by Allan Cole
Eyes aglow, Ida patted his handsome face. “It’s my nature,” she said. “Generosity is my middle name.”
Doc motioned to Alex. “Fetch my tools, would you sergeant?”
Alex opened an overhead bin and took out a large black box. He set it beside Doc, who beamed with pleasure.
“Oh, my toys,” he said. “My wonderful, wonderful toys. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to play with them.”
He opened the box, revealing gleaming instruments, all sharp and pointed and nasty looking. There were trays of vials and catheters and tubing. Compartments with bone saws and pincers.
“Hello, boys,” he said fondly, stroking the instruments. He looked up at the others. “They’re old fashioned,” he said, “but you know me. I prefer the old tried and true methods of eliciting information.”
“In some circles it’s called torture,” Ida told Mk’wolf, who nodded with interest. “And legally it’s forbidden to torture a prisoner. But, you know, there are laws and there are laws.”
“I’m just guessing,” Mk’wolf said, “but I’ll bet those laws don’t apply to people like you.”
“Exactly,” Ida said. “They don’t apply to people like us. There are some very artful loopholes.”
“Who are you guys?” Snilch shrieked. “Torture? What’s this torture? You can’t torture—”
He swallowed whatever he was going to say next when Doc lifted the bone saw off its hook. He smiled at Snilch whose tentacles were going, flick, flick.
“I know that tentacles are mostly cartilage,” Doc said. “But the muscle can be rather thick and stringy.”
He raised up the saw, light dancing on its serrated steel surface. “However, this little darling should do the trick admirably.”
Snilch talked.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE BLACK MARBLE
By smell alone the Reek’s Rest more than lived up to its name.
The overpowering stench had Sten and Alex retching half a klick before they even reached the bar, which sported a battered sign with a picture of a snarling black reek with a white streak down its back.
And when they walked in, the smell was so overpowering they were almost knocked out of their boots. It was as if someone had done a bad of job of burying a reek the size of a mastodon, whose corpse gave off every imaginable odor as its caustic fluids and secretions rotted slowly away.
Unfortunately, since they were posing as old port hands accustomed to the foulest of odors, they had to act like Reek’s Rest was a veritable homebar away from homebar.
They fired up a couple of t’bacs, sucking deeply on the nicotine to settle their suddenly nervous bellies as they strode ever so casually to the bar where a blond behemoth of a woman held forth.
She looked them over as they approached, pasting a well-practiced lascivious smile on her big pink face.
In a booming voice she intoned: “Big Byrtha’s the name, and boozin’s my game, so belly up to the bar, boys, belly up.”
The crowded room was so dimly lit that Sten doubted anyone had noticed the exchange, much less heard it over the bar sounds. Even so, he kept watch, letting Alex handle the big woman.
Kilgour turned on the charm. Laughing, he said, “I love those auld vids too, my bonnie. Next, yoo’ll be sayin, ‘What’s yer pleasure, wee jimmies?’ An, ‘Are those pistols in yer pockets, lads, ur are yer jist glad tae see me?’”
Big Byrtha guffawed. Looking Alex up and down, and clearly liking what she saw, she said, “From yer manner of talk, if yer don’t mind me sayin’, yer must be a kilt wearin’ man.”
“Guilty as twice boiled haggis yer are, lass,” he said. He whacked his big chest. “Ah’m Scots through and through.”
“So, where’s yer kilt, big man?” Big Byrtha asked.
“It shrunk in th’ wash,” Kilgour said. “Ah was in danger ay showin’ off me nethers.”
Big Byrtha liked that, too. Laughing heartily, she slammed a meaty fist on the bar. Then she grabbed a bottle and poured two shots.
“From the cut a yer jibs,” she said, “I’m figger’n yer both Stregg men,” she said.
“That we be,” Kilgour said, throwing back a shot.
Sten followed suit, and Big Byrtha poured two more. “From the looks of yer,” she said, “If I were in the guessin’ business, yer new to Chinen.”
“An’ yoo’d be guessin’ correctly, mah braw beauty,” Alex said.
