Silent Order: Wraith Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Thank you,” said March, stepping off the drone, and the others followed suit.

  Tanner’s Tavern was one of the largest establishments on the concourse, and the low beat of music came from inside. Despite its size, the door was small, guarded by a pair of large bouncers who had obvious surgical strength enhancements. They gave March and his armored companions a dubious look but made no move to stop them as they entered the tavern. March stepped onto a vast open space filled with round tables, humans and a few alien races eating and drinking. A faint haze of smoke filled the air, permitting the rows of green lasers sweeping back and forth across the ceiling to appear to the naked eye.

  It was Tanner’s idea of decoration.

  Waitresses walked back and forth, carrying trays of food and drink. Some were android drones fashioned in the shape of human women, impossibly beautiful and sleek, their bodies clad in translucent clothing. Others were actual human women who wore identical costumes. Both Rogan and Ulm stared at them until a sharp word from Vasquez prompted them back to vigilance. March wondered if Vasquez planned to let his men visit one of the station’s brothels. If so, he would have to talk the Marine captain out of it. The Machinists might try to kidnap one of the Marines, and visiting one of the station’s brothels was an excellent way to get entangled in a whole new set of problems, given the number of criminal syndicates and trading cartels that had branches on the station.

  He crossed the floor and came to the bar at the far end of the establishment. A dozen bartenders labored there, all of them women in scanty clothing, while a pair of grimacing bouncers watched for trouble. A broad, low balcony rose behind the bar, providing wealthier patrons with a view of the rest of the establishment. Men in suits sat there, or women in sleek dresses, drinking from crystal glasses and smoking expensive-smelling cigarettes. Real tobacco was rare this far from any human-habitable worlds, and the cigarettes must have cost a fortune.

  Markus Tanner stood against the back wall, flanked by a pair of his bouncers.

  Tanner wore a suit that had cost more than a small starship, and his cufflinks glinted with jewels, but no amount of money could disguise the fact that the man looked like a rat. Maybe it was his beady black eyes or weak chin. Or maybe it was because he always wore his thick black hair slicked back from his forehead, giving him a prominent widow’s peak.

  His appearance suited his nature. Tanner owned the tavern, and he had his fingers in a dozen other interests on Monastery Station, most of which would have been illegal anywhere else. Tanner straightened up as March approached, his eyes narrowing, and then a crooked grin spread over his thin features.

  “Well, well, well,” said Tanner, dropping his hands into his coat pockets and stepping forward. His two bodyguards followed him like muscular shadows. “If it isn’t the cleverest privateer of them all, Captain Jack March.” He looked at the Marines and raised his eyebrows. “You here to arrest me?”

  The bodyguards laughed.

  “Why bother?” said March. “This is the Custodian’s station. If the Custodian has a problem with you, you’re going to find out about it.”

  “That is God’s own truth,” said Tanner. He looked at Caird. “And who’s this? An officer going AWOL from the Royal Calaskaran Navy? I thought the stalwart men of the King’s armed forces would never desert their posts.”

  The Marines bristled, but Caird only smiled. “I’m March’s new co-pilot. The pay’s worse, and the benefits are terrible, but you get to see the galaxy.”

  “My sympathies on your new position,” said Tanner. His attention turned back to March. “If you’re not here to arrest me, I assume you’re here on business. Or do you wish to relax? My establishment offers a wide array of intoxicants and narcotics, all for very reasonable prices.” One of the waitresses walked past, and despite her three-inch heels, she managed a smooth glide of a walk. The high heels did excellent things to the muscles of her legs and backside. “Or if you wish a different kind of relaxation, I would be more than happy to arrange something, whatever your tastes.”

  “No,” said March, and Tanner’s lips thinned a little. “I have a problem, and I hope you can help me with it.”

  “Other than your appalling manners, I’m not sure what your current problems are,” said Tanner.

