by Paul Collins
He smiled. Galaxy, brace yourself.
Maximus’s path to Reema’s End was complicated. First he had to get leave from RIM. This was not easy. Not only was this a difficult time, with the mole hunt in full cry, but also he had few plausible excuses. His health wasn’t poor nor did he have any known relatives to conveniently become ill.
In the end, he hit on an excuse by sheer luck. And he had Anneke Longshadow to thank for it.
With the new allegations about Longshadow’s past, the mole hunt should have died down, but some people within RIM Command felt that a deliberate smear campaign had been launched against her. This was good. Whatever happened, his plans now required the very disorganisation and paranoia that was tearing RIM apart. He sided with the faction that believed Anneke was being smeared, then got himself sent undercover, to Se’atma Minor.
First he visited the agency’s dermal reconstruction unit. When he emerged, several uncomfortable hours later, his hair colour had changed, his nose was longer and thinner, his complexion darkened, and more.
With a new datapass issued by RIM he travelled to Se’atma by jump-gate, arriving there late one afternoon. He checked briefly on Arvakur, learning that the investigator was still a long way from getting to the bottom of the matter, and then procured another datapass.
Then Maximus took a series of almost random jumps: Theta Three, Pegasus Prime, Irongate, Helm Four, and Hesperia. He found a different victim and used a new datapass for every trip and, since he had brought along a portable dermal reconstructor, he also altered his appearance marginally with each jump.
Finally, since there was no legal jump-gate into the Cygnus Sector, he was forced to take passage on a trader that left Thor’s World for Reema’s End.
Next time, I’ll charter my own spaceyacht, he thought as he sat crouched in the tiny cabin the trader provided for paying passengers. The craft reeked of ancient sweat and recycled body odours, and the crew was dull, stupid and violent.
Still, nobody, but nobody, could have tracked his movements.
A week later the trader entered the Telugus system. When the ship docked at Reema’s End he was the first through the opening docking hatch, the first to tender his datapass, and the first to slide into the teeming anthill that was Reema’s End.
Instantly he noted the low gravity. Point 5 G, he estimated. The smell was an improvement on the trader, but then anything would be.
Despite never having been there before, Maximus made his way unerringly to the best hotel at the station. After days of the trader’s cramped and filthy cabin, he desperately needed to sleep in a decent bed in clean quarters. The poverty of Reema’s End was reflected in the weird mix of transporters, including ultralight pushbikes powered by sets of elaborate ceramic gears and levers driven by lightweight propellers, only practical in low gravity.
He paid the desk clerk in anonymous cash, then locked himself in his room. He sent a coded message to his employer, setting up a meeting for the next day, showered, then took two grams of n-doze and crashed out on the comfortable body-adjusting bed.
Bliss, he thought, as he drifted into sleep, is a clean bed.
He woke in the night, startled. His needler came up fast from beneath his pillow. Something lashed out, knocking the gun from his hand. The lights came on.
Maximus blinked up at the four men surrounding his bed. He smiled. ‘Escort service, I presume?’
The leader scowled. ‘Get dressed. Lob Lotang will see you now.’
‘I arranged the meeting for tomorrow.’
‘I said now.’
Maximus found his own needler pointing at him. He shrugged, got up, dressed, and retrieved the cube holding the defence readouts. Smoothly palming the device he activated its built-in self-destruct mechanism.
‘Now move,’ said the leader.
And move they did. Two in front, two behind. Lucky me, thought Maximus. An escort guard. But another thought came on the heels of that: Or a gallows march …
They wound their way through an astonishing maze of passageways that followed no logical sequence. Maximus would have bet that no two corridors were parallel. They encountered surly groups of armed men and women who backed away when they saw who was crossing their territory, muttering apologies.
Maximus admitted to himself that he wouldn’t have liked to try this path on his own. Over an hour later they reached their destination. The facade was disappointingly ordinary.
They stopped outside a hatch. The guards there had banned weapons on display, but they were more of a ‘Keep Out’ sign than anything else. Maximus was led inside, through more hatches, and along more corridors. The headquarters, their destination, was outfitted like a king’s palace.