“Then, here’s another guess,” Big Byrtha continued. “Yer have the look of working stiffs, but the manner of businessmen. If my guess is on the money, which are yer?”
Alex waggled a hand back and forth. “A wee ay baith, lass,” he said. “Jist like our visit tae yer braw establishment. We’re haur fur a bit ay pleasure, but hopin’ fur a bit ay business. If thaur is any tae be had.”
She grinned, saying, “Were yer mebbe thinkin’ Big Byrtha might be of help in yer business?”
“Indeed we were,” Alex said.
Big Byrtha glanced around the bar, as if assuring privacy, then motioned for Alex to come closer.
“Then have a whisper in my shell like, Mr. Kilt Man,” she said.
Kilgour leaned in until his head was nearly touching Big Byrtha’s. “We bin chin waggin’ with this wee scrote name ay Snilch,” he said. “He tauld us yer might be able tae help wi’ a wee problem that’s bin devilin’ us.”
At the mention of the name, Big Byrtha frowned and drew away. Started polishing the bar with a dirty rag.
“Snilch,” she said, in tones that made the name sound lower than reek droppings. “I never have doings with that little snitch. Just lookin’ at him makes me bum break out in boils.”
“Now, now, lass,” Kilgour soothed. “We sussed ’at he was a bad a body right off. But it was information we were after. The vital sort.” Alex sighed a regretful sigh. “An’ when yoo’re efter information, yer cannae always be too choosy ay yer company,” he said.
Big Byrtha sniffed. “And I’m supposin’ Snilch said I might be in possession of the sort of information yer after,” she said.
Sten noted her tone was easier now. The Kilgour charm was doing its job.
“’At he did,” Alex said.
“So what sort of information are yer after, Mr. Kilt Man?” she asked.
“Th’ kind ’at makes a handsome profit fur baith ay us,” Alex said. He tapped his chest. “Money fur th’ likes ay us.” And he gave Big Byrtha his most winning smile. “An’ a bundle a credits fur yer as well, mah wee lass.”
At this, Big Byrtha plunked down another shot glass and poured herself a Stregg, then two more for Alex and Sten.
She downed her drink then put a hand on one ample hip.
“I’m all ears,” she said. Then, laughing, she added, “And all boobs and hips and belly and butt, boys.” As she spoke, she ran her hands down her body, demonstrating.
Alex gave each part an admiring look, shook his head in awe, then proceeded to spin the tale he and Sten had worked out.
Mostly they told the truth—well, the truth according to Snilch. It seems that a certain Captain Gregor of the Flame was well known in black market circles for selling ship’s stores and supplies. He used falsified bills of lading, broken containers, spoiled food, faulty equipment and any semi-reasonable excuse he could phony up to skirt regulations. A few times, it was said, he’d even sold certain weapons on the black market—a firing squad offense if there ever was one.
Snilch claimed it was also well known that Big Byrtha served as a middlewoman in many lucrative black market transactions and was reputed to be a “square shooter” when it came to underworld business.
“So yer think I’ve got somethin’ goin’ on with Gregor now, do yer?” Big Byrtha asked.
Sten thought it interesting that she didn’t out and out deny any of Snilch’s claims.
&nbs
p; “So Snilch said, lass,” Alex replied. “Mind ye, he didnae speak easily. Even after crossin’ his palms wi’ silver, we had te thump him a bit aboot th’ head an’ shoulders.”
Big Byrtha laughed. “Wish I’d been there to glimmer it,” she said. “I have a notion to wring his neck meself every now and then.”
She gave Alex a smoldering look. “You’re not thinkin’ of smackin’ poor little Byrtha about, are yer my darlin’ Mr. Kilt Man?”
Alex looked aghast. “Never!” he proclaimed. Then he grinned. “Weel, mebbe a bit if a wee kinky mince is tae yer likin’.”
“Wait’ll I see what’s under the kilt, sweetie,” Byrtha replied with a low laugh.
