Depths of Blue

by Lisa MacTague

  Things didn’t feel quite right, though. They’d been expecting her, so she was in the right place. The big picture was what she’d expected, but the details were all wrong and they were getting stranger. Now the term Orthodoxans was giving her pause. She’d assumed it was a quaint little name for one of the planet’s many warring tribes, but what if it was more than that. In her experience, and from what she remembered about galactic history, people with orthodox points of view were rarely the kind of people she wanted to have a drink with. She would have to keep her wits about her on this run. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone into a job without all the facts she needed and it wouldn’t be the last, not in her line of work.

  Four men watched her from the outpost as she drove through; their faces could have been carved in stone. One leaned over and spat to the side as she passed. They carried ugly, squat weapons, fairly primitive compressed-gas projectile weapons unless she was mistaken. If she could see four guards, it was likely that there were at least that many more inside the long, low building at the back of the compound. It had the look of every barracks she’d ever seen. The front of the outpost’s compound was the most heavily fortified, though the back and sides were also well defended, which was confusing. It looked like the outpost was facing the wrong way, back into its own territory. Were the natives that afraid of their own people? If the area had been recently annexed from another tribe, it would make sense that they’d experience frequent uprisings. This “Colonel” Hutchinson would need more specialized weaponry if he was fighting his own people. Torrin made a mental note to be ready to discuss crowd control equipment.

  As soon as they cleared the small compound, Yonkman sped up further. He was trying to prove something, but she kept pace easily. The truck really was a pile, and she suspected that its top speed was maybe half of what her bike was capable of.

  The dirt road leading through the small compound soon met up with a paved road. Both sides of the road were cleared of the majestic trees that she had ridden through on her way to the rendezvous point. The road made for an easier ride, but she’d enjoyed her trip through the cathedral-like silence of the forest’s massive trees.

  They climbed higher into the hills and Yonkman was forced to slow down to negotiate the increasing number of switchbacks. There were low, tree-covered mountains in the distance. The area was isolated. They passed through the ghostly remains of a modest village at a crossroads. At one time it had been moderately prosperous, but it was now abandoned, doors sagging on hinges. No one had inhabited it for many years. So far she wasn’t very impressed by the mysterious Colonel Hutchinson’s stewardship over his lands.

  They navigated the road for another fifteen minutes, winding up the side of one of the mountains she’d glimpsed, before negotiating not one but three layers of security and checkpoints. The third layer was the most impressive: a wall three-meters tall built out of blue-streaked native stone and topped by an electrified, barbed-wire fence. A boxy, unwieldy-looking home crouched beyond the wall. Multiple levels were piled atop each other, lending it an unfinished look, like someone had started building and had added levels and wings until they got bored and walked off.

  After she and Yonkman were waved through by the guards at the wall. Torrin followed him up a winding road to the house’s front. Up close, though ungainly, the house towered oppressively over them. Directly to the rear of the building, the mountain continued up, cupping the house between two tree-covered slopes. To the left of the house was a series of much smaller buildings that looked like they’d been erected after the rest of the structure. Also built of the area’s native stone, the sheds were surrounded by more electrified barbed-wire fencing. She wondered who Hutchinson had imprisoned there. She could see at least three guards patrolling the area.

  Yonkman pulled to a stop in front of the house’s wide steps and hopped out of the truck. She swung in next to him. Two guards in plain uniforms stood at attention on either side of double doors. One of them came down the stairs to greet them and almost tripped over the steps when he got a good look at her. The major spoke a few words to him. The guard shot her a sharp, disapproving look, then hurried back up the steps and into the house.

  “Leave your bike here. One of the men will take it to the garage.”

  “I’d rather handle that if you don’t mind,” she replied. “From what I’ve seen of your technology, I’m not sure that any of your men could handle her.”

  “I’m sure they’ll manage,” Yonkman said shortly, nostrils flared in irritation. “Let’s get you inside.” He stomped up the stairs.