  “I’ll level with you,” lied March. “I passed through the Tamlin system on my way back to the Constantinople system. While I was there, I stumbled across a battle between a Machinist task force and a Calaskaran heavy cruiser. Just as I showed up the Navy men had to abandon ship. Since my letters of marque are from the King of Calaskar, I picked up any survivors and got out of there as fast as I could. The Machinists took exception to that and shot a few missiles at me. One of them fried my dark matter reactor. I had enough dark energy left in the hyperdrive for one jump, and I went here.”

  “Just as well the missile didn’t destroy your resonator coil,” said Tanner. “You might not have realized it. If it had, you would now be insane with tentacles and an extra head or two as the hyperspace demons mutated you.”

  “It didn’t work out that way,” said March. “My dark matter reaction chamber is cracked. I’m going to need a new one. Know anyone who has a spare chamber?”

  “Mmm,” said Tanner, thinking. “Are you still flying that Class 9 Mercator Yards freighter?”

  “Yup,” said March.

  “Heavily modified, I’m sure,” said Tanner. “Extra weapons and armor and an increased thrust-to-mass ratio.” March didn’t bother to contradict him. “You will need a heavier reaction chamber to deal with the increased mass…a moment.”

  He produced a phone and tapped the screen a few times, nodding to himself once or twice, and then he returned the phone to his coat pocket.

  “I know a starship dealer who has an appropriate reaction chamber in stock,” said Tanner, “and a mechanic who is available to install it today.”

  March frowned. “Any chance that he is a Machinist agent?”

  “Not likely,” said Tanner. “Any Machinist agents on Monastery Station tend to get themselves killed. They can’t stop themselves from making trouble, and then the security drones come to visit.” He gestured at a pair of the floating spheres that drifted through the crowd, their equators pulsing with green light. “Of course, I suppose the Final Consciousness doesn’t care how many drones and agents it loses. They’re replaceable.”

  He turned a sunny smile in March’s direction. He knew what March had once been. March couldn’t help but think that Tanner’s teeth made him look even more like a rodent.

  “Undoubtedly,” said March. “How much?”

  Tanner named an outrageous price, with an additional ten percent finder’s fee on top. March spent the next ten minutes negotiating with Tanner, exchanging offers, counteroffers, and polite insults. Finally, they agreed on a price. It would soak up about two-thirds of the cash that March had on hand, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed a functional dark matter reactor to get the Tiger back to Calaskaran space. Maybe he could get the Silent Order to reimburse him, though the Order was stingy with its funds.

  “Very well,” said Tanner. “I believe we have an agreement. The mechanic shall be dispatched at once.”

  “Call Perry,” said March to Vasquez. “Let him know that company is coming.” Vasquez nodded and turned away. March looked back at Tanner. “You might want to ask the Custodian or one of the Emissaries to send some security drones with the mechanic. There are Machinist capital ships out there, and I think they’re going to send men aboard the station to make trouble for me.”

  “Of course,” said Tanner. “Naturally, I will require payment up front.” He offered a greasy smile. “If you and your Machinist friends get yourselves vaporized by the Custodian, I still need to be compensated for my time.”

  “A quarter up front,” said March, “and the rest when I make sure I can power on that dark matter reactor with blowing up my ship.”

  “An outrageous offer,” said Tanner. “I am willing
to compromise at two-thirds up front, and the rest upon completion of the work.”

  Further haggling went on for a tedious ten minutes. Tanner might have found this kind of thing enjoyable, but March did not. Nevertheless, there was absolutely no way March was going to hand over that much money to a man like Tanner until the work was finished. In the end, they settled for a third up front and the rest upon completion. Tanner called over one of the security drones to witness the transaction and ask the Custodian for enforcement, a common procedure on Monastery Station. Once that was done, March handed over a secure thumb drive with credit information.

  “Splendid,” said Tanner, tucking the drive into his coat. “I am pleased we were able to reach a mutually satisfying arrangement. The mechanic will arrive with your new reaction chamber within the hour. ”

  “Yes,” said March. “One last question. Does Horgan still rent a private room here?”

