Silent Order: Iron Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  He shut down the main drive and used the ion thrusters to guide the Tiger towards the asteroid. There were dozens of landing pits scattered around the metal domes of the station, and one of them flashed on his screen. March rotated the Tiger, extended the landing struts, and put the ship down.

  “Landing successful, Captain,” said Vigil.

  “Thanks,” said March, watching the displays. A static atmosphere barrier appeared over the entrance to the bay, sputtering a few times before it caught. He made a mental note to take a breath mask in case the barrier failed. “Do the usual maintenance routines, but keep the ship on standby in case we have to leave in a hurry. Also, maximum security, and keep the laser turrets charged if someone tries to break into the ship. Inform me if anything unusual happens.”

  “Acknowledged, Captain,” said Vigil.

  March unstrapped and stopped by his cabin long enough to retrieve his coat, his knives, his gun belt, and a few other useful tools. From a safe in the wall, he took fifteen hundred Calaskaran credits in 50-credit denominations, tucking the money into a pocket. He picked up his phone and connected it to Rustbelt Station’s local network, downloading the public directory and map.

  “Captain,” said Vigil as March stepped back into the dorsal corridor, “four men have just entered the landing bay. All of them are armed, and based on voiceprint analysis one of them is Administrator Heitz.”

  “He’s here for his bribe,” said March, checking his gun. “If it comes to a fight, use the laser turrets.”

  He descended to the cargo bay, opened the loading ramp, and walked into the landing bay. The Tiger fit snugly, the brilliant star field visible overhead beyond the static barrier. The air smelled of laser-cut rock.

  Four men stood near the airlock leading into Rustbelt Station proper. Three of them had the look of private security contractors, hands resting on their gun belts. They wore black jumpsuits with the logo of crossed laser pistols on the right arm. The fourth was obese and sweating a little, and wore a suit that he should not have been able to afford on a civil servant’s salary.

  “Captain March?” said the fat man, and March recognized Heitz’s voice.

  “I am,” said March. “You’re Heitz?”

  “Administrator Heitz,” he said. “Alas, our governor died seven months past, and the Crown has not seen fit to dispatch a new one. Until the King appoints a new governor, I’m afraid I must manage all the affairs of Rustbelt Station.” He offered an oily smile. “Your docking fee?”

  March withdrew fifteen 50-credit notes from his pocket. He resisted the urge to shove them into Heitz’s mouth. “Here.”

  “Thank you,” said Heitz. He pocketed the money. The royal government and the Silent Order took a dim view of corruption, and sometimes the Order dispatched operatives to arrange “accidents” for officials who indulged in too much corruption. March had carried out a few of those assignments. Perhaps he would pay an official visit to Heitz one day. “Welcome to Rustbelt Station. Security arrangements and public order are overseen by members of Ronstadt Private Security Corporation.” He nodded to his goons, who were no doubt also on the take. March had dealt with Ronstadt a few times, and the Corporation ignored the law whenever it could get away with it. “They are authorized to carry out all law enforcement functions within the station. But so long as you behave yourself, you should be fine. If you have any questions, there are public directories available on the local network.”

  “A question,” said March as they turned to go.

  Heitz stopped with a sigh. “What?”

  “I was attacked on the way here,” said March.

  “Rustbelt Station is not liable for any damages your ship or your property might have incurred on the way…”

  “I fought them off without damage,” said March. “But they had a logo painted on their hull, a wolf’s head. I wondered if you’ve had trouble with pirates or renegades.”

  “The Graywolves,” said one of the Ronstadt men.

  “A mercenary company,” said Heitz with a scowl. “Damned troublemakers, the lot of them. When they can’t find proper jobs, they work for crime lords and the sort of petty warlords you find out in the unclaimed systems. And when that doesn’t pan out, they turn pirate.” A flicker of disgust went over his face, and he spat upon the rough-cut rock of the floor. “They’ll even work for the Machinists.”

  “You don’t approve?” said March.

