“Yeah,” said Kohl.
“No,” said Shig. “I’m in charge.”
“Hell no,” said Nate. “I’m the captain.”
“Great,” said Dale. He pointed a finger at them, and by Kohl’s reckoning, the case he carried. “We’re here for what’s owed.” He had a curious lilt to his voice, like he’d been practicing an Irish accent but hadn’t quite nailed it yet. “We get it, everyone goes home.”
“This?” said Kohl, lifting the case.
“No,” said Dale.
“Definitely not,” said Clea. She leaned in to speak to Dale. “This is just how my last partner got it. Right in the back, while fools tried to distract him.” Her accent was true Irish, not a fake lilt anywhere in sight.
Dale sighed, shoulders slumping a little. When he was like that, he looked a little familiar to Kohl. Like he’d seen the man before, but maybe in a different setting. “Clea? I’m not your last partner. We’re not going up against the Devil Raiders, two against twenty. We’re ten sound fighters, girl. We’re up against three men, one of whom is clearly a cripple.”
“Hey,” said Nate.
“That seems fair,” offered Kohl.
Clea nodded. “And they can’t work out who’s in charge. Imbeciles.”
“Hey,” said Kohl.
“Seems fair,” said Nate.
“I’m in charge,” said Shig. “I’m the money.”
Dale and Clea both turned to Shig like auto turrets. Dale spoke first. “You’re the one who owes us ten million coins?”
“What?” said Shig. “Wrong money. Wrong guy.”
“That’s what they all say,” said Clea, unholstering an ugly-looking blaster.
“Ah,” said Nate.
“What?” said Kohl. He turned to Dale and Clea. “Wait. Are you guys from some kind of … what, like a gang?” They nodded in unison. Kohl held up a hand again. “Lemme guess. The Denim Blaster Company.”
Dale and Clea looked at each other. “No,” they both said.
“I thought that was a fair guess,” said Nate. “It’s the clothes, right?”
“Right,” said Kohl. “All the gangs on this fucking planet have stupid names. It’s gonna be something like the Crystal Cobra Clowns or some shit.”
“Lads,” said Dale. He spread his hands. “I feel as if we’re off to a confusing start. First up, we’re not from around here. We’re the Bulldogs, a good, honest Irish gang from Sol. We’re tracking thieves and murderers all.” He pointed at Nate. “This man is Nathan Chevell, captain of the free trader Tyche. He owes us a great deal of money.”
“That true?” said Kohl.
“Technically, my Engineer owes a great deal of money,” said Nate.
“She best pay her debts then,” said Kohl. “How the universe works. Pay your way or get paved over.”
“If we don’t get our coin, we’ll take the ship,” said Clea.
Kohl sighed, leaned in close to Shig, and said, “Any other ships ready to get us off this rock?”
Shig shook his head, looking like he wanted to raise his blaster. That wouldn’t end well. Drawing down on ten Irish mobsters was a sure way to get crisped. Right now they were just talking. Shig said, “No. None that will take two people who work for the Demon Crocodile Company.”
“You’re not supposed to advertise that shit,” said Kohl. “You don’t say you work for the Yak, Shig. That’s the best way to get left on a crust with your balls hanging out to dry.”
“Wait,” said Nate. “You guys are Yakuza?”
“Hey!” said Clea. When they faced her, she said, “We want the money. That’s all.”
“Nah,” said Kohl.
“What?” she said.
“Lemme show your working,” said Kohl. “You get the money, and then you grease us. A kind of message. Like, no one should steal from the Bulldogs.”
“Our employer is Triton—”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Kohl. “Could be the Tooth Fairy. Doesn’t matter. You got to leave a message. So, the only way this ends is with one of our respective crews in smoldering pieces.” He frowned, looking at the case he held. “But what if I could buy a little extra?”
“It might help,” agreed Dale, eyes bright as he looked at the case. “What’s in there?”
“Nothing,” said Shig.
“Kohl? What are you doing?” said Nate.
“Drugs,” said Kohl. “Called Mithril.” He shrugged. “I don’t know who names this stuff. Don’t much care either. Do we have an understanding?”
