.
I sprinted after him, fountains of snow flying off my boots with each step, trying to get close enough that the dark and the steam and the snow wouldn’t matter. He had a head-start, but he was going to have to stop and open the canopy of the hopper, and when he did, I was going to kill him.
Apparently, he’d guessed my plan because he chose an alternative course of action and jumped the drainage ditch beside the road, throwing himself down behind the snow-packed roots of a gnarled oak tree that had to be as old as the colony. I bit off a curse and took a running leap over the ditch, landing a meter past the edge and nearly running into the barren, straight trunk of a dead tree that had broken off two meters up in some past windstorm.
I’d barely gotten off the road when he sprayed a long burst of laser fire down the way I’d come, apparently not caring whether any of his allies were still alive or if he might hit them. I mean, they weren’t, but he didn’t know that…
I ignored his wild shots and pushed off from the dead tree, squeezing through tangled boughs and kicking drifts of snow away, feeling the dampness beginning to soak through my pant legs. We were wearing civilian clothes, not combat armor, and it wasn’t quite as weather-proof as I would have liked, but it was what we had on the ship.
Koji’s hired gun must have noticed me coming because his fire shifted my way, but there were about two dozen trees between us and all he accomplished was blowing the shit out of a couple of them, the water in their bark exploding outward in sprays of steam and fragments of flaming wood that mostly went his way. I heard him cry out and I wondered if the genius had managed to hurt himself with his own weapon. Lasers were cool and fairly new on the civilian market and everybody wanted one, but there was a reason I preferred something that fired a nice, solid bullet.
I used his distraction and cut straight towards him, jumping onto a fallen log that had wedged itself between four massive oaks, and running across it, feeling a flutter in my stomach as I nearly slipped off. I leapt off the end and came down into a shoulder roll in the thick snow, about even with the tall man and only three meters away. He wheeled towards me, shooting even before he had his gun all the way up, blowing harmless, steaming holes in the snow, and only years of experience made me ignore the light and heat and sound and concentrate on putting the aiming reticle across his forehead.
His hood had fallen away and I could see his narrow, hang-dog face, could see the abject fear in his eyes for just a split-second that I knew would stay with me forever because I could never forget anything ever again. It didn’t change my mind. It didn’t have the chance; by the time I consciously registered his expression, my finger had already touched the trigger pad. The fear left his face along with everything else that had made him the man he was.
I tried not to look at what was left of his head as I yanked the pistol from his hand, tried to force myself to keep my senses open and watch for any more threats. But I could smell the blood and burnt flesh, could see the stains on the sleeves of my jacket as I patted him down for spare magazines and pocketed the ones I found.
Too many stains. The thought came unbidden, and like a poor houseguest, it just wouldn’t leave. Too many stains to ever get them all out.
I told myself to shut up and ran back to the utility rover. The bodies there had dyed the snow red, and I could still see steam rising off them in the glow of the interior lights. I relieved those of their weapons as well, stuffing them in the outside pockets of my parka before I ducked inside the car to check on Bobbi. She was still out; I’d figured she would be. She wouldn’t be too jolly when she did wake up, either.
I shoved her pistol into the clip at her waist, then grabbed my own off the floor of the compartment and sheathed it in my shoulder holster. I thought about driving the rover back to town, but the whole passenger’s side of the car was ripped up by laser fire and splattered with blood. Even here, that might attract attention.
I grabbed Bobbi under her arms and pulled her out of the back of the rover, then maneuvered under her and got her up onto my shoulder. It wasn’t easy; she was solid muscle and not a small woman, and she was dead weight. But once I had her balanced and she didn’t seem in any danger of slipping off, I took off at a jog for the hopper. It would get us back faster than the rover, anyway, and I had to hope that would be fast enough.
