The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2)

by L. J. Simpson

  “And then,” said Burns, “what happened next?”

  “The door opened and Barnes shot that guy on the other side. Just blew him away. OK?”

  “And how many people were witness to this event?” said Mullins.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean... how many people saw it happen? Apart from Barnes and the victim.”

  “Just me and Larson.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, as in we were the only other people there, you know?”

  “So, no other witnesses?”

  “No.”

  “No witnesses,” repeated Burns.

  “That’s right,” said Lenny finally beginning to lose his cool. “No witnesses! How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Actually, just the once,” said Burns. “Sergeant Mullins, if you please?”

  Mullins extracted an audio player from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of Lenny and the lawyer. With a nod from Burns, he thumbed the ‘play’ button. There were several muffled, metallic noises followed by a dull thud. Finally, there was a prolonged hissing noise.

  “You are listening to a recording which was recovered from the airlock of D47. What you can hear now are the sounds of the Kingfisher docking. At least, that’s what the experts tell me.”

  Lenny eyed the player suspiciously. His attorney’s face was blank.

  “But it’s the next part which I think you’ll find interesting,” continued Burns. There was a brief pause and then...

  ‘Clang, clang.’

  ‘Are we glad to see you… A meteor must have–’

  ‘Blam! Blam! Blam!’

  ‘Jesus, Lenny! What the hell did you do that for?’

  ‘No witnesses.’

  “No witnesses…” said Burns. “Since – according to your testimony – there were no other persons present, we can only conclude that the Lenny referred to in the recording is yourself, Mr. Leonard. We’ve already analyzed the voice prints on the recording, and as we speak, our people are comparing them to those obtained in this interview. In particular, the words ‘no witnesses’.”

  Lenny lunged forwards and snatched up the audio player, smashing it down on the edge of the table repeatedly until it broke apart in his hands. He cast the remnants aside and glared at Burns, breathing heavily and with fists clenched. The duty officer edged away from his post against the wall, ready to intervene if necessary. Burns simply shook his head.

  “I’m not quite sure what you think that will achieve, apart from us charging you with willful damage to police property.”

  The lawyer laid a hand on Lenny’s arm and whispered something into his ear. Lenny still looked fit to murder someone but held himself in check.

  A few moments later the door opened and a technician leaned inside. He stuck up a thumb. “It’s a match.”

  “Very good,” said Burns. Then he turned back to Lenny. “You’ve been lying to us, Mr. Leonard. Barnes didn’t shoot Clive Donaldson, did he? You did. And I have to ask myself why, and why you wanted no witnesses. And that brings me back to the only person aboard D47 that you – or the people that hired you – might have been interested in. Commodore Jacks. That’s why you rendezvoused with D47. The accident on the prison transport was engineered either by you or your accomplices with the sole intention of gaining access to Commodore Jacks.”

  “So what were your instructions, Lenny?” said Mullins. “Was it a hit, or an abduction?”

  Lenny sat there, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Foley again placed his hand on Lenny’s arm.

  “My client wishes to remain silent at this time.”

  “I’ll bet he does,” said Burns.

  “Shall I do the honors?” said Mullins.

  “No, that’s all right,” said Burns. “I think I might do it myself, for once.” He turned to face Lenny. “Zak Leonard, I am arresting you for the murder of Clive Donaldson. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say may be used in evidence in a court of law. Further, it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention something which you later rely on in court.”

  “You can’t do this!” said Lenny.

  “Already have, son,” said Mullins.

  Burns nodded to the duty officer who pulled Lenny to his feet and snapped the handcuffs around his wrists. Lenny struggled briefly but the duty officer was just as tall but with twice the muscle volume. He soon held Lenny in a vice-like grip.

  “Do something!” Lenny yelled at the lawyer.

  “Take him down to the cells,” said Burns.

  “I would like time to confer with my client,” said Foley as the duty officer propelled Lenny towards the door.

  “And you’ll get it. Once he’s been formally charged and we’ve finished the paperwork.”

  “I’m not taking the rap for this,” screamed Lenny as he was escorted from the room. “You hear me?” He was still ranting as he disappeared down the corridor. “Tell Hobbs! Tell him to get me out of here! Tell him I know stuff, you know? Tell him!”

  “It seems that Mr. Leonard has suddenly found his tongue,” said Burns.

  “My client is obviously under considerable stress,” said the lawyer, hurriedly putting away his files. “I must insist that you do not speak to him again unless I am present.”

  “Like everyone else, he has the right to legal representation and rest assured we’ll remind him of his rights before we question him further. Of course, whether he decides to exercise those rights is entirely up to him.”

  Foley scowled and stalked off out of the room.

  “Tell Hobbs I know stuff?” said Mullins once Foley was out of earshot. “I wonder exactly what kind of stuff that would be?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Burns, “but I suppose we’d better ask him. As soon as his attorney’s left the building I think maybe we’ll have a wander down to the cells and see if Lenny’s in the mood for an informal chat. And get someone to pull Larson in. Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”

  * * *

  Within the hour, Foley was sitting across from Jack Hobbs in the corner booth of a quite diner near the Cascades Club. Hobbs both envied and despised the attorney, a man who made vast sums of money by protecting the men who took all the risks while he took none at all. Win or lose, he and his kind collected their pay, all the time hiding behind a legal system they spent most of their waking hours attempting to pervert, though without actually breaking any of its laws in the process. Parasites all, and entirely without honor. But necessary. Oh, so necessary.