Kilgour gave her a wink and said. “Ah can only hiner an’ pray, lass. Only hiner and pray.” Then he grew serious. “So, lass, it comes tae this. Snilch says there is a Gregor deal afoot an’ yoo’re handlin’ it. But this isn’t an ordinary Gregor deal. This time we’re talkin’ about a coople ay hundred kilos ay Imperium X. Swatched right off th’ Flame, Snilch says. If thae’s the case, a bonnie profit could be made for th’ three of us.”
Big Byrtha just stared at him.
“Do ya’ ken what Ah’m gettin’ at lass?” Alex prodded.
“Yer want to hijack Gregor’s goods,” Big Byrtha said. “And yer want me to help yer. Fer a price, that is.”
“Exactly, lass,” Kilgour said. “Smart as new paint, ye are, lass. Smart as new paint.”
Big Byrtha motioned to one of her assistants to take over her post. She nodded toward a door next to the bar.
“Let’s go into my office and talk business, Mr. Kilt Man,” she said.
As they followed her big, waggling behind into the office, Sten had a sudden vision of a fish swallowing a baited hook.
And the fish wore Sten’s face.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OUTNUMBERED AND OUTGUNNED
Kilgour looked gloomily around their toolroom prison, gingerly shifting his bulk away from the nearest corpse.
“If ye thought it was a trap, lad,” he said, “Why did’ne ye warn yer auld comrade in arms an’ other low pursuits?”
Sten shrugged. “Guess I just got caught up in the wonderfulness of your con job.”
“As it turns out,” Alex said, “it was nae me who was doin’ the connin’.”
He snorted, disgusted with himself. “‘Mister Kilt Man,’ she called me. Whit can Ah say—it went tae me noggin, it did.”
“It was a lower extremity than your head she was aiming for,” Sten said. “Much lower.”
Then full realization sunk in. Sten groaned. So much for all that Mantis training.
“Mahoney’s going to kill us,” he said. “Then he’ll tan our bodies and hang us out for bayonet practice.”
But as he spoke, one of Alex’s corpses started making very un-deadlike sounds—choking and gasping and flopping about.
“Sten, me wee lad,” Alex exclaimed, “ah think thes wee lass has returned frae th’ deid!
“For God’s sake, help her,” Sten said. Thinking hope against hope that maybe something could be salvaged from this mess after all.
With both hands, Alex started pumping the big woman’s chest. Then pinched her mouth open and blew in a mighty breath.
More choking. More flopping. Sten looked closer at the woman’s face. Despite the agony-contorted features, he thought he recognized her as one of the Zabanya guardswomen who had accompanied Venatora at the Xypaca match.
She had a little beauty mark on the left hand corner of her bottom lip. Yes. The very same woman. He recalled wondering if she might be Venatora’s second in command. If so…
“Keep it up,” Sten said.
He clicked his com unit. “Ida! Are you there, Ida?”
The Rom woman’s sarcastic voice came crackling back. “Of course, I’m here, you big clot,” she said. “And quit yelling. Last thing I need is another eardrum transplant.”
“What’s the ETA on the jarheads?” Sten demanded.
“If by jarheads, you mean our lovely marines,” Ida replied, “they’ll be there in two shakes. I’ve slaved the atmosphere unit to my station, so you should have breathable air any second now...” A moment later: “Okay, you’re good to go. Now say ‘thank you, oh wise and beauteous Ida.’”
“Knock it off,” Sten said. “One of these dead women has decided she’s the sister to Mister Lazarus.
“Lazarus!” Ida said. “What in the flaming drakh pit are you talking about, Sten?”
Sten said, “I mean that she’s not so dead after all. But to keep it that way, we’re going to need a medpak. Fast!”
“Ah, trading stock,” Ida said. The idea warming her Rom heart. A brief silence.
Then, “Okay, the marines are here. And they’ve got a medpak. Now, go get ’em, boys.”
Sten flexed the fingers of his right hand and the knife sphinctered out into his palm. Quickly, he carved a man-sized square into the toolroom’s wall. Then leaned back and kicked.
There was screech of metal straining against metal. He kicked again, and the area he’d cut ripped away, clanging to the floor outside. Air flooded in with a whoosh and Sten felt his ears pop.