  Left with no choice but to comply, Torrin shrugged and accompanied him up the steps. The remaining guard snatched the door open for the major, who swept through without any acknowledgment. Torrin nodded at the man, who did his best to pretend she didn’t exist, though miniscule beads of sweat popped out along his brow at her presence.

  The house’s interior did not match its exterior. Inside, one room flowed into the other, each outdoing the one before in ridiculous extravagance. Gilt covered every surface even remotely appropriate for ornamentation. The furniture she saw was either plush and overstuffed or elaborately carved and overdone. Overall, the effect was one of oppressive self-indulgence.

  Yonkman led her deeper and deeper into the edifice. For the size of the place, there were very few people about; the only ones she saw were more men in military garb scurrying here and there on one errand or another. The major took her around one final corner and stopped in front of a pair of elaborately carved doors that dwarfed him, more than half again as tall as he was. He opened them into an echoing sitting room where overstuffed chairs and settees were arranged in various configurations. A massive mural—apparently a scene from a religion she didn’t recognize—dominated one wall. Her glance gave her the vague impression of large, blocky figures in a riot of colors. The painting topped the wainscoting that sheathed the walls halfway up to the high, vaulted ceilings.

  “Make yourself comfortable. The colonel’s a busy man, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” He pointed across the room. “There’s a bar over there. Help yourself to anything you want to.” With one last sneer, he left.

  Torrin relaxed slightly without Yonkman’s suffocating presence. His vacillation between a disgust that ranged on open hostility and barely concealed lust made her very uncomfortable. She reminded herself that she stood to make a tidy profit here and wondered what Colonel Hutchinson would be like. She wandered over to the long bar and rummaged through it until she found a tumbler. After opening a few bottles, she settled on one that smelled a bit like whiskey but was a shade of blue that she’d never seen before in the beverage. All of the other alcohol that she checked was either clear or blue. She poured a finger’s worth into the glass, took an exploratory sip and almost choked. It tasted like whiskey all right but was extremely strong. She was known to enjoy her libations, but this one burned fiercely all the way down. She poured a finger’s worth of water from a pitcher on the bar into the tumbler to dilute her drink. She would have to nurse the drink; it wouldn’t do to enter into negotiations while drunk.

  She pressed two fingertips behind her right ear. “Tien, do you read?” There was no response from the ship’s AI, not even static. Torrin wandered over to the room’s far side and gazed out French doors onto the slope of the mountain behind the house. The mountain’s broken peak jutted out of the foliage and clawed at the intensely blue sky.

  “Are you there?” She activated the subdermal transmitter with her fingertips again. This time she received some static. There must be some sort of communications dampening field over the place, probably built into the walls. It had to be some kind of electromagnetic interference or it wouldn’t have cut her communications with the ship. She would have to be some distance out from the building to be able to reach Tien.

  Being cut off from her ship made her a little nervous. Once she concluded the deal, she would ditch this place so quickly they wouldn’t even see a vapor tr
ail.

  Glancing at the clock in the corner of the room, she settled herself into one of the overstuffed chairs. Or attempted to. The monstrosity had so much cushioning that she felt like it was trying to absorb her. She stood quickly. She tried a few other chairs to the same effect.

  “Screw it,” she proclaimed to the empty room. She strode back over to the bar and hopped up to perch on its edge. She set one foot on the seat of the barstool in front of her, then brought her ankle up and crossed it over her knee. With her glass on the bar next to her, she drummed her fingers on the high gloss surface. She hated waiting without anything to do, but there was nothing to do for it except settle in until Hutchinson graced her with his presence.