  As the lawyer left – without troubling himself to pay the bill – Hobbs leaned back in his seat and considered lawyer’s report.

  Lenny had been a mistake, a big mistake, but at least one that was rectifiable – one way or the other. Even if he spilled his guts to the authorities, there was little of substance that he could tell them – he just hadn’t been involved with the Delph long enough to have learned very much. And now he never would.

  Larson was quite another matter though – he knew enough about the Delph’s dealings to cause all sorts of problems if he decided to cooperate with the police. He was a good man, was Larson. Capable and reliable, but there were others like him to be found, and the bottom line was that there was no sense in taking any chances.

  It was time for another bout of house cleaning.

  * * *

  Magmox Breaker’s Yard, Atlas

  Bruno Tully sat at the controls of the Plover, a fifty year old shuttlecraft pensioned off from one of the big transport companies based on Atlas. Firing up the vessel’s aging power grid, he watched the equally antiquated cockpit instruments flicker and then spring into life. Bruno allowed the ship to settle for a few minutes, scrutinizing the various gauges and dials in search of any abnormality. Satisfied that there was nothing amiss, he engaged the thrusters and moved slowly away from the Magmox breaker’s yard, the final resting place of dozens of once proud ships, their voyaging days over
and now laid up, waiting only for their carcasses to be picked clean of anything valuable before the remainder was carved up for recycling.

  The Plover had been destined for the same fate, but thanks to the commodore, she had been granted a reprieve, one last hurrah.

  Constructed along the lines of an old military shuttle, the Plover was – according to the yard’s owners – an honest little ship, sturdy, solid and true. Unfortunately, due to a few ‘minor’ issues, she was unlikely to receive an airworthiness certificate when she presented herself for the test which was due in just a matter of weeks. Not quite so sturdy, solid and true after all, thought Bruno.

  Nonetheless, claimed the yard’s salesman, with a little tender, loving care, the Plover should sail through the test, after which she could be relied upon to give many more years of faithful service. Bruno had heard it all before and so had Commodore Jacks, who negotiated like veteran. Eventually, he secured a deal that suited all parties and thus became the proud owner of a genuine, veteran transport.

  As it happened, Bruno had a love for aging vessels; he liked the look and the feel of them. There was a simple elegance to ships like this, they came from a less complicated age and that alone appealed to him. In another life he might have made a career of restoring such vessels to their former glory. There was never a shortage of customers even though the cynic would say that if these old clunkers had been any good, they would still be making them. Nevertheless, restored to pristine condition, she would fetch far more than she had originally been sold for… but that was not on the agenda.

  What was on the agenda, at least as far as Bruno was concerned, was spending the next seventy two hours in solitude aboard the Plover, the time necessary for Commodore Jacks and Sergeant Fletcher to make the transit to Earth and then complete the preparations for their own missions.

  In the meantime, Bruno had his own short journey to make. Once clear of the Magmox perimeter he engaged the main engines and fired a ten second burst, heading out towards his pre-designated layover point in extreme high orbit above Atlas. Once there, he would power the ship down and begin his wait, during which he would go over the details of his own mission, memorizing the layout of his objective and brushing up on his technique of laying explosive charges.

  At the predetermined hour three days hence, Jacks, Fletcher and Bruno would engage their designated targets in a coordinated attack. In Bruno’s case, that entailed a visit to the space station Orbital One and a date with someone called Chuck Poulson.

  * * *

  Atlas Central

  “Sigmund Larson? Detective Raney, Atlas police,” said the visitor, holding up his ID card. Another man stood just behind in the hallway outside Larson’s apartment. “We need you to come down to the station to answer a few questions.”

  Larson glanced down at the ID card and then up at the man’s face. He seemed familiar but he wasn’t the detective he’d spoken to before.

  “About what?”

  “We’ve received a communiqué from the authorities on Rubicon. It seems they’ve apprehended the people who took your ship. We’d like you to look at some photos and see if you can identify the suspects.”

  “About time too,” said Larson. “I’ll get my coat.” He snatched a jacket from a hook on the wall and followed the detectives outside, locking his apartment door as he went. “How about the ship?” he said. “Have they got my ship?”

  “I believe so. A vessel has been impounded pending an investigation and I imagine we’ll need you to identify that as well. If it’s the same vessel I’m sure it will find its way back to you once the formalities have been completed. The car is just over here.” The detective pointed to an unmarked black sedan and held the rear door open as Larson climbed inside. Raney closed the door and then climbed into the front passenger seat, his colleague entering the driver’s side. The car pulled smoothly away and headed towards the city center, entering a busy thoroughfare packed with vehicles of all descriptions.

  “Any idea how they were caught?”

