Benkei grabbed Sasha by the back of his collar as they entered the lift to take them down to the ground floor, Sasha barely being able to stuff his slate into the pocket of his slim, black jacket before dropping it.
“Hey, no, no, no,” he said. “You see this face? They’ll eat me alive down there!”
“Think of it as a character-builder,” said Benkei as the elevator began its descent.
The doors soon opened, revealing a dingy hanger staffed by grungy-looking lowlifes of various stripes, all wearing ratty clothes and covered in engine grease. The eyes of each of them shot to Amelia and Sam as they passed, and Amelia rolled her eyes at the obviousness of their leering, pointing to them twelve-millimeter pistol on her hip as she walked passed them.
The exit of the dock led to a bay of elevators, and the crew stepped into the closet available one, a dingy, tight box that was a stark contrast to the one on the Meridian. The elevator clanked and groaned upwards before creaking open, revealing the commercial floor of Icarus station.
It was a large, open area, a dome-shaped space packed with merchant stands, storefronts, and thousands of mercs, smugglers, drug dealers, and pirates, all armed, and all dangerous-looking. The place was a cacophony of merchants shouting out goods for sale, customers haggling, and the various other sounds of a large marketplace. The storefronts were decorated with gaudy neon lights of purple, orange, and red, the combinations of color all eye-catching in the most aesthetically offensive ways. Fights broke out here and there, quick punch-ups that ended as quickly as they began.
The crew made their way through the space, angling their bodies to weave through the crowds. A greasy, sweaty scent rushed into Amelia’s nose. It was the dirty smell that Amelia had always associated with Icarus. To her, it was the smell of anarchy.
“I don’t know, maybe this isn’t so bad,” yelled Sasha over the din, meeting the eyes of a nearby prostitute who looked him over with a seductive glance.
“Unless you’re looking to bring some new bacteria samples on board to study, I’d stay away from those women,” said Benkei.
Amelia, not wanting to yell over the noise, pointed in the direction of a nearby bar. The crew nodded to one another and ducked into it, the din of the marketplace quickly replaced by the raucous chaos of the bar.
“There!” said Amelia, pointing to a circular booth that seemed out of the way, a place where they might get some privacy.
The crew darted over to it, settling in. Amelia took a look around the bar. It was a circular space, a tall bar in the middle staffed with a tall, bulky man with a one flesh arm and the other a dark red cybernetic replacement. The lights were low and cast the space in a wash of orange. Sleazy rock music played on the speakers. Benkei, being the one who could most easily shove his way through the crowds, volunteered to get the first round. He disappeared in the masses, only the top his head visible, and returned in a few moments with a tray of beers in glasses that had clearly been given only the most perfunctory of cleanings before being used again.
“So, plan?” asked Benkei, taking a sip of his beer.
“Plan is we stay here only as long as it takes for us to get a line on a gig, then we get out,” said Amelia.
“Any chance of getting something fast? Really fast?” asked Sam before taking a long swig of her beer that left her glass half-drained.
Amelia looked through the glass front of the bar, out at the marketplace beyond.
“Hm. There should be mercs looking to actively recruit, but those’re the kinds of gigs that’re low-pay, high-danger,” said Amelia, her blue eyes squinting as she looked into the distance.
“I’ve never been here before,” said Sasha. “Can’t we just find the richest-looking guy and ask to do security work for him?”
“We could,” said Benkei. “But in a place like this, the richest-looking man is also likely the mast dangerous person to do that kind of work for. They’re almost guaranteed to be drug kingpins, the kind who’re constantly paying mercs to work as a barrier between them and the ankle-biters who want to replace them.”
“Right,” said Amelia. “Shit pay in so you can work as cannon fodder for some cocky drug-slinger who’s probably going to get killed before he can get too comfortable.”
“Hmm,” said Sam. “Maybe some smuggling work? That’d get us off the station.”
“I’d be fine with that,” said Amelia. “But—”
Before Amelia could finish her sentence, a large, dark hand slammed onto the circular table, the impact rattling the glasses on top of it. The crew looked up at who the hand belonged to and were greeted with a massive man with nearly black skin, a shaved head, and a nose that was half-missing and set below a pair of eyes that burned with anger. Behind him was a crew of three men and one woman, all as scuzzy and hardscrabble as anyone else in the bar, and at his side was a beefy pit bull covered with scars carved into its gray fur.
