by David Ryker
Maggott felt his hands curling into fists. Next thing he knew, Ulysses and Ben were on either side of the group.
“Now, that ain’t right,” Ulysses said. “Y’all saw the video. Them boys was falsely convicted.”
One of the group, a tall man with wide shoulders, turned to him with a look of outright disgust and pushed his shoulder.
“You’re a fucking gang leader from the slums!” he cried. “Why are you not behind bars right now?”
So much fer bein’ celebrities, Maggott thought with a sigh. Fame was a fickle thing.
Ulysses shook his head as if apologizing for something, which Maggott knew couldn’t mean anything good. And in his current mood, he was glad for it, because he knew where it was going.
“I’m sorry, boys,” his friend said. “But just r’member, y’all started it when yuh threw that bottle in the presence of a lady.”
With that, he wrapped an arm around the neck of the man nearest him and used it to pull himself off the floor. He sent a roundhouse kick sailing into the head of the next man, then completed the movement by wrestling the other to the floor, where his face connected with the polished hardwood.
The rest of the pack, some ten men, rushed toward Ulysses and Ben, who looked like he was trying to find the nearest exit, and Maggott let the battle fever take him. Combat was easy for him; it always had been. There were no moral dilemmas in a good old-fashioned fistfight.
He saw Peg out of the corner of his eye as she moved toward the wall of the alcove. She had no illusions about what was coming, and she knew to get out of the way and let it happen.
Maggott started with the two closest to him, grabbing each around the neck with one of his huge hands and driving them into each other. Their skulls connected with a thock that was audible even over the thumping music, and they dropped to the floor in a heap.
“Right!” he shouted. “Who’s next?”
The rest of them rushed him en masse. Ulysses jumped over the back three and tackled them while Ben gamely took a swing at the guy closest to him. It landed well, but he was tagged in turn by a punch from his blind side, which sent him staggering.
That just fueled Maggott’s anger, and he started throwing elbows and haymakers at anyone in his vicinity. Men were dropping all around him, but he was also taking shots from them, including a couple to his kidneys that made him stumble. When he looked up again, he could see the entire nightclub was watching them, most of them egging on his opponents.
“Fucking Jarheads!” someone yelled.
“Criminals!” another one cried. “Lock ‘em up!”
Suddenly Ulysses appeared at his side. He had a couple of angry bruises rising on his face but seemed otherwise all right, and he was pulling an obviously addled Ben along behind him. The remainder of the crowd was now advancing on them.
“Looks like we’re all in on this,” said Ulysses.
Maggott snarled as he picked up Ben and dropped him at Peg’s side. “Watch him,” he said. “I got work t’do.”
He cocked a meaty fist, but it never got to connect with its target because an instant later, he and Ulysses were both on the floor, writhing in agony, their bodies glowing blue.
Tiffany Tranh’s withering look when she arrived at their holding cell was enough to make Maggott avert his eyes and look at the floor. She was flanked by a uniformed cop and Ben, who was sporting a fairly impressive shiner under his left eye.
“Your bail has been paid,” she said sternly as the door to their cell slid open. Then she turned to Ulysses. “This will not help your pending lawsuit, Mr. Coker.”
He grinned. “Whatever. I ain’t never had anythin’ before, and I expect I’d just blow whatever I won anyway.”
“Mr. Maggott,” she said. “Mr. Quinn would like a word with you when you get back to your quarters.”
Maggott groaned inwardly. “Don’t I know it.”
The cop nodded and the four of them headed for the exit to the holding area and out into the lobby of the police station where they’d been transported after they were shocked by The Streetcar’s security guards.
“How ‘bout the frat boys?” asked Ulysses. “Any o’ them end up in here?”
“What do you think?” said Ben. “I was worried that this might happen. People are already coming up with conspiracy theories about you guys. Saying that you kidnapped Chelsea and brainwashed her.”
Maggott didn’t care about that shit. He turned to Tiffany.