***
There was a reason I’d been an infantry grunt and not a pilot; that became clear about thirty seconds into the flight back into Shakak. The hopper was a genuine piece of junk, slapped together from spare parts and lacking even the most basic automated flight systems, and my headcomp guiding my hands on the controls was the only reason I didn’t crash the damned thing immediately.
Gusts of wind buffeted the vehicle when I tried to take it above a hundred meters, and the forested mountains loomed on either side when I rode her low, with the wild flurries of snow making it nearly impossible to see them. I’d been shot at more times than I could count, been left alone behind enemy lines during a war we were losing, but I don’t think I’d ever been as afraid as I was fighting with the controls of that hopper in the blinding snowstorm. My knuckles were white on the steering yoke and I was grinding my teeth, and the only reason I didn’t throttle back on the rotors was that whenever I did, the downdrafts threatened to slam me right into the trees.
The only upside was that the town was only about a five-minute flight in the hopper. When I reached it, I didn’t try for subtlety, just brought the aircraft down right in the middle of the street outside the Frankfurt House. I cut power to the fans about a meter off the ground and landed a bit harder than I’d intended, jerking me painfully against the seat restraints.
There was a groan from behind me and I twisted around in the cockpit and saw Bobbi cradling her head in her hands, grimacing in pain.
“What the fuck happened?” She moaned, her eyes blinking a few times as she tried to open them, then flying wide as she saw where we were. “How the hell did we get in a hopper? Weren’t we in a car?”
I pulled the quick-release on my harness, then leaned back and freed hers before throwing the canopy locks and pushing it upward manually as I talked.
“It was a setup,” I explained, climbing out of the cockpit as people stopped in the street to stare at us. “We were hit with a stunner. I killed them all, but I heard them saying they were going after the others. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” she growled, gritting her teeth in concentration as she did her best to keep herself from throwing up while I helped her out of the passenger’s seat. She staggered for a step and grabbed my shoulder to steady herself, but then stood straight with an effort of will.
“Hey asshole!”
I’d seen the big man approaching from the front door of the Frankfurt House, and I’d had a suspicion he’d be trouble. He had the look of a bouncer, or “security,” if they felt like being fancy about the title, and his purposeful stride and angry expression were like visualized alarm klaxons.
“You can’t park that fucking thing here!” He was yelling, his right hand going to the handgun holstered under his jacket at his hip as he stepped up to us. “Get it out of here now or…”
I wasn’t in the mood. I stepped in with my lead foot past his trailing leg, just like they’d taught us in combatives, my left hand grabbing his right wrist and my right clutching hard across his throat and pushing. He went down into the salted gravel of the road, melted snow splashing up from the puddles collected there as his back struck the ground. I could hear the air go out of him in a harsh grunt, and I could feel the sn
ap of his wrist breaking in the twisting grip of my hand.
I yanked the gun from his holster and threw it backwards into the open canopy of the hopper, then leaned into his chest with my knee. Another bouncer was coming out of the door and started to draw his gun before Bobbi put the barrel of her pistol against his temple and relieved him of the weapon. I hoped these two were all that were on duty, because if any more came out, we were going to have to start shooting them.
“There were four men with us earlier,” I said quietly but clearly to the bouncer pinned beneath me. “You saw us come in; I remember you looking us over. Are they still inside?”
His eyes had already been wide with pain and shock, but I was sure I noted surprise in them. He wheezed something I couldn’t make out and I let up the pressure of my hand on his throat.
“Again,” I prompted.
“Koji’s people…,” he told me. “Took them. Don’t know where…”
“I know.”
There had been a small crowd of people watching us warily, locals and smugglers and outlaws, all armed but wisely deciding that this wasn’t their problem. The one who stepped out of the crowd was a teenager and he wore the uniform of the restaurant’s servers. There was something about his face, something very familiar.
“I saw it,” he said, stepping up to where I had the bouncer on the ground, looming over us with the gawky awkwardness of a kid who hasn’t quite grown into his height. “They took them down with stunners and hauled them out. They said they were taking them to Koji’s warehouse.”