There was deep carpet on the floor and the walls were panelled in Terran oak. This far from Earth, it was seriously expensive. Fake-view windows showed panoramic alien vistas in what seemed to be real time.
‘Leave us,’ said a voice. ‘Not you, Quag.’ The lead escort stayed while his associates bowed and backed out of the room. Maximus eyed the dark doorway from where the voice emanated. ‘Good morning …’
‘Call me Nathaniel,’ said Maximus.
‘Of course, Nathaniel. I am Lob Lotang.’ A man stepped out of the doorway. Maximus was impressed. Lotang was the tallest human being he had ever seen. At least 240 centimetres tall, and unlike most giants, he was heavily muscled and well built. A powerful, wealthy man, spending time on a nasty, sewer station like Reema’s End. Like to like, Maximus mused.
Lob Lotang crossed to what appeared to be a real king’s former throne and sat down. Maximus shot a look at Quag as though he might be missing something.
‘Brave of you to walk into the lion’s den like this, Nathaniel,’ said Lob.
‘Nobody’s that brave,’ said Maximus. ‘Or that stupid.’
Ahhh,’ said Lotang. ‘You come … equipped?’
Maximus smiled his most evil of smiles. ‘Let’s just say that if I’m not out of here in ten minutes this entire station will be stardust.’ He looked at the ceiling. ‘On the bright side, you wouldn’t need skylights.’
Quag barked something that sounded obscene and stepped forward.
‘M’lord, this is not possible. We woke him from deep sleep. Our encephaloscan clearly showed he was in delta phase. He was not expecting us and so could not have activated any device. We never took our eyes off him.’
‘Calm down, Quag,’ said Lotang. ‘I am sure our esteemed visitor equipped himself with some kind of fail-safe device long before he set foot on Reema’s End. Just as I would have.’
Maximus gave a shallow bow.
‘It’s always nice doing business with an equal, Nathaniel.’
‘The feeling is mutual, Mr Lotang.’
They both laughed.
‘Now,’ said Lotang briskly. ‘You have my readouts?’
Maximus held up the cube. Lotang could see the self-destruct light blinking. His eyes narrowed.
‘What is this? Do we not have a deal?’
‘We do. I merely wish to assure myself that you have what I want.’
Lotang smiled but it was the smile of a killer dealing the death blow. Lotang nodded at Quag, who fetched a metal briefcase from a wall cavity, placed it on a desk and opened it. Inside were several vials of green liquid. A shimmering stasis field could just be seen.
‘I suggest you leave the stasis field on at all times,’ said Lotang.
‘In this instance that would be extremely foolhardy of me to accept,’ replied Maximus. ‘Of course.’
Lotang flicked his hand. Quag shut off the field and stood back while Maximus ran a quick analysis of the content of the vials. He nodded to Quag who restored the field.
‘I have one further request,’ said Maximus.
Lotang went quite still. ‘It would be unwise to test my patience further.’
And it would be unwise to underestimate my willingness to send us all to meet our ancestors.’
A ghost of a smile played abo
ut Lotang’s lips. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘There is a woman. Anneke Longshadow.’
‘A RIM agent.’
‘Yes. She’s turned rogue. No telling what she’s capable of. Especially on your home turf.’
‘She is of little consequence to my organisation.’
‘Ah, but that’s the sticking point.’ Maximus wagged his finger.
‘Continue.’
‘I want you to kill her for me.’
‘And why should we do this?’
‘She is an inconvenience to me.’
‘That is no matter to me … Nathaniel.’
‘It is your fault she is an inconvenience to me.’
‘Explain.’
Maximus recounted his story, of how it was because of the blundering of an agent of Lob Lotang’s Quesada Clan that Anneke had discovered a mole existed in RIM Command, thus endangering his position and their pre-existing plans.