  The mural pulled her attention, with its bright colors and large figures and she let her gaze travel around it. Noble-looking men gazed across a bloody field at a group of distorted beings. They looked like they might have been humans at one time. Hovering between both groups a figure with massive white wings and a somber mien pointed accusingly at the dark, twisted humanoids. The painting seemed somehow uneven, as if it had been completed by a number of different people, none of whom had been very well trained. The figures, though impressive, were somehow childish, their proportions off slightly, though in different ways. As she looked at it, she realized that there were absolutely no women among the colorful, noble-looking figures. At first she thought there were no women included in the mural at all, but when she looked more closely at the distorted figures, she realized that some among them were female. Those had been represented the most grotesquely of all. Torrin shivered a bit. Whoever the artists had been, they didn’t seem to have much regard for women.

  Some fifteen minutes had passed when the door opened and a man entered. He carried a large box, which he trundled over beside a table. After placing it on the floor, he knelt and started taking items out of it and placing them on the table. He was wearing a military uniform like the other men she’d seen so far. It wasn’t as ornate as Yonkman’s, which meant he was a lower rank than the major. Much lower judging by the almost complete lack of ornamentation. The man continued his work, his back mostly to her.

  She hopped down from the bar, and he started, completely surprised to discover that he wasn’t alone in the room. He looked back, shock crossing his face, and almost fell over. He managed to keep from toppling completely, barely getting a hand down in time before he hit the floor.

  “Who let you in here?” he asked, staring at her. “You know you’re not supposed to be out during the day.”

  “Excuse me?” Who was he to tell her when she could or couldn’t be out? She’d been invited here.

  He stood up and strode over to where she stood by the bar. Like the other Haefonians she’d seen so far, he was short, barely coming up to her chin. He pushed his head out from his shoulders at her, his face drawn down into a forbidding scowl. Torrin’s lips twitched when she figured out what he’d reminded her of. It was a picture that she’d seen in a flea-dip bar on some backwater planet. A group of dogs playing some kind of card game. She hadn’t been familiar with the game and she’d never seen an Earth dog in the flesh, but she’d seen a couple of pictures. The bulldog—that was the one he looked like.

  “Are you laughing at me?” The man’s voice was soft and cold in anger. He grabbed her upper arms. “You know better than that. It’s not your place to laugh at me.” He flexed his fingers with every other word. He wasn’t tall, but he was strong enough that she swayed in his grasp.

  That was it. So far she’d held back out of respect for another world’s customs, but she wasn’t going to let some backwater asshole with little-shit syndrome manhandle her.

  “You need to let go of me.” She gritted her teeth in what she hoped he’d take for a smile. If he let go of her, maybe she could avoid offending her host. “Now.” Her voice was rimed in frost. Menace prickled from her tone, and he ignored it at his own peril.

  “You don’t tell me what to do.”

  She smiled, a real one this time. The Haefonian looked at her askance for a moment before yelling in shock as Torrin brought her arms around, striking him on the inside of his forearms with enough force to knock his hands away. She stomped on his instep, and he howled, hopping on one foot.

  “Fucking bitch!” He drew back one arm and swung at her, fist balled. She slid back out of his reach and caught his hand on the backswing, using the momentum back to haul him off his feet. He landed on his back with a muffled yelp as the air was expelled from his lungs.

  “Stay down,” Torrin told him. So far he’d avoided serious injury; all she’d damaged was his pride. From the way his face twisted in fury, she doubted he would take her advice. With difficulty, he got his legs under him. Air wheezed in and out of his lungs as he tried to catch his breath. She waited a moment longer, hoping he’d use his head and stop pushing the issue. He moved to lever himself off the floor, and she struck, raising her foot and bringing it down on the back of his hand. Bones cracked and the man screamed, a high, thin wail that trailed off into sobs. He rocked back onto his rump and clasped the abused hand to his chest, rocking from side to side against the pain.

  “What in Johvah’s name is going on here?” a voice roared from the doorway. Crossing the floor toward her was a man taller than any she had yet seen on the planet. He had to be almost her height. If he was shorter, it wasn’t by more than a few centimeters. Though older, he had a powerful physique and a well-coiffed head of platinum blond hair. The man surveyed her handiwork and grimaced. Yonkman trotted at his side, face pale as he took in the scene.