“Sorry to interrupt the meeting,” he said, his voice in a thick, German accent. “But this table is reserved.”
Amelia, after taking a sip of the beer in her hand, looked up at the man.
“Sorry, friend,” she said, setting her beer down. “But when we checked with the maitre'd she said we were good.”
“Cute,” he said. “I like cute. But right now, I’m not in a mood for fucking around. This is Gunter’s table, and only Gunter and his crew can sit here.”
“Gunter’s the dog, I take it?” asked Sasha, looking over the rim of his glass of beer at the hound at the man’s side.
Gunter let out a quick bark of a laugh before turning his eyes to Sasha.
“Nah, I’m Gunter. This here, is Daffodil. I call her that because she’s as pretty as one.” He scratched the top of the dog’s boxy head and the dog growled in response. “She’s also the one that did this to me.”
He pointed to the small, ripped mound of scarred flesh that was his nose.
“And now that I’m looking you over, pretty man, I think she’d be more than happy to give you a little facelift. Now, why don’t you little gaggle of shitheads scamper out of here and back to the Aphrodite Spa where you came from?”
“If it’s all the same,” said Amelia, “we’d prefer to stay.”
Benkei shot Amelia a quick, skeptical look, as though trying to talk her out of what she was getting herself into with a glance.
Gunter’s crew seemed to smell the conflict brewing and stepped forward, forming a half-circle around the table.
“Here’s the deal, little girl,” said Gunter, now looming over the table, putting his massive weight onto his hand, the table creaking and groaning. “I’m going to give you to the count of drei, to get your skinny little ass up, or things are going to get real ugly, real fast.”
“I’d say they already have,” said Amelia, looking over Gunter’s scarred face.
“Ah, what my friend meant to say,” said Benkei. “Is that there was a bit of a misunderstanding, and that we’ll be happy to—”
“Eins,” said Gunter, staring at Amelia, who met his gaze, her hand sneaking down her leg, seeking to the handle of a junction knife that was tucked there.
“Zwie.”
Amelia unfastened the blade, grasping it by the slim handled of crosshatched rubber.
“D—”
But before he could finish, Amelia whipped the blade out from under the table and drove it through Gunter’s hand, the tip cutting through the meat and bone of his palm and sticking into the wood of the table with a dull thwack.
Gunter screamed, his face twisted into an expression of pain so ugly that it made his resting face look palatable.
The rest happened, as far as Amelia perceived it, in slow motion.
Benkei sighed, rising from his seat. The table flipped, pulling Gunter along with it. Withdrawing his pistol, he aimed it at the thick part of one of Gunter’s goon’s upper legs, cracking off a wounding shot, bringing the rat-faced man to his knees. Amelia grabbed the handle of the blade as it flew through the air, ya
nking it out of the wood and whipping it at the shoulder of a short, squat gang member, connecting dead-on and driving through the soft padding of his leather armor. He howled and dropped to his knees.
Daffodil soared through the air, saliva dripping from the beast’s mouth in long, clear strands as it lunged with murderous intent, the flesh of Sasha’s face the next meal that it had in mind. Amelia reached out and grabbed the dog by its pink, diamond-studded collar and yanking it out of the air. As she held it in place, Sasha fumbled in his inner coat stash for an oval, stainless steel syringe, which he quickly jammed into the flesh of the scarred, snarling dog. The liquid in the syringe did its work within seconds, the dog slipping into unconsciousness.
Sam leaped behind the booth and ran around toward the three remaining goons, jumping onto the pear-shaped woman, bringing her to the ground as she pummeled her with a flurry of small, tight fists. Amelia kept her body low to the ground as she sized up one of the remaining gang members, leaping up and driving a boot into his stomach, the air rushing from his body with a dry wheeze as he crumpled to the floor.
One goon remained and Benkei kneeled, ready to pick up the upturned table and use it as a makeshift weapon. Gunter lay on the ground next to it, holding his punctured hand by the wrist, a steady stream of bright red blood trickling down it. Benkei, a resigned expression on his face, hoisted the table with one hand, walked over to the remaining gang member, and after taking one last look at the table as though testing its weight, lifted it into the air and brought it down onto the goon in a tight arc. The table smashed to pieces over the goon’s shaved head, bringing him crashing to the ground in a heap.
“We’ll take another round,” he said
The bartender nodded in response and set to work pouring their drinks.