Lob evinced surprise, but Maximus saw the man’s mouth twitch in annoyance. ‘I will look into this matter,’ Lob said. ‘If what you say is true, then she shall be dealt with. RIM agents can be bothersome, do you not agree, Nathaniel?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Scum of the universe.’
‘And now the cube, if you please.’
Maximus deactivated the self-destruct on the memory cube and handed it to Quag, who passed it to his master.
‘Oh, just in case anyone gets funny ideas,’ Maximus said, ‘there’s a trip switch that gets activated unless I send a signal to it.’ He shrugged at Lotang’s icy stare. ‘Self-preservation is the hallmark of the Terran empire, Mr Lotang. We’ve learnt that you can’t trust anyone.’
Lotang relaxed. ‘Then we should synchronise our watches. There is a similar device on the vials.’
‘Touché,’ Maximus said. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Mr Lotang.’
Lotang held up the cube reverentially. When he spoke it was as if he spoke to himself alone.
‘History is right. Only the great and the terrible are capable of great and terrible things …’
IT would not be the last time Anneke Longshadow wondered if she were certifiably insane. She had been cooped up for three weeks on one of Fat Fraddo’s contraband ships with a crew of unwashed thugs. On the positive side, it was at least ex-navy and very fast.
All this because of a dying man’s last word and a few shards of fragmented disk debris.
Definitely crazy.
To make things worse the cooling system was failing. In two days the internal temperature of the ship had risen twenty degrees, and tempers among the crew were fraying. Anneke kept to herself most of the time.
But it was during mealtime that things came to a head. Anneke fetched her tray from the dispenser and was about to return to her cabin with her food when she bumped into three crewmen queued up behind her.
‘Sorry’ Anneke said, trying to sidestep them.
‘You think you’re too good to eat with the crew?’ one of the men demanded.
‘I’ve not got time for this,’ Anneke said. ‘I have a date with a story spool. Maybe next time. Now if you’ll excuse me?’
The man slammed his palms against the bulkhead, blocking her exit.
That was a big mistake. After she had broken the first man’s arm, she cracked the skull of the second and threw the third halfway across the mess hall.
Satisfied with the result, Anneke wheeled around and almost collided with a man called Mobus, the unofficial spokesperson for the crew. He took in the damage with a sweeping look, and then advanced on her.
Tired by now, Anneke decided it was definitely time to return to her quarters. So she feinted back, slumping slightly as if afraid, then sprang up and launched a double snap kick: one foot slammed him in the chest and the other in the face. He went down. Few men could stand a direct blow from Normansk-bred leg muscles.
Things onboard didn’t improve after that, except that no one bothered her directly. The mood was venomous, though it did prompt the captain to fix the cooling. Meanwhile, Mobus stomped around, scowling, one of his eyes blackened and swollen. Personally, Anneke thought he would look better with a patch anyway.
A day out from the space station the crew went on strike. The captain, an employee of Fat Fraddo, was between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, the crew wanted Anneke dumped through the airlock. On the other, if the captain complied with this, Fraddo would roast him slowly over a hot fire.
‘Tough one,’ she told the captain, who came to see her, anxiously wringing his hands.
‘What am I going to do?’
‘I’ll tell you what you’re not going to do,’ said Anneke evenly. ‘ You’re not going to dump me out the airlock.’
Help came from an unlikely quarter. Eight hours out from Reema’s End privateers attacked them.
Klaxons blared and the ship’s onboard AI computer broadcast the general order to man battle stations automatically. But the order came too late. The privateer ship had neutralised the Meteor’s sensors and come within cable range, locking onto Fraddo’s ship with magnetic grapples.
The privateers unleashed a bush robot swarm that opened the locks on a docking hatch, and boarded the ship. By the time Anneke reached the mess hall the attack had moved to hand-to-hand combat. Pulse pistols, strong enough to take out a man but not strong enough to damage the ship’s hull, hissed as the Meteor’s crew fought it out. Some had tasers, with clips of five hundred compressed-gas bursts, and barbs with microsensors and body-recognition software. Privateers lay twitching on the decking, yet the boarders were gaining ground.