Dale looked at Clea, who nodded. Good enough. Kohl tossed the case across the bar, where Dale snared it, handing it to a flunky at his side. “Check it,” said Dale.
“Uh,” said the flunky. He held it up, exposing the underside, where the grenade Kohl had epoxied there for situations such as this blinked angry red lights. What happened next all appeared to occur at about the same time and speed.
First, Clea and Dale dived for cover. With Clea, it was a mad run into the women’s restroom. With Dale, he grabbed a flunky near him, twisting the man around as a human shield and diving behind a table.
Second, but close enough to happen within a heartbeat of Dale’s body impacting the ground, the flunky he’d handed the case to threw it. Smart money would have been to throw it back at Kohl, but the Bulldogs didn’t seem to use top shelf help. The case flew across the room towards the windows, which would have been sensible in any bar that wasn’t designed for drunk spacers. Normal windows might have shattered, but when people got in fights in your bar every day of the week, you got something a little stronger. Kohl knew this without having to check. The case bounced off the windows, landing in between three flunkies.
Third, because while Kohl wanted to watch what would happen, he also wanted to avoid dying for as long as possible. He grabbed Shig and Nate, knocking them behind a low wall that separated what might have been a dance floor in a different time and place from the main bar. The three of them hit the faux wood floor with similar ooomph noises. Kohl noticed a piece of gum next to dust bunnies and the tacky shine of spilled beer. Weird what you notice at a time like this.
Fourth, the grenade went off. When Kohl had stuck it to the case earlier that day, it had been as an insurance. The grenade was slaved to his vitals, providing two use cases. If he stopped breathing or the case got too far away from him, it would go off. Kohl had triggered use case number two by throwing the case with the grenade away from him. The grenade was a standard antipersonnel type, a ball of fire and shrapnel in an easy-to-carry package. When it went off, it distributed the fire and shrapnel around the bar.
The explosion set humans alight, shredded furniture, and blew everything to hell. The windows — strengthened against bar fights, but not against explosives — sprayed onto the street in a shower of crystal laminate. Kohl could hear screaming, did a quick check, and was satisfied that it wasn’t him or his two companions. He pushed himself to his feet, covering his mouth with his arm, and drew his blaster. He picked a target out in the haze of smoke and fire, squeezed off a shot of blue-white plasma, and blew one Bulldog into burning chum. Another man was a wailing pyre, so Kohl shot him out of pity.
The case. Where’s the case? It was possible that the case had been blown up, but Kohl figured that metal container as being strong enough for a little rough and tumble. He poked through the wreckage, trying to find any sign of it. Twisted metal. Charred ceramic. He came up empty. Fuckitall. Kohl didn’t figure Kaz as a forgiving type, and the codes for Mithril was a thing that would be worth a bunch.
There was a fzzzzt of a blaster, and Kohl whirled. Nate stood behind him, weapon leveled at what used to be a person before Nate had blown him into twenty pieces of barbecue. “Thanks,” said Kohl.
“Don’t mention it,” said Nate.
“Okay,” said Kohl. “Need the case.”
There was a scrabble of rubble, drawing their eyes. Kohl caught what he swore was Clea on the heels of Dale, the door swinging closed behind them. Wha
t’s worse is he caught sight of the case, clutched in Clea’s hands. He pointed his blaster at the door, firing. What was left of the wood exploded into fire, but he hit nothing made of meat.
There was a groan from his right, and he turned to see the emergency shutters over the bar rattle. What was her name? Joni? That’s it. He looked at the doorway, thought about the case and the two Bulldogs with it, then said, “Fuck it.” He moved to the shutters. The grenade had damaged them enough he could wrestle them open. He caught sight of green pigtails, and hoisted the bartender out from her nest of broken bottles and cheap liquor.
“You fucker,” she said.
“Name’s October Kohl,” he said. “You remember?”
“I’ll remember you as a huge asshole,” she said, and passed out.
“Suave,” said Nate. “You’re a real ladies man.”
“Flyboy,” said Kohl. “I figure you owe me one.”
Nate considered that while he stamped out a fire that was getting close to his boot. “I figure that might be true,” he admitted. “On account of you killing the folks that wanted to kill me.”
