They had docked at a large station called Vinland. It was the original Galapagos settlement, built from an old survey station and now a sprawling mass of re-purposed colony ships and derelict freighters converted into living space. Jean’s first steps into the vast receiving deck of the main station filled the drug pusher with a sense of awe and terror. Silver and gray metal walls raced a hundred feet straight up and met above his head with a vast vaulted ceiling. Bright white light seemed to come from everywhere, bathing the milling masses of people in soft shadowless illumination. The open deck positively teemed with people in every imaginable configuration. They hauled freight on levitating skids, hawked food and wares from stalls and storefronts, and played games of chance in every unused corner available. The noise was a steady unrelenting roar of voices and equipment. Small trucks pushed through the crowd like the great icebreakers of Enceladus, jostling and shoving people out of their way with a casual disregard for health or safety. The most jarring images, the things Jean noticed above all else, were the roving gangs of intimidating boat crews. Men and women with hard faces and bristling with weapons stalked from place to place, glowering at people as if they were less than dogs. A criminal born and bred, Jean understood immediately that he needed to avoid these groups. It was obvious they followed no law but their own. A prudent man would keep his head down and keep his attentions limited to his own business on Vinland Station, and Jean resolved to do exactly that. With no more desire for adventure, he put his mind to his tasks and gave the crews a wide and respectful margin.
First, he needed to get his biometrics scrubbed and disconnected from whatever terrorist he had been swapped with. Vinland seemed like the kind of place where that could be accomplished, but Jean was forced to concede that he had no idea where to even look. He had some money now, and that was always where this sort of quest started.
He took a deep breath and started to walk forward with big confident strides. He did not know where he was going, but this did not appear to be the kind of place where a man should risk looking like a tourist. On his second step, something cold and hard clamped onto his wrist and he spun in fear to see what had him. He found himself looking into the beady eyes and bristling beard of Stumpy.
“Look at you, Frenchy! Runnin’ off to find your fortune without a clue where you’re going!”
“I’ll find my way. What are you doing here?”
Stumpy’s beard and mustache wiggled and Jean presumed that beneath the thick rust-colored hair a smile was forming. “Decided to jump ship and follow you for a bit. I owe you my life and all that shit, and I always pay my debts. Besides, that boat was too small. I’ll never get rich crewing that little minnow.”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Stumpy...”
“Bullshit, kid. Don’t tell me you’re startin’ to believe my tall tales about your fightin’ skills? You saved my ass back there, so there was no way I was gonna tell the boys you were pants-shittingly scared the whole time or that your crazy shooting was Loki’s own luck.” Stumpy clapped him on the shoulder. “But I know Loki’s hand on someone when I see it. You get got just as often as you get good, I figure. Well, I got some time to kill and a debt to pay. I’m originally from Venus and we do debts real serious-like there, so I’m gonna get you squared away before I sign up with another crew. It’s only fair.”
It seemed that fickle ally or not, Loki was on his side today. Jean returned Stumpy’s playful slap and grinned back at the stocky engineer. “Glad for the help, Stumpy. Here’s my story...”
Jean relayed his misfortunes to Stumpy with as much speed and clarity as he could without giving away too much. There were aspects of his situation that Stumpy did not need to know and Jean left those out of his story for practical reasons. Other parts of the tale were altered or omitted because they illuminated his own stupidity in an embarrassing manner. By the end of the narrative, Stumpy had the important bits down and he shook his head with a chuckle.
“You got yourself fucked right good, didn’t ya Frenchy?”
Jean acknowledged the assessment with a sheepish wave of the hand. “Sometimes you’re the windscreen, sometimes you’re the bug. This time I was the bug.”
“Well, I know a guy who can get your bio shit squared away. Come on.”