“Did ye happen to see my wife, Ms. Tranh?”
“She asked that you contact her when you got out, but that was all.”
He scowled. “Those bastards at the bar fooked up my chance to talk to her. And fer what?”
“Hey, fuck all o’ them, big guy,” Ulysses growled. “They dunno nothin’ about nothin.’ Far as I’m concerned, they can all go piss up a rope. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ fer anybody ever again.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Ben. “Everything you’ve been through, and this is the thanks you get for it? Not much of an incentive to do any more, is there?”
They reached Tiffany’s luxury hovercraft and climbed in. The night sky above was already starting to show the first reddish tinge of the coming sunrise.
“How ‘bout you, Ms. Tranh?” Maggott sighed. “Ye got any advice fer us?”
She surprised him by looking him in the eye. He expected more lecturing, but she seemed to be almost sympathetic.
“My only advice is to listen to our mutual friend,” she said, meaning King. “I’ve found that he has exceptional insight, and that he’s right far more often than not.”
Maggott heaved a sigh. It wasn’t the advice he was looking for, but it might just be the advice they all needed.
20
Ulysses held up a hand the second he walked through the door of Quinn’s suite.
“I get it, man,” he drawled. “Last night wasn’t cool. Lesson learned.”
Quinn gave him a cool glare. He’d already read Maggott the riot act, as evidenced by the big man’s silence and sheepish look as he sat on the sofa, and was ready to do the same to Ulysses, whether he wanted it or not.
“Like I said to Maggott, that was a stupid risk. I get it, you wanted to go out and have some fun, but you shouldn’t have engaged with those men. Just walk away.”
Ulysses flopped down into the armchair next to the sofa and crossed his legs. His glanced over at Maggott, who continued to stare at the floor.
“I ain’t gonna sit here and be lectured, Quinn.”
“Your actions last night have already had consequences! There are people all over the network today calling the Jarheads thugs and demanding the government order an investigation into what really happened on Oberon One!”
“Yeah, an’ next week they’ll be on ‘bout sump’n else.” Ulysses rolled his eyes. “I told you, dude, I get it. Move on.”
“You don’t give me orders!” Quinn flared.
An instant later, Ulysses was on his feet. He moved so fast that Quinn was barely able to keep from flinching backward.
“An’ you don’t give me orders, y’leatherneck motherfucker!” he barked. “I don’t gotta be here, Quinn! I coulda dumped yer sorry asses back in San Antonio and just gone back to my old life, but I didn’t, did I?” He dropped back into his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Maybe I shoulda. This shit ain’t what I signed up for. And why the fuck would I wanna go back to that shithole, anyway? I could take off right now an’ disappear, ain’t none o’ yuh gonna find me.”
Quinn felt his anger threatening to overtake him, and it was alarming. It wasn’t the insubordination—Ulysses was right, he didn’t answer to Quinn—but the sheer unfairness of the situation. These two men didn’t deserve to be vilified for getting in a bar fight, especially when one of them was attacked right next to his ex-wife (Quinn was still trying to process Peg’s reappearance in their lives) and it was ten against three. But this wasn’t prison, and they had a spotlight on them now. One they didn
’t deserve, but one that was there nonetheless.
Circumstances were beyond his control, and that always made Quinn angry.
“Maybe that’s what you should do, then,” he said coldly. “Why are you still here, Coker?”
The hurt on Ulysses’ face was something Quinn had never seen before, and it startled him. The man always seemed to be either easygoing or angry.
“I thought I was part o’ yer stupid little team,” he said. “Guess I was wrong, huh?”
Shit, Quinn thought. How did I let things get to this point?
“Look, man—” he began, but Ulysses cut him off.
“Y’know what, Quinn?” he said, rising from his chair and heading for the door. “Yer right. What the hell am I doin’ here? I don’t owe nobody nothin’ and I owe Drake even less than that. I’m outta here.”