  “Damned Machinists,” said Heitz, anger flaring in his tone. “I was at Martel’s World when they bombed it at the end of the last war. Machinist sympathizers are not welcome on Rustbelt Station. If I find a Machinist sympathizer, out the airlock he goes.” He leveled a thick finger at March. “If you’re a sympathizer, you’ll disappear, and that will be that.”

  “I’m not a Machinist sympathizer,” said March, “and I’ve never been one.” He supposed that was entirely true. He had been an Iron Hand, part of the Final Consciousness, and never a sympathizer. “God save the King.”

  Heitz grunted and walked away. The Ronstadt men gave March a hard look, and he kept a bland expression on his face, training and experience mapping out how he could kill all three of them.

  But the security men walked away. March stared after them for a moment, rolled his aching left shoulder, and strode into Rustbelt Station.

  It was indeed a rough place, especially compared to his previous stop. Antioch Station was the height of Calaskaran engineering. Rustbelt Station was an asteroid mine that had gone bankrupt. March strode down a wide cargo corridor with a metal grill floor, rough walls of laser-cut rock on either side. The walls gave off a distinct chill, which did not speak highly of the station’s life support systems. From time to time he passed a worker in the coveralls of a cargo handler, or a drone truck rattling past with a load of crates and barrels in its bed, but the corridor was otherwise deserted.

  The cargo corridor was a perfect place for an ambush from somebody like Simon Lorre and his helpers, but no attackers presented themselves. March consulted the map for a moment, then turned right, walked through an airlock, and stepped into a wide concourse cut from the rock of the asteroid. Shops lined the walls, and unlike at Antioch Station, the shops catered to men accustomed to violence. One shop sold hand weapons, everything from plasma guns to portable missile launchers. Another specialized in ship repairs and upgrades. March saw three bars and two brothels, one specializing in human women, and another in androids of various models designed to cater to every perversion. On Antioch Station, such a place would have been shut down and its owner arrested within an hour. Here, it was the busiest shop on the concourse. Armed guards stood at every establishment, watching the crowds with cold eyes.

  March ignored them and walked to a restaurant at the end of the concourse. A sign labeled EMPEROR’S REST hung over the restaurant, and March stepped through the front door. Like most of the other rooms in Rustbelt Station, it had been carved from the rock of the asteroid. Metal tables and chairs dotted the room, about half of them occupied with crewers and cargo handlers eating lunch. A long bar ran the length of the wall, and waitresses in tight skirts and T-shirts carried out trays of food from the kitchen. March had been in a hundred restaurants like this in a hundred systems, and he was familiar with the guards at the door, the cold eyes of the waitresses, and the fact at least some of the men at the tables and the women in tight skirts would be informants for the intelligence services of the various starfaring nations.

  March leaned against the bar.

  “What will it be, traveler?” said the woman at the bar, giving him a wide smile that did not touch her brown eyes. She had shaggy blond hair and sharp features, her mouth red with lipstick and her eyes encircled with dark lines of makeup.

  His eyes flicked to the inflated prices on the menu boards, and then looked back at her. “I need to speak with Constantine Bishop.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” said the bartender. “What are you, a debt collector?”

  “That’s exactly
right,” said March without smiling. “I’m a debt collector. So I’d like to talk to Constantine Bishop, and I’d also like you to get me a beer first.”

  The bartender laughed, and this time the smile did touch her eyes. “Fine.” She named a price, twice as much as the beer would have cost on Antioch Station, and March handed over the credit notes. The bartender grinned at him and produced a beer. March took a sip. It tasted better than he expected. The bartender turned and vanished into a door behind a neon sign for a Calaskaran brewery. She was wearing high heels, and March couldn’t help but notice that the short skirt fit her excellently.

  He pushed aside the thought with annoyance. He was working, and that was not a time to allow distractions. Another sip of beer, and he glanced around the restaurant, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention.

  “Well, well,” said a familiar voice, deep with the accent of a Calaskaran commoner. “Look who wandered in with the trash.”