Anneke charged into the fight, cracking skulls, crushing throats and breaking bones. RIM training, combined with her inherited strength, gave her the edge. She went through the cabin like a lethal blur, and when she got to the other side there were no privateers left standing.
Anneke moved to the main passageway where the privateers had crew members pinned down with pulse fire. As she crouched behind a bulkhead, Mobus tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Come with me,’ he said.
She followed. He led her down a side corridor where he prized off the hatch cover, giving them access to the ventilation shaft.
‘After you,’ Anneke said.
Mobus hauled himself up into the shaft. Anneke followed him through the ventilation system, coming out near the forward docking port. They then made their way through the back passages to a section behind the privateers.
The rest was easy, and within an hour they had rid the ship of privateers. After that, the crew no longer wanted to throw Anneke overboard.
They docked at Reema’s End several hours late, with the pirate vessel intact. There the station security relieved them of the privateers that were still alive. Privateers were as good as hard currency to people with connections. Their vessels were traditionally sold for scrap and parts.
As Anneke disembarked the crew cheered her. Mobus, sheepish and suddenly awkward, told her any time she needed something all she had to do was call. Solemnly shaking hands with her, he informed Anneke she was now an honorary member of the Meteor crew.
‘You need a ship, you let me know. We’re connected. You know?’
‘Don’t think I won’t take you up on that,’ she replied. ‘I might need one here.’
Soon after she was lost in the crowd that swarmed ceaselessly about the station’s concourses and decks. Reema’s reputation, she quickly decided, is well deserved. A bigger collection of cutthroats, thieves and murderers she had never seen. The only puzzling thing was the lack of violence. It was as if a strange code of behaviour operated. Perhaps the knowledge that every third person was a killer with a price on their head kept people on their best behaviour.
Whatever it was, people were actually polite.
Anneke found an overpriced hotel and took a room, using an alias and her fake datapass. According to her documentation she was Astrid Eleto, an arms dealer. Anything less would have given her no cachet.
From there
she started exploring the station, checking out the bars and markets. Here her startling good looks got in the way; men wanted to chat her up or else they distrusted her on sight. She simply didn’t look like everybody else there, she didn’t look hungry: hungry for money, for power or for anything that gave an edge. Nobody wanted to do business with her.
She was at an ‘outdoor’ cafe sipping a local brew when Mobus dropped into the chair beside her.
‘You want a drink?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, indicating the cup of kaj she was half way through. ‘But you have one.’
Mobus nodded, ordered himself a kaj and gulped it with what seemed like relish.
Guess it’s an acquired taste she thought.
‘Nobody talk to you,’ Mobus said with his characteristic directness.
Anneke sighed inwardly. News travelled fast in these places and she had no doubt that the crew of the Meteor had some idea of where she came from. She hoped that after their bonding experience with the privateers she could count on their discretion.
‘You hit it, square,’ Anneke said.
‘Talk to acquaintance of mine. He’s Quesadan, but he’s straight. Jinks Heller. But fast. Leaving. Two hours. You go now, dock eighty-eight, main bay.’ Mobus flashed Heller’s face on a holocard then quickly slipped the card away.
He finished his kaj and stood up. She thanked him.
‘You all right,’ he said and disappeared into the crowd.
‘Well, I guess I do have a fairy godmother after all,’ Anneke murmured to herself. ‘Some godmother. Some fairy.’
She found a directory laser stencilled into a nearby wall and located main bay, dock 88. Piece of cake. But then a rarity happened. She got lost.
She ended up in a corridor in Xix Town, a place full of lowlife, ferals and drifters. She guessed she must’ve taken a left instead of a right, or maybe it was the other way round.
Either way she walked in on something ugly.
An overweight bald man was lashing a young girl with a wire-tipped whip. Each stroke left weals of fine cuts on the girl’s flesh. She was about nine years old. Asking no questions, Anneke wrenched the whip from the man’s hand, slammed him into the wall, then laid the whip across his throat like a garrotte.