That was enough to break Maggott out of his funk. “Yuir a wanted man, Ulysses,” he warned. “They’ll come after ye.”
“Pft,” Ulysses scoffed. “I’ll be back with m’boys by sundown, dude. Dontcha worry ‘bout me.”
“Wait!” Quinn called. This was going south quickly. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by this. You know you’re part of this team.”
Ulysses stopped in the doorway and let out a long sigh.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “But what I said was the gospel, man. I don’t owe nobody. Drake’s got hunnerds o’ thousands o’ military people who can do this mission. It don’t need to be us, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me. Y’all can make up yer own minds, but I done my part. Good luck with yers.”
With that he walked into the hallway and the door slid shut behind him.
“Fooking ‘ell,” Maggott moaned.
Quinn ran a hand through his hair, which was longer now than it had been in ten years. This whole thing was quickly heading toward the point of no return.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “My thoughts exactly.”
Then a thought popped into his head, and suddenly his mood was on its way back up again.
“Where’s Coker?” Drake demanded as he, Oscar Bloom and Frank King walked into the meeting room, a specially designed chamber in a sub-basement of the UFT government building.
“He’s under the weather,” said Quinn. “Now let’s get down to business.”
“Hold up,” said Drake. “That stunt last night caused a lot of trouble. I was on the commlink with my counterparts from Indus and the Allied States for an hour this morning trying to calm them down and convince them that the situation is under control. This needs to be addressed.”
He turned to Maggott, who, along with the others, was sitting on one side of a long conference table.
“As for you, Sergeant,” he began, but Maggott’s snarl stopped him mid-sentence.
“I answer to Quinn, arsehole,” the big man growled. “So keep it to yuirself.”
Quinn felt a swell of pride. He could berate the Jarheads all he wanted, but anyone else who decided to better be ready for a fight, especially these days.
Drake looked at King, who shrugged.
“I’m not going to countermand Captain Quinn,” he said simply. “You should get that through your head as soon as possible. The people on that side of the table are the only ones in this room I trust.”
Drake and Bloom frowned as they took their seats at the table. On the other side were Quinn, Bishop, Maggott, Schuster, Chelsea, Gloom, Ben, and now King. Quinn couldn’t help but smirk at the lopsided odds if it came down to an argument.
He caught Bloom and Chelsea exchanging a look that made him wonder how hard this must be for her, and that made him think about their talk last night, which made him think about the future and what might be.
But now wasn’t the time for woolgathering.
“Oscar, we need you to contact Kergan on Oberon One,” he said without preamble.
The look on Bloom’s face told Quinn very clearly that he didn’t appreciate being told what to do, so Quinn just continued to stare at the man. Bloom glanced over at Drake, obviously looking for help.
“Answer the man, for Christ’s sake,” Drake said testily. “The clock is ticking.”
“What for?” asked Bloom. “What am I supposed to talk to him about?”
“We’re trying to throw him off the trail,” said Quinn. “And we’re going to use last night as the base for the deception.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Drake demanded.
“Network traffic has been anti-Jarhead all morning,” said Ben. “And you can bet Kergan and Toomey are monitoring all of it. If we can convince them that the government doesn’t believe us, they won’t expect an attack.”
Drake and Bloom exchanged a glance.
“That’s so crazy it might work,” Drake muttered.
Quinn saw a grin spread across King’s face. “That seems to be the calling card of my new friends here.”
“The less they expect an assault, the better the odds that it’ll succeed,” said Quinn. “It may even delay their work on the wormhole generator. We can’t count on it, obviously, but it’s possible, and we need to work every potential advantage we can.”
“Fine,” said Bloom. “So what do I use as a pretense for calling? I can’t just say ‘what’s up?’ and expect him not to be suspicious, especially if Toomey is there.”
“There’s no ‘if’ about it,” said Schuster. “Toomey is there. So you need to be incredibly careful how you approach the conversation with Kergan. You can’t contradict anything that Toomey might have told him, or you risk giving everything away.”