  Tanner smiled. “The Merchant Prince Horgan of the Stromboli Consortium likes to hold court in one of my private dining rooms. The same one as before. You want to deal with him? You’ll wind up owing him every credit you have, and every credit your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will make over the course of their lifetimes.”

  “I have to live long enough to have children and grandchildren,” said March, which was unlikely. “Thank you, Tanner.”

  “If you wish to embark upon folly, far be it from me to stop you,” said Tanner. He gestured at the far side of the room, where a set of spiral stairs rose to the second level. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” said March.

  Tanner offered a mocking little bow and departed, his bodyguards trailing after him. No doubt he was going to deposit March’s payment as soon as possible.

  “This Horgan,” said Caird at last. “Why are we talking to him?”

  “He’s our backup plan for getting out of here,” said March. “In case the dark matter reactor doesn’t work. Or if the Machinists get clever. We…”

  “Captain March? Captain Vasquez, sir?” Perry’s voice came over the earpiece.

  “We’re here, Sergeant,” said Vasquez.

  “Captain March’s ship notified us, sir,” said Perry. “The Machinist carrier launched a shuttle and it's heading for the station. One of the Ninevehk capital ships launched a shuttle, and it’s coming to the station as well.”

  “Looks like we’ll have visitors soon,” said Vasquez.

  “Don’t let them on the ship for any reason,” said March. “If they try to break in, call the Custodian or Emissary Logos and let the security drones deal with them.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Perry. “Ah…your computer is also reporting that the Machinist capital ships are maintaining a weapons lock on the Tiger.”

  “Even when docked?” said Caird. “If they destroy the Tiger, they’ll damage the station in the process. The Custodian will kill them all in retaliation.”

  “Depending on how badly they want to stop our mission,” said March, “the Final Consciousness might decide that is an acceptable exchange.” Losing a fleet carrier would be a heavy blow for the Final Consciousness, but if the Machinists wanted to ensure that their captured machine did not fall into the hands of the Calaskaran Royal Navy, they might gladly accept the loss.

  Just what the hell did that machine do?

  A thought occurred to March.

  “Are the Ninevehk ships keeping a weapons lock on the Tiger?” said March.

  “Ah…no, sir,” said Perry. “As far as your ship’s sensors can tell, they’re keeping a weapons lock on the Machinists.”

  “The enemy of my enemy?” said Vasquez.

  “Doubtful,” said Caird. “Or the Machinists are the more dangerous threat. With respect to Captain March, one light freighter would not last long against those Ninevehk capital ships.”

  “No,” said March. “Let’s not put it to the test. Sergeant Perry, please keep an eye out for the mechanic and for any trouble. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  “Do as he says, Sergeant,” said Vasquez.

  “Yes, sir,” said Perry, and he ended the call.

  “Maybe we should go back to the Tiger at once,” said Caird.

  March considered that. If the Machinists tried to force their way into the ship, Perry would need help holding them off until the Custodian’s security drones vaporized the attackers. But he wondered if the Machinists would be that stupid. The Custodian would have an eye on them after the destroyer’s ill-advised attack on the Tiger, and any further provocation would likely earn a deadly response.

  No, if the Machinists intended to stop them, they would have to do it once the Tiger left the Eschaton system. It was time to think about what they would do once they left the station.

  “Not yet,” said March. “It won’t do any good to repair the dark matter reactor only for the Machinists to blow us up the minute we leave the system. I need a backup plan, and Prince Horgan is that backup plan.”

  “The Stromboli Consortium,” said Vasquez. “I don’t know much about them, but they have a bad reputation.”

  “They’re a merchant group based in the Stromboli system, a long distance outside Calaskaran space,” said March. “Long way from anywhere, really. The place wouldn’t be significant, but it sits on the only viable hyperspace route through the Gloom Nebula, which extends for tens of thousands of light years in every direction. They make most of their money by charging tolls for passage through the nebula.”

  “They are,” said Caird without rancor, “scum-sucking bottom feeders.”