Stumpy led Jean away from the reception area and along the wall of the main deck. Through an open hatch lined with pulsing purple lights the pair found themselves in a smaller compartment, though ‘smaller’ was a relative term in this case. The compartment was large enough to fit a small freighter, and it had been carved out into prefabricated storefronts. There was no overhead lighting in here, nor was their need of any. Holograms danced and spun above each doorway, spelling out goods and services in competing shades of writhing neon. Jean estimated there to be two hundred of these coruscating signposts floating in the air, each more obnoxious than the last. They lit the paths between vendors with parti-colored motes of incandescence. The effect was bizarre and Jean found it jarring to his eyes. The main level was bright enough to see clearly, yet filled with shadowy depths and crevices glowing in alien colors. It was loud and ugly, and Jean could not help but draw parallels to The Drag back in Dockside.
Stumpy noticed Jean woolgathering and tugged on his sleeve. “Welcome to the Cave of Wonders, Frenchy. Anything you need can probably be bought here, though the prices can get a bit steep. There’s a body shop back here that can get your biometrics mapped to anyone you want.”
“Cave of Wonders?” Jean asked as they started to walk.
“What?” Stumpy looked stricken. “It’s a cave. It’s full of wonders. What the hell else would we call it?”
“How much is this going to cost? I got a one-eighth share, and no hard creds at all. Even with the kill bonus, I’m not sitting on a lot of cash. What’s the exchange on Markers in Galapagos?”
“Absolute shit,” Stumpy replied. “But getting new biometrics codes is cheap as long as you don’t want some stockbroker or holovid star. Here we are.”
Stumpy had stopped at a hologram of a buxom nurse. The improbably proportioned woman was dressed in a white sleeve dress that covered neither her bulbous derriere nor her ludicrous chest. In truth, red crosses emblazoned in strategic locations were the only real indicator that the display was for anything remotely medical. Nevertheless, as a guy who had been in space for a few days, Jean ended up appreciating the image in exactly the manner intended. Her face beamed blank welcome while she twirled seductively around a red and white striped pole. Shimmering letters followed her movements and spelled out “Hot Toddy’s Custom Bodies.” With an amused lip curled toward the half-naked dancer, the stocky engineer passed through the ad and walked up to the shop’s metal door. “Come on, Frenchy,” he called. “I can find you a real woman after, if you got any money left, anyway.”
Jean stepped through the hologram and followed Stumpy into the doorway. Inside was much quieter and far better lit than outside. The space was as large as a small house and Jean made out several bulky chairs mounted to the clean white floor. Each large reclining seat was surrounded by monitors and equipment that Jean could not identify but he presumed had to do with the trade of cybernetics and prosthetics. Stranger than the unsettling nature of the creepy surgical instruments neatly arrayed on nearby tables was the quiet emptiness. Stumpy seemed confused as well, because he called out, “Hey! Anybody home? Customers out here!”
The pair heard movement in the back, just beyond a door in the far wall past the operating couches. Stumpy mumbled. “Fucker’s probably drunk or high, goddamn it.”
The figure that emerged from the door in back did not look to Jean like a biotechnologist, formally educated or otherwise. It was a tall and rangy man with a stubbly receding hairline. He was not dressed for biotech, either. He wore gray fatigues, a gray shirt, and an armor harness with most of the plates removed. On each hip was a pistol, and across his chest a long vibroblade hung in a battered sheath. Jean could not stop himself from thinking that this lo
oked a lot more like one of those boat crewmen he was trying to avoid than it did anyone who might help him with his biometrics. The salty tang of fear suffused his mouth and a cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Something was very wrong about this. He could feel it.
A quick look to Stumpy confirmed his fears, as the engineer appeared as confused as he did. Confusion morphed into dread when two more men entered the room from outside, effectively cutting off their only escape route. Stumpy’s hand began to move toward his belt, and in a moment of clarity Jean simply said, “Don’t.” Jean Marceau was a man who knew when he was stuck. There was no sense dying in a fool’s last stand if it could be avoided.
The tall man with the guns bared his teeth in what he probably thought was a smile. “I heard you were smart. Looks like I heard right.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” Jean could not say in what order he wanted these things answered, but the man obliged him.
“I’m Iron Sven Paulsen, pal. And I want you.”