Bloom’s face reddened and Chelsea leaned over and put her lips to Quinn’s ear.
“Look at him,” she whispered. “The man’s whole life has been based on lies and half-truths. You’d think it would be easy for him.”
“Tell him you want to thank him,” said Schuster. “That the Jarheads are in custody and you’ve got Chelsea back. You feel like you owe him.”
“Toomey will believe that,” said Bloom. “He knows how much I love my daughter.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes.
“As a reward, you’re going to send out a supply ship,” said Quinn. “They must be getting low on food, at the very least. And there are probably things that Kergan needs that Toomey wasn’t able to load into the ship before he was forced to take off.”
“Ask for a list,” said Schuster. “That might be an indicator of how things are going, where they are in the process.”
Bloom seemed to be concentrating hard to remember it all, which made Quinn wonder if the guy was going to be able to pull it off without making the situation worse.
“What about the assault force?” asked Drake. “What’s the status?”
Quinn turned to Schuster and nodded. It was his show.
“Well,” said Schuster, “we’ve got the four Rafts up to par with the one we brought back from Oberon One. Same engines, same weapons, same cloaking system. Better fusion reactors, so that they don’t run out of juice.”
“Remember those patents all belong to Bloom Enterprises.”
“For fuck’s sake, Dad!” Chelsea slammed her fist on the table. “There’s an alien armada at the gates! Stop thinking about your money!”
Quinn had to bite down on a grin as he saw Oscar slouch back into his seat, defeated.
“Uh, anyway,” Schuster continued, “once we have whatever intel we can get from that call with Kergan, we should be able to finalize the plan and put it into action. Which means the sooner, the better.”
Drake nodded and turned to King. “You’re good with all this, I take it?”
“I’m behind them one hundred percent,” said King.
“All right. There’s one thing that I think we need to discuss here, especially in light of our current situation.”
Quinn felt his hackles rise. “What’s that?”
“I don’t think you people should be on the assault mission.”
Everyone on Quinn’s side of the table exchanged confused loo
ks.
“What are you talking about?” Quinn demanded.
“You pointed it out yourself,” said Drake. “The element of surprise will be key to this mission’s success. In order for that to be most effective, you all need to be here on Earth.”
Ben nodded slowly. “I see where he’s going. We want Kergan to believe the ruse that we’re under investigation and that Chelsea is back with her family. If we’re on the network while the assault force is on its way to Oberon, Kergan and Toomey will believe that our plan didn’t succeed and that no one believes our story.”
“And then the assault force suddenly shows up on their doorstep,” said Quinn. He had to admit, it made sense.
“I’m not sure about this,” King said warily. “I see the logic behind your idea, Morley, but at the same time, no one knows Oberon One better than the people who used to live there.”
“Simple,” said Drake. “Soldiers can have station schematics loaded into their smart suits and call them up in cortical reality. It’ll be like being inside a map of the station.”
“He’s right, sir,” Quinn said to King. “Navigation wouldn’t be a problem.”
“All right, but what about the people? No one knows Kergan like you people.”
“Frank, this isn’t a game of chess,” Drake said curtly. “It’s a balls-out assault against an unsuspecting target.”
Schuster raised a hand. “That’s not necessarily true,” he said. “They could have been working on their own defensive weapons this whole time. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.”
“All the more reason for the element of surprise,” said Drake. “Which, again, is why we need you people here. The better show we put on about not believing you, the better the chance the assault team will win.”
King turned to Quinn. “What are your thoughts, Captain?”
Quinn thought about that. Drake’s plan made perfect sense: there was no logical reason that it had to be them who led the strike force. In fact, it seemed counter-intuitive now that they’d brought up using subterfuge to trick Kergan and Toomey. Others could do the fighting, but they needed the Jarheads to put on the show that would give the mission the best chance of success.