Lt. Mk’wolf’s hawk-like face appeared in the opening. His brow was wrinkled with worry, but when he saw that Sten was apparently unhurt, the frown turned into a grin.
He offered a helping hand. “Better get a move on, sir,” he said. “They aren’t too far behind us.”
Sten grabbed and heaved himself out. He pointed at Alex, who was bent over the thrashing figure of the woman.
“Get a medic working on her,” he told Mk’wolf. “I don’t care what kind of hypejuice you pump into her, just so long as she can stand on her own two feet for a couple of minutes.”
“Gotcha, boss,” Mk’wolf said and motioned for one of the young marines to come forward.
Seconds later the Marine medic had taken over from Alex. He slapped a breather over her face, holding it in place with one hand, while he sorted through his medpak with the other.
Keeping her down with the weight of his body, he shot her full of wakeup juice, recharged the hypogun and did it again.
She jumped like she’d been hit with an electrical charge. She sat straight up, carrying the medic with her. Sten motioned for another marine to join him.
“Help him restrain her,” he said. “Then haul her out and get her undercover.”
He heard Alex shout a warning and an AM2 round sizzled past his face. It hit the toolroom wall, molten metal splattering.
Then more rounds were coming in and while Kilgour and Mk’wolf laid down bursts of answering fire, Sten and another marine helped the medic drag the wounded woman out of the toolroom.
At first she made no resistance, but as they pushed her behind the barrier of shipping containers Alex had muscled into place she started struggling and making horrible gargling noises through her injured throat.
“Here, now,” Alex said, reaching for the woman. “Yer gonna get yerself kilt!”
He grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her to safety just as another burst of AM2 rounds buzzed around them like angry hornets.
“Return fire,” Sten shouted. “But for clot’s sake, don’t shoot anybody. Just keep their heads down.”
Easier said than done. The enemy fire was so hot and heavy Sten and others could barely move without exposing themselves.
On their right, Sten spotted a squad of Himmenops leapfrogging from cover to cover, while their sisters kept up the withering assault.
Any minute now and they’d have Sten’s team flanked and at their mercy. After that, well, somehow, he doubted they had a word for mercy in the Himmenops native language.
Sten looked desperately about, then spotted an enormous yellow crane parked in one corner. This was the obvious place for Venat
ora’s women to take cover and prepare for the final assault.
He noted the crane’s three-story-high hoisting boom hanging over the scene.
Just then, one of the marines gave a cry and fell to the ground, bleeding from a shoulder wound. While the medic attended him, Sten dragged the man’s weapons pack over and started pawing through it, hoping Ida had supplied the Marines with a few of the nastier God Box weapons.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he found what he needed: a slender tube about half a meter long. He drew it out, twisted it, and the tube grew in girth until it was as thick as his arm.
Then he gave it a back and forth twist and pulled. The device telescoped out until it was a little over a meter-and-a-half long.
He turned to the weapons pack, but Mk’wolf had seen what he was up to and had dug out a bullet-shaped object about 25 centimeters long.
Sten took the device, gave the bottom a hard pediatrician-like slap, and three fins popped out. And after he inserted it into the tube, the device started to glow a rich golden color.
What he was holding in his hands now was a very deadly weapon—a Fēidàn Javelin. A kind of shoulder-fired missile said to have been first invented by the Chinese on Old Earth.
He turned back to the crane. “Get another one ready,” he told Mk’wolf. Then he took careful aim.
A woman on the Himmenops squad saw what he was up to. The only defense against the Fēidàn was to pin the would-be attacker down with all the fire power you could muster and never let him up.
Sten hoped like clot her training had been negligent.
No such luck.
She shouted to her comrades and they all turned and opened up on Sten.
AM2 rounds whizzed all around him. But he held steady, bringing the Fēidàn to bear on the crane’s boom.
He ran the sights down the jib until he came to the place where it joined the body of the machine. From his machine shop schooldays back on Vulcan he knew that’s where the gravunits would be.
The AM2 fire became so heavy that it was all he could do to defy the instinct to duck before one of the rounds took his head off.