Only after both his questions had been answered did Jean realize how stupid they were and how little those answers had helped. He tried again. “Well, you seem to have me.” He made sure his hands stayed away from the butt of his pistol as he gestured to the men behind him. “I don’t think I’ve ever messed with you, and I’m sure I don’t owe you money.” He paused and swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. “How, uh... How can I help you?”
Paulsen’s eyes danced, and he laughed. “How can you help me? Oh man!” He looked over Jean’s shoulder to the men blocking their escape. “You hear that, boys? He wants to know how he can help me!”
The two goons laughed as well. Jean did not appreciate not being privy to the joke, but he wisely chose to ignore their poor manners. Paulsen let his laughter fade and fixed Jean with an even glare. “You fucked up good, Marceau. And you got folks coming after you.”
Jean nodded, afraid to give too much away.
“Well, I got business with those folks, and plenty of money riding on me completing that business.” Paulsen stepped forward, ignoring Stumpy’s challenging glare, to loom over the cowed Marceau. “So you and I are going to go hang out until they get here.”
Jean was not stupid. “I’m supposed to be bait?”
Paulsen nodded.
Jean pointed to Stumpy. “Well, at least let him go, then. He’s just a guy I crewed with.”
“Crewed with?” Paulsen looked over to Stumpy. He took in the veteran spacer at a glance and then pointed to Jean. “He really pull an oar?”
Stumpy nodded. “Painted the deck with two uniforms his first boarding.”
Paulsen looked back to Jean, highly amused. “No shit? Two kills the first time out, huh?”
“He’s crew and that means he got rights, Paulsen,” Stumpy said.
The tall man snapped his attention back to Stumpy. “I know his fucking rights. But he owes ehreschuld for one fucked up job already, and I’ve been sent to collect.”
“Shit, Frenchy, what’d you do?” Stumpy’s question betrayed the frustration evident on his face.
“I fucked up a job,” Jean replied quietly.
“Don’t get all whiny, boys. The ehreschuld is simple. ‘Frenchy’ here has gotta help me bag the big bad bastards that are coming after him. That’s it. It ain’t got nothing to do with you Red, so fuck off if you want. I don’t care.”
Stumpy’s eyes met Jean’s. “I got debts, too. And I heard’a you, Paulsen. I think I’ll go ahead and crew up for this run. You got room on a bench?”
“I always got room for guys who can pull an oar.”
“I just finished my sixth cruise with Hartigan on the Ripsaw. My references are good.”
Paulsen sniffed. “They better be, ‘cause I’ll check ‘em. Welcome aboard...?”
“Harry Burke.” A thick arm rose and his prosthetic hand spun in lazy circles. “But folks call me ‘Stumpy.’”
“Right,” Paulsen sighed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, Stumpy. You’re in charge of keeping Frenchy here alive and kicking until the fun starts. Explain to him why he’s gotta do it so we don’t have to nail his feet to the deck. He dies or runs before we get our shot, it’s on you. You both got a berth on the Sailor’s Lament waiting. Dock sixty-three. Get over there and check in with the quartermaster right now.”
Stumpy touched a finger to his forehead, “Aye aye, Cap’n.”
As Stumpy led Jean out of the body shop, the former drug dealer experienced a great swell of disappointment. Freedom had been so close, only to be snatched away in an instant. He wondered if it had ever been there to begin with. He would never know now. He followed Stumpy in a haze, not really paying attention or caring where he was being led. A terrible encroaching madness was building in his mind. The inexorable certainty of futility pressed on his soul with a weight and force both invisible and palpable at the same time. His hopes of escaping the madness that his life had become were dying with the frenzied flailing of a drowning man swimming against a merciless current. The malaise grew from a single thought, a nagging fear ever-present in all his adventures but not one he had ever considered credible. Now its time had come, as it was the only thing he believed to be true at this point.
I’m not getting out of this alive.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“You are out of your goddamn mind, boy.” Commandant Christopher Pike was not a man in the habit of coddling the ego. “I don’t give two shits how good you think you are, dropping a diaper-wearing Venusian punk on Vinland to sniff out a desperate criminal is just plain stupid.”