“Shit,” Bobbi muttered. “How the hell are we gonna’ get them out of there without getting them killed?”
“I can help you,” the kid said, shrugging. “I know some people.”
“Why do you want to help us?” I asked him, frowning with suspicion. “Don’t you work for him, kind of?” I nodded towards the Frankfurt House, partially owned by Koji.
“I owe you one, Munroe,” he told me and I blinked at his use of my name. “You saved my life.”
Chapter Eight
I stared at Amos Dobrev, still disbelieving that the undersized twelve-year-old Vilberg and I had saved from getting shot by an overzealous mercenary almost three years ago had turned into the tall, lanky teenager standing awkwardly across from me. The mercenaries, led by Calderon, had been hired by the Sung Brothers to fight the Skingangers working for the Russian bratva and the innocent civilians had paid the price. When I’d come across Amos, he’d been living in an abandoned building since his family had been killed in the fighting, and he’d nearly been killed himself in a battle near Koji’s place.
The last I’d seen of him had been in an underground shelter my group was sharing with him and Anatoly, the leader of the Skingangers. I’d always wondered what had happened to him…
“What is this place?” I wondered, looking around the inside of the small building while Bobbi shut the door behind us. It had only taken a minute to cross the town and get us here, and we’d parked the hopper out back, behind a flimsy-looking wood-slat wall. The building itself seemed just as flimsy and hand-made by someone who only had half an idea what they were doing. A battery-powered outdoor lantern hung by a wire from a hook in the ceiling, throwing shadows as it swung precariously at the vibration of the front door closing.
“It’s my house,” Amos said, a bit defensively I thought. He shrugged. “Mine and some friends’. We built it ourselves.” He waved around us demonstratively. “It was wrecked in the fighting and the family who lived in it were all dead.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,” I said, feeling guilt squeezing at my chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” the kid protested, shaking his head. “This is my home, it’s my job to make it here.”
“Who do you know you think can help us?” Bobbi demanded, her tone and her stance giving away her impatience. She glanced down at a chair made from scraps of wood tied together with string, and stayed standing.
“Just about everything had to be rebuilt after the Cultists left,” Amos told her. “I know the guys Koji hired to build his new warehouse.” He pulled his ‘link out of his pocket and gestured with it. “I messaged a couple of them when we were in the hopper. They should be here in a few minutes.”
“You left work with us,” I realized. “Are they going to fire you?”
“Probably,” he reflected with a careless shrug. “I didn’t like it there, anyway.” He motioned downward at his green overalls and fluffy-sleeved shirt. “This shit is ridiculous.”
I stuck a hand into one of the inner pockets of my parka and pulled out a wad of Tradenotes I’d taken from the safe on the Nomad; we kept a supply there for operations out in the Pirate Worlds. I flipped through them then shrugged, folded them back into a tight roll and tossed them to Amos. He caught them and I saw a flare of avarice in his eyes that was quickly replaced by pride and hurt feelings.
“I’m not doing this for money,” he insisted.
“I know that,” I assured him, holding up a hand to forestall his protests. “But that’ll get you by until you find another job. It’s from my employer anyway, and he’s a dick.”
That made him grin and he pocketed the money, assuaging some of the residual guilt I was still feeling. I saw Bobbi rolling her eyes, but then she’d always thought I was too sentimental.
There was a sharp, hollow knock on the cheap plastic of the salvaged front door and Bobbi’s pistol jumped into her hand. She was backing away from the door as Amos was walking towards it, hand up in a restraining pose.
“It’s my friends,” he said, then looked at the door suspiciously. “It might be my friends,” he amended with a paranoia born on the streets. “Don’t shoot them unless I say, okay?”