  “This man attacked me,” Torrin said. She turned to face him, one shoulder in front. If he was going to take a swing at her for defending herself, she wanted to lessen the profile he had to strike at. “Is this how you treat potential business partners?”

  “Miss Ivanov,” the tall man said. He grinned and she could almost hear a spangle as his incredibly white teeth caught the light. “My apologies for the welcome you’ve received. I don’t know what this man’s problem was, but you have my assurances that he will be dealt with harshly.” He extended a hand to her. “I’m Colonel Philemond Hutchinson, but please, call me Phil.”

  Torrin shook the proffered hand. She kept her face impassive as he employed a vise-like grip. The show of strength was juvenile, and she refused to rise to his bait by wincing.

  “Yonkman!” The major saluted in the face of the colonel’s fury, his own face still bloodless. “Get this piece of crap out of here. Take him to the stockade. I’ll deal with him later.”

  “Yes, sir!” Yonkman saluted again, then grabbed the still-sobbing man and dragged him forcefully from the room.

  “Let’s get down to business, shall we?” He took her elbow and led her over to the chairs in one corner and waited while she seated herself. Hutchinson took the chair next to hers and watched her intently. “I understand you’re the one to talk to so we may procure some products that would be otherwise unattainable.”

  Torrin laughed. His attempt at subtlety was more confusing than smooth. “Colonel, I’m a smuggler. You don’t have to sugarcoat your request. Let me know what you need, and I’ll tell you what it’ll cost you.”

  “Very well. To start out with, we need to upgrade our communications systems, but we don’t have the option of satellites. They were some of the first targets the Devonites took out. At this point, we’re both reduced to radio signals, and while we’ve thoroughly compromised their radio communications, I’m afraid they’ve done the same to ours.”

  “Took out?” Torrin asked. “Your enemies have some pretty heavy weaponry at their disposal then?”

  “They used to. We’ve ground down their heaviest weapons over the years, but unfortunately they’ve done the same to ours.”

  “How long has this dispute been going on anyway?”

  The colonel threw his head back and laughed, his voice rolling richly around the room. “Dispute? That’s one way of putting it.” He chuckled again. “Mis
s Ivanov, we have been engaged in a civil war with our Devonite brethren for over three decades now. Their aggression has been held at bay for thirty years through the mighty struggle of the Orthodoxan army. We need to break the stalemate and stem the flood of our men’s blood.”

  Torrin sat back and stared at him, completely flummoxed. Tien hadn’t mentioned anything like that in her rundown on the planet. Clearly, the information in her databanks was woefully incomplete. Come to think of it, the contract hadn’t mentioned anything about a civil war either. From what her informant had said, she was going to be running guns for one side on some kind of tribal border dispute. This sounded much bigger than that. Bigger might actually be to her advantage. Mentally, she added a few zeroes to the amount she’d planned to charge for the job. The League picket made sense now.

  “I see,” she said, thinking quickly. “Tell me what you’re thinking, then.”

  “As I said, our first priority is in communications. After that—” He was cut off as doors on the other side of the room were flung open and a young Orthodoxan soldier darted into the room.

  “Sir!” The soldier saluted with a fist over his heart and a half bow at the waist.

  The colonel surged out of his chair. “I left orders not to be disturbed, Private!” he hissed, his face in the young soldier’s.

  “My apologies, sir.” He remained half bowed, eyes cast down. “Your aide thought you ought to know that the Devonites have launched an attack and have captured supply routes behind our lines.”

  Hutchinson drew back, eyes ablaze. “Which ones?” he barked.

  “Routes seventy-nine and ninety-two, sir.”

  The colonel turned back to Torrin.

  “Miss Ivanov, I’m afraid I need to attend to this. Supply routes are my main priority. Without them our brave men will be ill-equipped for the rigors of war.”