“On account of that, right,” said Kohl, adjusting Joni’s weight in his arms. “So here’s what we’ll do.”
• • •
The plan was simple. Offload Joni to Nate, let the captain wrestle her to his ship where a medbay waited. Get Shig to go along with them both. Once there, scramble the starship so the Bulldogs couldn’t steal their exit plan from this miserable rock. Meantime, Kohl would go looking for the Bulldogs, and when he found them, he’d get his case back.
Nate said he’d join Kohl once the others were secure aboard the Tyche. As far as backup went, it could be worse. It could stand to be a lot better, too.
The plan was solid, though. Kohl knew Trypso. He knew all the corners and crannies folk might try and hide themselves. The Yak would be on the lookout for the Bulldogs. The Republic would be a pain in the ass to everyone, but that was useful in this kind of situation. All up, Kohl figured he had at least a ten percent chance of getting the case back and making it out alive. Maybe twelve percent. Not great odds, but it’s the hand he’d been dealt.
CHAPTER TWO
THE AUTO TAXI whined as it took off. The interior was a mishmash of ancient and modern graffiti, gang slogans mixing with advertisements for cheap hookers. Kohl was angling for a downtown trip, but when his eyes lit on that ad for cheap hookers, he frowned.
Dale Barrow. He knew that guy from somewhere. Fake Irish accent or no, his face was familiar. And Kohl had an idea of where that might be from. He stabbed a thick finger at the auto taxi’s control console, requesting a different location to downtown. This time, he was heading for the Sugar Bloom. The Bloom was a brothel, one that Kohl knew well enough. It was higher class than most, the kind of place they offered you a cup of tea while you waited. The muscle was all well-hidden, invisibility designed to keep the clientele at ease, because nothing gave the average science nerd a limp dick like seeing a bunch of muscled goons with automatic weapons.
Last time Kohl had been to the Bloom, it had been after a rush of luck at the tables. Coin had flowed off a job like water in a river, and when the coin hit the tables, it had multiplied like a locust invasion. He’d swaggered out of the casino with nothing to spend his money on, and when Kohl found himself in a situation like that, he diverted his funds into quality entertainments.
A significant portion of his winnings on the table bought him a night in a private room, at least three — he couldn’t quite remember on account of the liquor — perfumed women with him. But before that? He’d made his way inside by way of a front desk. At that front desk? That motherfucker Dale Barrow.
Sure, sure. He didn’t call himself Dale Barrow. He called himself Bevan, and Kohl hadn’t cared whether that was a first name or a surname. He was going to the Bloom, and he would see if Bevan had turned up for work.
• • •
Auto taxi forgotten, Kohl looked up at the Bloom. The exterior was clad to look like real wood paneling, and at the prices these fuckers charged, it might well be. He walked up stone steps to the main door, and found it locked against him. If that didn’t suggest Bevan was at work today, he didn’t know what did. Kohl took a step back, then kicked the door open.
At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. The door creaked a little, but less than Kohl’s knees did. He winced, unholstered his blaster, and tapped on the door with the muzzle. “Dale! Or Bevan! Or whatever you’re calling yourself. Come out here. I want to talk.”
“Nothing to talk about,” said Dale/Bevan’s voice from a speaker. Kohl couldn’t place where the speaker was, and he was getting bored of this, so he stepped back again. Pointing his blaster at the door, he covered his eyes with his arm and fired. Taking a peak, he saw the scorch against the door, the center of it glowing, but no penetration.
“Jesus,” said Kohl. “What the hell is that door made from?”
“Polycarbonate graphene laminate over ceramicrete underlay,” said Dale/Bevan’s voice from the speaker. “Like a starship hull.”
“Well, shit,” said Kohl. That’ll slow me down some.
“You owe the Bulldogs,” said Dale/Bevan. “And we always collect.”