I hadn’t drawn yet, but I slipped a hand into the big front pocket of my parka and secured the grip of one of the pulse pistols I’d taken off Koji’s people earlier. I nodded to Amos and he took off the chain and yanked the poorly-fitted door open. Standing on the stoop were a couple, a man and a woman, dressed in the usual serviceable, hand-patched clothes of the city’s working class. The male was stocky and square-jawed and looked to be somewhere from late teens to early twenties. The female was a bit older and much taller, looking like someone who’d been born in lower gravity. They both recoiled at the sight of Bobbi’s drawn gun, talking over each other as they tried to ask Amos what was going on.
“It’s okay,” he told us. “This is Mark and Traci, they took me in right after…everything that happened.”
Bobbi lowered her pistol, though she didn’t holster it, and nodded to the couple.
“Hi,” I said, trying to put them at ease. “I’m Munroe. Amos tells us you know something about the layout and security of Koji’s warehouse.”
They looked at each other, then back at Amos, who was wearing a pleading expression and gesturing for them to come in. There was still doubt on their faces, but they stepped inside the shack and the kid closed the door behind them.
“Koji has taken my friends,” I explained once they were inside. “We need to get them back before he decides they’re disposable, but according to Amos, we can’t just go busting in.”
“Hell, no,” the female, who I assumed was Traci, put in fervently. “That paranoid fuck went all-out on his security.”
Mark was nodding agreement. “I was there when they were building the exterior walls. There are automated Gatling laser turrets concealed at all four corners of the building, and if he has it on lockdown, they’ll blow away anything approaching closer than a hundred meters in their firing arc, up to and including an assault shuttle.” He snorted. “Plus, the walls all have a BiPhase Carbide core to them now, so you can forget about trying to get through them unless you have a cruiser in orbit.”
I grunted like I’d been punched in the gut. Automated weapons were illegal as shit; we didn’t even use them in the war against the Tahni. But I guess out here, with no one to enforce Commonwealth
laws, he thought he could get away with it.
“What about the roof?” Bobbi asked them, a thoughtful look passing across her face.
“No way to get to it,” Traci reminded her. “If you’re thinking about landing that hopper on it, forget it; you’d get shot down the minute the sensors up there picked up the thermal signature of the engines.”
“He can’t just shoot down anyone that flies over the city,” I said, thinking I was tracking where Bobbi was going with this. “You said a hundred meters, right?”
“Yeah, as far as I know,” Mark said with a shrug. “How does that help you?”
I saw Bobbi grinning, seeing that I’d caught on. I looked between the three civilians, feeling a smile begin to spread over my face.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any friends that can fly a hopper, would you?”
***
“Who the hell thought this was a good idea?” I yelled at Bobbi.
Then I threw myself out of the open canopy of the hopper five hundred meters up.
I could hear the roar of the wind outside my helmet, but my armor’s heating coils kept me from really feeling the bone-chilling cold; I felt bad for the guy flying the thing. He was a friend of a friend of Traci’s and it had taken quite a donation of Tradenotes to convince him to do this. Thankfully, we’d had more of the currency stashed away on the ship, and we’d had to go back there anyway, for our armor and rifles…and the parachutes, of course.
Why we had them, I was never quite sure. They’d been there since the beginning, just one of the stash of “just-in-case” supplies that Cowboy had stuffed into the lockers in the utility bay. I’d tossed some of it out, but I hadn’t bothered to get rid of the four parachutes. I suppose somewhere in the back of my mind, I hoped I’d get the chance to use them someday because they looked like fun.
Dropping out of the sky in the middle of a raging snowstorm, I hoped to hell that they still worked. We’d set the altimeters to open the chutes at three hundred meters, and I’d barely had a chance to get used to the idea that I’d just thrown myself out an aircraft when the compressed gas capsule popped like a gunshot somewhere behind me and the canopy exploded backwards, trailing dozens of narrow cords that secured it to my harness. The canopy inflated with air in a microsecond and I felt the harness jerk me violently backwards, hard enough to kick my feet straight up in front of my face.