  “Unquestionably,” said March. “The Stromboli Consortium will deal in anything. Weapons of mass destruction, biological weapons, drugs, slaves, anything that will turn a profit. They observe local laws, but if they find a world willing to buy what they sell, they’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

  “And we’re going to deal with these people?” said Vasquez. March couldn’t see his face through the armored helmet, but he heard the disgust in the captain’s voice.

  “One of them,” said March, “owes me a favor. And it’s time to cash in. Let me do the talking.” He hesitated. “And don’t touch anything. Don’t drink or eat anything unless it is specifically offered to you without a price.”

  Vasquez tapped his faceplate. “We couldn’t if we wanted to.”

  “Good to know,” said March, and he led the way across the room to the spiral staircase. They climbed to the second level. More tables and chairs stood scattered here, where the wealthier guests could look down upon the poorer ones. Large archways opened into the private dining rooms, and March headed for the one where Horgan held court. Four human soldiers in the gray uniforms of the Stromboli Consortium’s security division stood guard outside the archway, each soldier wearing a headset with an earpiece and a holographic targeting lens and scanner.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward, his expression calm, a hand resting on the butt of the gun at his waist.

  “Good day, sapients,” said the soldier. “Might I inquire as to your business here?”

  “My name’s Jack March,” said March. “I’m here to discuss business with Prince Horgan.”

  The soldier was silent for a moment, no doubt listening to instructions over his earpiece. “You may proceed. Please be aware that the Prince’s safety is our primary responsibility at all times.”

  In other words, if they threatened the Prince, bad things would happen.

  “I will keep that in mind,” said March. “Thank you.”

  The soldier gestured to the archway, and March walked past him and into the Prince’s private dining room.

  It was just as opulent as he remembered. Horgan had paved the floor in pale marble from some distant world, and it had been polished to a mirror sheen. The walls had been paneled in rare woods, and a long table ran the length of the dining room, holding expensive food and drink. Scented smoke rose from a dozen braziers on the table. A group of musicians sat in the corner, quietly playing a soothing, gentle tune. At the f
ar end of the table rose a dais supporting an enormous cushioned throne carved from more pale marble.

  The first thing March noticed about the dais were the human women.

  There were three women, and they were remarkably beautiful. March could tell they were remarkably beautiful because they each wore a garment that looked like a two-piece swimsuit, albeit a swimsuit fashioned from translucent red silk. For all the modesty the outfit provided, they might as well have been naked. Jewels glittered on their fingers and toes and in their ears, and they worse stiletto heels that would have made an effective improvised weapon. Each woman also wore a bronze collar linked to a bronze chain, and the bronze chains were connected to the enormous cushioned throne.

  Horgan, Merchant Prince of the Stromboli Consortium, slouched in the chair, watching March with enormous, heavy-lidded eyes.

  The Merchant Prince was part of an alien race that called themselves the Lithobati, and March had always thought that the Lithobati looked like giant humanoid frogs. At his full height, Horgan would have stood nearly seven and a half feet tall. His head was enormous, his skin a glistening yellow-green. Horgan wore an ornate robe of red and black, a jeweled pendant hanging from his thick neck, and the hands and feet that protruded from the robe were webbed, the fingers and toes tipped with small claws. Even by the standards of the Lithobati, Horgan was fat, so fat that the huge throne strained to contain his rubbery bulk.

  March stopped before the dais and offered a polite bow, gesturing for the others to do so. After a moment, they followed suit, the servos in the Marines’ armor whining as they bent.

  The three women moved with languid, liquid grace. One arranged herself at the base of the throne, massaging Horgan’s feet. Another lifted a goblet the size of a punch bowl that held a pungent green liquor. The third held a large bowl filled with dead flies the size of March’s thumb.

  Horgan’s tongue darted out from his mouth, landed in the bowl, and snapped back, carrying a few of the flies into his enormous mouth.

  Then he smiled, and his rumbling laughter rang through the dining room.