Manny was far too terrified of the man to argue, so Roland did it for him. “The kid’s better than you think he is, and we don’t have loads of options.”
“Send Mindy. She’s been around and knows how to hunt a guy down better than anyone.”
Roland shook his head. “Mindy knows how to track a target and execute it. We need someone to scout the terrain, locate all the objectives, and then extract them without causing a ruckus.”
“I’m kind of ruckus-y,” Mindy explained.
Pike’s gnarled fists struck the metal table top with a bang. “I did not fly a thousand light-years with forty hard-ballin’ grunts and enough ordnance to sack a battleship just to watch some wet-behind-the-ears teenager get tortured and killed by those gutless savages!” He fixed Manny with his monocle. “And that’s exactly what’s going to happen the first time they smell that Venusian sulfur on you, boy.”
The team had entered Galapagos using one of Pike’s less conspicuous troop ships. Re-purposed military hardware was as common in the system as any other kind of ship, so getting lost in the general shuffle of unregistered spacecraft around Vinland Station had been a simple enough task. The pre-mission briefing was being held in the ships main conference room, though the discussion had gone awry early on in the proceedings.
“Pike,” Mindy tried to bring the man’s agitation down. “I’ve run tons of ops with the kid. He’s better than good. He’s better than anyone you got, that’s for sure.”
“It ain’t about talent,” the mercenary fired back. “It’s about experience, adaptability, and plain old sense. I’m sure with ten more years’ experience he could crack Vinland like an egg and not get killed, but Galapagos is not like anywhere else he’s been. Come on, Breach, you know I’m not blowing smoke.”
Roland shrugged. “You and I are the only people in this room that have run ops in this system, and it was a long time ago for both of us. For safety, Mindy will go in with Manny. She’s kind of a celebrity and with any luck most Galops will give her the respect she warrants. I’ll be stomping around once they get on his trail. These bastards are after me, so I intend to make sure everyone knows I’m looking for them. Lucia will have a fire team of your guys on the ground for all of this. They’ll be ready to spring into action when things go kinetic.”
“You mean if they go kinetic?” Manny’s question was small and hopeful.
“You’re adorable, kid.” Pike guffawe
d. “Okay. Assuming I buy into this bullshit plan, you’ll need guys who can blend in and not look like goddamn War College valedictorians. I got a few greasy bastards who know how to look like a local and I’ve already tasked them to Lucia’s fire team.” His gaze went to the brunette. “I am contractually obligated to inform you that these are not well-bred and well-adjusted people.”
“A little rough around the edges, are they?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Certifiable assholes, ma’am. Hard as vector calculus, but about as pleasant as a hedgehog in your pajamas. I recruit based on skills and experience, not personality.”
“I live with Roland.”
“Yes, ma’am. I figure that means you can handle them. They’re good soldiers. They will perform for you or I will have their asses for throw pillows.”
“Pike,” Roland rumbled, “I want you and the balance of the platoon on overwatch, ready for rapid deployment. Would you rather stay up here and insert with drop-boats or bivouac somewhere on-station?”
“Sergeant Rothschilde insisted on coming, so I figure we gotta make a base on-station. She doesn’t fit in a standard drop-boat.”
“Jesus,” Mindy hissed. “Bernadette came? You are a little nervous, aren’t you?”
The expression on Pike’s face made an extremely strong case for exactly what Mindy could do with her unsolicited observation. When he spoke, the words were slow and deliberate. “I do not do ‘nervous,’ sweetheart. If you hadn’t washed out after one rotation you might know that. I assess the tactical situation and array my forces in a manner that ensures victory. We are outnumbered, we are on enemy soil, we are far from support or resupply. I could not bring an army, so I brought the next best thing. Every grunt on this tub is augmented for speed and strength, and half have some kind of combat-applicable hard-body modification to go with it. So, yes, I brought Big Bernie because she’s as close to a tank as we can get without actually bringing a fucking tank. If you care, I also have a Kano and a BobCat on board.”
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