  “Couldn’t say,” said Raney. It was only then that Larson really looked at Raney’s colleague; he could see his reflection quite clearly in the driver’s rear view mirror. It was another face that Larson had seen before but couldn’t quite place. Why would that be?

  A few minutes later it dawned on Larson that if they were headed for Atlas Central Police HQ, they were taking a decidedly scenic route.

  Then it hit him; he recognized the driver… his name was Bren. He’d seen him before at the Cascades and whatever else he was, he certainly wasn’t a policeman. And if he wasn’t a policeman then neither was Raney… which meant that the story about his ship and the perpetrators was just a ruse to get him into the car.

  Larson had never received any military training as such, but his years as a freelancer had taught him enough about tactics to know he was in a pretty desperate situation. There were only so many reasons for being taken for a cruise with a couple of mobsters and none of them bode well for the future.

  The good news was that he hadn’t survived a dangerous occupation for so many years by being stupid. He was as cunning as he was resourceful. All he needed to do was get out of the car. As they slowed for an intersection his hand edged to the door handle.

  “How many years do you get for piracy?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Up to the judge,” said Raney, twisting in his seat. He was holding a gun in his right hand and it was pointed straight at Larson’s chest. “And don’t even think about opening that door. You won’t make it, I promise you.”

  Larson shrugged. So much for plan A. He wasn’t sure what plan B might be when it suddenly presented itself in the form of a cyclist who cut across in front of the car. Bren cursed as the car’s collision avoidance system immediately kicked in, the car braking and swerving to the right. The vehicles around responded in kind, sending a ripple back down the crowded thoroughfare.

  As the car swerved, Raney’s arm came up. Larson needed no second invitation – he slammed Raney’s arm into the roof of the car, sending the gun tumbling from his grip and onto the floor between the two front seats. While Raney was scrambling for his gun, Larson threw himself at the rear door, flipping the latch and tumbling out of the still moving car. He rolled over two or three times before jumping to his feet. Vaulting the guard rail at the edge of the sidewalk, he charged into a throng of people milling outside the entrance to a shopping mall. Darting inside, he caught a glimpse of Raney leaping over the same guard rail with gun in hand, bystanders scattering in all directions.

  Keeping his head as low as possible, Larson pushed his way through the crowd of Saturday afternoon shoppers. A minute later he arrived at an intersection, concourses lined with shops to his left and right. He dodged down the left hand concourse, shrugging himself out of his jacket as he did so. He threw it a convenient garbage can and then plucked a cap from the head of a startled shopper. Before the youth had a chance to react, Larson had pulled the cap down over his eyes and was away. He ran on for another hundred meters before entering a menswear store, one aimed at the younger clientele, with subdued lighting and high shelving. He grabbed a pair of trousers from a rack and shut himself in one of the fitting booths, using the time to gather his senses.

  For whatever reason, the Delph had decided to dispense with his services – permanently. For the time being, the why didn’t matter; his immediate goal was to get the hell out of Atlas Central as soon as possible. He couldn’t risk going back to his apartment but luckily, he wouldn’t have to.

  First things first. He put the trousers back on the rail and quickly selected a new jacket and one of those wide brimmed hats that had conveniently crept back into fashion. Keeping a sharp lookout for Raney and Bren, he calmly walked to one of the exits and once outside, he hailed a taxi. Twenty minutes later he was descending the stairs of a subway station on the other side of the city. His objective wasn’t the station platform, but the row of left luggage lockers on the first level down. Extracting
a key from a pocket in his wallet, he opened up one of the lockers and withdrew a leather pouch. Inside was his fail-safe kit. A couple of false passports with corresponding driving licenses and social security cards, several unused credit cards and a hundred thousand credits in crisp, new banknotes.

  He eschewed the main rail and air terminals – they were probably being watched and what better place for someone to sidle up and run a knife into his kidneys. No thank you.

  Instead, he made for the nearest car hire firm and rented a medium sized utility vehicle. He drove three hundred kilometers to a small town south of Atlas Central and from there took the east bound maglev train.

  Sitting in the plush seat of a first class compartment, he was finally able to relax and take stock of the situation. He’d always had a good working relationship with the Delph. On occasion they approached him to do a job, a fee would be negotiated and paid upon completion. That’s all there was to it. It was always strictly business so why they should suddenly pull this kind of stunt was anyone’s guess. Did it have something to do with the screw-up on D47? That was hardly his fault – well, partly it was, since he was the man that had hired Barnes, but he’d stuck to the cover story even after he’d lost his ship, and the cheapskates hadn’t even provided him with a half decent lawyer.

  And what was all that melodrama with the fake policemen? St.Clair wouldn’t have bothered, that was for certain. If the orders had come from him, Raney would have just pushed him to the floor and double-tapped him there and then in the hallway of his apartment. No, this had Jack Hobbs written all over it. The man was as smart as they came but he was just too much of a showman. With any luck it would be his downfall.

  All Larson could do now was cut his losses and try and make a new start… perhaps try and call in a few favors. He still had a good portion of the profits from his previous ventures tucked away in a numbered account, and with luck it would be enough to buy him a stake in another operation – preferably somewhere a very long way from Atlas.

  By nightfall, he was safely on the other side of the continent.