“Sure,” said Kohl, looking for another way in. Why aren’t the rest of the Bulldogs swarming all over me? Maybe they really were an off-world operation, with Dale/Bevan as their local coordinator. A window could be a good way in. He pointed the blaster up, taking a shot at what looked like a pane of glass. The glass exploded in a shower of burning crystals, revealing what looked suspiciously like a polycarbonate graphene laminate over ceramicrete underneath it. Last time Kohl had been here, he hadn’t looked out the windows, because there hadn’t been windows to look out of. It wasn’t why he’d been there, so he hadn’t figured on escalating a complaint to management. “Dale? Or is it Bevan?”
“Ain’t no Dale or Bevan here,” said Dale/Bevan, the fake Irish gone from his accent.
“Okay, Dale. I figure you’ve got to come out sometime. And I’ll be waiting.”
“What if you weren’t there?” said Dale/Bevan.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Kohl.
In a situation like this, he’d get itchy shoulder blades that made him turn around, but something inside Kohl was misfiring. It might have been on account of the explosion at the bar, or that today had just been turned to eleven on the wierd-shit-o’meter. Whatever the reason, he was caught flat footed when a voice barked at him from behind, “DROP THE BLASTER, CITIZEN.”
Kohl sighed, letting the blaster drop to the ceramicrete at his feet. “Okay,” he said.
“TURN AROUND,” said the voice, which sounded like it was coming from a helmet with a built-in public address system better used for stadiums. Kohl winced, turning around. Sure as stars gave off radiation, there were three black armored Republic troopers on the street. Kohl gave a quick check. No air car. What, had these fools been waiting at a local donut shop? Nope, no donut shop either. Maybe they liked the Bloom too. No harm in that, was there?
“So,” said Kohl. “You guys come here often? Do you get a three for one deal or something?”
The black visor of the trooper who’d addressed him moved fractionally towards the building behind Kohl. “A COMEDIAN,” said the trooper.
Kohl was about to say something else like, Hell no, just a citizen going about his business, but that wouldn’t wash what with the blaster he’d been carrying. “Uh,” he said, and then jerked and stuttered like a marionette piloted by seven different angry people as one trooper fired a taser. The barbs hit Kohl in the neck, and his world turned to white, the taste of ozone and charcoal in his mouth. He didn’t even feel the ceramicrete hit him as he fell to the ground.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN KOHL CAME to, he was concerned for several reasons.
First up, he was in a small cell. He’d been in cells before, but this was the first time he’d been in a cell lacking a camera. The f
ine Republic had picked him up off the street, and they were known for doing things a little more by the book. No cameras? That meant serious business. Hell, there wasn’t even a mirror against a wall for folk to hide behind. No, this would be close, and it would be personal. They didn’t want what they would do to Kohl becoming a matter of public record. Possibly they didn’t want Kohl to make it out of this at all. So, yeah, that was bad.
Second, arrayed around him were a variety of instruments on tables and in racks. The functions of some of them were a mystery to Kohl, but others were familiar. There was a collection of cables connected to a fuel cell, grungy and brown. The console next to it had the dials set to zero, but that wouldn’t last. It was an electroshock machine, and would be uncomfortable much past level one or two. Hitting ten, the maximum on the console, would make an atheist like Kohl pray to any god you had handy. Next to the electroshock machine were various cutting implements, saws next to blades, sharing shelf space with awls. On a different rack some psychopath had stored an Engineer’s rig, which could be used for cutting, welding, and so on, but metals and ceramics. Against human tissue, it wouldn’t be pretty. Torture looked to be the name of the game, and torture wasn’t fun.
Third, and moving higher up the priority schedule, was that Kohl was chained to his chair. The chair was old, rusty metal and hard plastic. He gave the chair an experimental rock, and found it resisted. So, it was bolted to the ground, he was chained to it, and as a collective whole, they weren’t going anywhere. Not unless the room went with them, or someone unchained Kohl. On top of all that, the rusty metal and hard plastic chafed.
Chafing brought him to the fourth, and most alarming, item on his list. Kohl was naked. He’d done a job once where he’d had to kill a man in a sauna. The job wasn’t to kill that particular man — that had been accidental collateral damage — but the fact remained that he’d strangled another human with a towel. Removing his towel to use as a weapon left him buck-ass naked. It had stayed with him as one of those experiences he didn’t want to repeat. And here he was, buck-ass naked, chained to a chair.
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