  March turned his head as Constantine Bishop strolled out of the back room, the bartender walking behind him. Bishop was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, though he was developing a bit of a stoop from spending so much time in cramped quarters. He had ragged blond hair anda bushy blond beard and wore an odd mixture of clothes – steel-toed work boots, cargo pants, a red silk shirt, and a formal black coat. He owned the restaurant, and he was also in charge of the Rustbelt Station branch of the Silent Order.

  “Jack March,” said Bishop, grinning. He extended his left hand, and March shook it with his left. It was a gesture of trust. Bishop knew perfectly well that March could have crushed his left hand into hamburger. “You still flying that barge?”

  “The Tiger is a good ship,” said March, smiling.

  “He said he was a debt collector,” said the bartender.

  “Captain March is a privateer,” said Bishop. “I suppose he would do debt collection if we paid him enough. Thank you, Anne. Bring us a pair of beers on the house. Captain March and I need to catch up.”

  Anne produced two more bottles of beer, and March took one and added it to his half-finished bottle. He followed Bishop through the door behind the bar and into a storeroom stacked with cases of beer and prepackaged meals. Bishop opened the door and stepped into a small office with a plastic desk, the walls lined with photographs of Bishop posing with various dignitaries.

  “Have a seat,” said Bishop, dropping into his desk chair with a sigh.

  March seated himself. “I have a delivery for you. Prepackaged meals.”

  “And thank God for that,” said Bishop. “My inventory was running low, and Rustbelt Station is the only place I can sell those wretched things at a three hundred percent markup.” He grinned and drained a third of his bottle with a single swig. “And having you deliver my inventory is an excellent cover story for getting an Alpha-level Operative out here in the wilderness.”

  “Censor’s talked to you, then?” said March.

  “Message only got here four hours ago,” said Bishop. “Takes a while for anything to make its way out here. It didn’t have many details. Some trouble with a noblewoman?” He leaned forward, his chair creaking under his bulk. “She went over to the Machinists?”

  “Not quite,” said March. “At least, I don’t think so. Seems like young Lord Thomas Vindex was flirting with a cell of Machinist sympathizers and realized it was a bad idea. His twin sister Lady Roanna came to rescue him, and they’re on a smuggler ship called the Fisher heading for here. Ought to arrive tomorrow. Censor sent me out here to pick them up and bring them back to Antioch Station.”

  Bishop grunted and swirled his beer in the bottle. “Think their story’s on the level?”

  “Damned if I know,” said March. “Maybe Lady Roanna is telling the truth. She did ask us for help. Or maybe they both went over to the Machinists and are planning on starting a new cell on Calaskar. Or the Machinists scooped out half their brains and replaced them with cybernetics, and they’re part of the Final Consciousness now.”

  “Which one do you think it is?” said Bishop.

  “I don’t know,” said March. “I’ve seen all three before. I suppose I’ll know when I talk to them.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll take the two of them back to Antioch Station, and Censor can figure out whether they’re traitors or if they’re just stupid.”

  “It’s never that simple, Jack,” said Bishop. “There are going to be complications.”

  “There already have been,” said March. “You ever heard of a mercenary gang called the Graywolves?”

  Bishop scowled. “That I have. Though calling the Graywolves mercenaries is giving them too much credit. They’re more of a pirate gang that hires out from time to time. They’ll work for anyone who pays them, even the Machinists. Heitz won’t let them dock openly at the station, though they’ve got men here on their payroll.”

  “Heitz,” said March. “Is he trustworthy?”

  “Of course not,” said Bishop with a smile. “The man’s a greedy slug. He’s a predictable slug, though, and he hates the Machinists and the Final Consciousness something fierce. Guess he lost some friends on Martel’s World when the Machinists bombed the place, and he won’t let them on the station.” Bishop took another swig of his beer. “If he finds any Machinist sympathizers, his goons from Ronstadt have them killed.”

  “Is that why you haven’t had Heitz removed?” said March.

  “He’s corrupt, but he’s not a traitor,” said Bishop. “Rustbelt Station is in the middle of nowhere, so no one cares what happens here. If I have him killed, the King will appoint a proper governor for Rustbelt Station, and that would be inconvenient. Right now, this place is a honey trap, and we can use it to learn all kinds of secrets about Calaskar’s enemies. Why did you ask about the Graywolves?”

  “On my way here,” said March, “a Graywolf ship attacked me without warning. Drove them off after a few shots.”

  Bishop grunted. “They could have been going pirate.”

  “To steal your load of overpriced prepackaged meals?” said March.

  “Out here, food is sometimes worth more than anything else,” said Bishop. “It could have been a coincidence.”

  “Maybe not,” said March. “You ever hear of a man named Simon Lorre?”

  Bishop’s expression hardened. “I have. He’s a Machinist agent. The Final Consciousness gives him dirty jobs inside the boundaries of the Kingdom from time to time. He’s been here twice, and both times I tried to kill him, but he got out of the trap both times. Lorre has the devil’s own cunning.”

  “He tried to kill me on Antioch Station,” said March.

  “Must have wanted to stop you from rescuing the Vindex twins,” said Bishop.

  “He tried to kill me,” said March, “an hour before I got this assignment from Censor.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. March finished his first beer and opened the second one.

  “Aw, hell,” said Bishop at last.

  “Yeah,” said March.

  “I hope you killed him,” said Bishop.

  “Didn’t,” said March. “If I had known who he was, I would have shot him. As it was, there were too many cameras, and if I had shot him, I’d have gotten arrested by Antioch Station security.” He sighed and took a drink of his second beer. “I think I’d have saved myself a lot of trouble if I had.”

  “He would have had a way out,” said Bishop. “He always does. Have to admire him for it, really. It’s good to see a man think things out in a professional manner. Pity he’s working for the Final Consciousness.”

  “Well, let’s follow his example and think things out,” said March. “The Vindex twins’ ship. You know when it’s coming in?”

  Bishop set down his beer, opened up a laptop on his desk, and started typing. “The Fisher, right? Let’s see…ah, here it is in the flight schedule.”

  March snorted. “A restaurant owner has access to the station’s flight schedule?”

  “It’s amazing what bribes can accomplish when
a man like Heitz is in charge,” said Bishop. “Anyway, the Fisher should be docking at Bay 156 tomorrow at noon, station time.” He leaned back, his chair creaking. “How do you want to play this?”

  March thought for a moment. “The Machinists have already tried to kill me. First at Antioch Station, and then in empty space with that Graywolf patrol ship.”

  “That could have just been a pirate,” said Bishop.

  “True,” said March. “But the ship was waiting for me when the Tiger came out of hyperspace. That’s a hell of a coincidence, and we’re in the wrong business for coincidences. Right now, I figure that that Lady Roanna got her brother away from the Machinists, and they’re running here. Either she or her brother, or maybe both, learned something the Machinists don’t want us to know. So, they sent Lorre to make sure I wouldn’t be there to give the Vindex twins a ride home, and they’ll probably try to kill the twins here.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Bishop. “Unless there’s something we don’t know.”

  “Isn’t there always?” said March. “Let’s pretend we’re Machinist agents.” His left shoulder throbbed as dark memories flickered through his skull, and he pushed them aside. “Simplest way to kill them is to blow up their ship. An Iron Hand wouldn’t care about collateral damage, and the hirelings of the Machinists wouldn’t care either, so long as they get away clean. Think the Graywolves will shoot down the Fisher?”

  Bishop glanced at his laptop screen. “No. They won’t be able to pull it off. The Fisher will exit a hyperspace tunnel too close to the station. This place is a hole, but it does have a lot of firepower. If the Graywolves try anything, Heitz will shoot them down. The Fisher will probably make the station in one piece.”

  “Then the Machinists are going to kill the Vindex twins on the station,” said March.

  “Probably,” said Bishop.

  March gave an irritated shake of his head and finished his second beer. “There are a million ways to kill someone on a space station, even by accident.”

  “Yes,” said Bishop, “though some of them are more practical than others. And given your previous professional experience, my friend, you would have a better chance of sorting out the practical methods from the impractical.”