CHAPTER 7
“There’s someone who wants to meet with you,” said the bartender after bringing the crew their drinks, each of the four removing their beer from the tray.
“Oh?” asked Benkei, watching Gunter, a bandage wrapped around his hand, a sleeping Daffodil in his arms, leave the bar with the rest of his crew, his head held low in embarrassment.
“If it’s someone who wants to pick another fight, tell them to at least let us finish our beers first,” said Amelia.
“No,” said the bartender, his words spoken as if measured very carefully. “It’s someone, ah, important.”
His eyes flicked upwards, at one of the tiny security cameras that watched the bar floor.
“Does this ‘important’ person plan on making it worth our time?” asked Amelia.
“Um, yes. They definitely will.”
Amelia shot a look to each of the crew, and they all rose from the booth. Stepping carefully around the debris from the fight, the four of them followed the bartender across the main floor, the eyes of the patrons now on them, as if everyone in the place wanting a glimpse at the mercs who were able to so easily dispatch Gunter and his crew within what seemed like seconds.
They made their way to a nondescript swinging door that they followed the bartender through. It led to a cramped hallway that was as dingy and scummy as the rest of Icarus. They made a series of turns, finally reaching a stretch of the hallway that ended at a pair of gold-colored double doors. The bartender gave the door a quick rap before sidling past the crew.
“Come in, please,” said the calm, American-accented voice on the other side of the door.
Amelia pushed open the double doors, revealing a small, low-ceilinged lounge. The place was furnished with soft, leather seats, decorated with tasteful art of nude men and women, and lit with low, purplish light. A soft fog of smoke hung near the floor, reaching Amelia’s knees. Men and women, all young and beautiful, lay here and there, draped on the furniture, their languid eyes regarding the crew as they entered.
And in the center of the room, sitting cross-legged in the center of a particularly soft-looking couch was a man dressed in a thin red robe adorned with inlays of small, golden flowers. A pair of frameless glasses with frames dark enough to obscure his eyes sat on the bridge of his thin, patrician’s nose. His hands were wrapped around the spherical handle of a cane that was propped between his legs. His head was shaved completely bald, the lavender light of the room reflecting slightly upon his scalp. A willowy, red-haired woman in a skin-tight jumpsuit that was almost as white as her skin was at his side, her pert, red mouth sealed shut as she looked up the crew with sparkling, green eyes.
“You four know how to make quite the entrance,” said the man, his voice calm, deep, and resonant, his hands still on his lap.
“We’d just gotten comfortable,” said Amelia. “I just thought it was rude to ask us to move right as we got our drinks.”
“Hm,” said the man, his mouth a straight line. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what happens when you humiliate a man like Gunter in front of his, well, let’s call them ‘coworkers’, in the way that you did?”
“No, what happens?” asked Sasha, his voice tinged with fear.
“He comes back for vengeance, of course,” said the man.
“Or is completely humiliated and doesn’t show his face around here for a good long while,” said Benkei.
“Or that,” said the man. “Either way, that was a very powerful man that you just put to shame. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to give his crew a good reason why they shouldn’t leave him in the cold as we speak.”
“What’s your point?” asked Amelia.
“My point, is that I know who you are, Amelia Durand. But I hadn’t known what you were capable of. After that little brawl, I have a better idea. I have a job that I think you and your team, not to mention your ship, would be perfect for.”
The man looked around the room, sweeping the open space with a slow turn of his head, the small gathering around him just as impassive as they had been when Amelia and the crew entered.
“But where are my manners? Please, have a seat.”
“I’m good,” said Amelia.
“Ugh, I thought you’d never ask,” said Sasha, collapsing onto the nearest couch. Sam ran to sit next to him and jabbed him with her skinny elbows for the limited space.
Benkei stepped back against the wall next to the door they had entered from, his body tensing as he crossed his large arms over his barrel chest.
“Hm. Suit yourself,” said the man.
“So, what’s the job, and how much does it pay?”
“Right to the point, then. How much do you know about the North American territory?” he asked.
“Just that it was one of the wealthiest areas in the Federation,” said Amelia. “Population of nearly a billion.”
“That’s right. One of the richest and most powerful areas of the planet ever since the Great Wars of the early twenty-first century, and one of the first territories to fall under Federation control outside of the Eurozone.”
“And one of the first to rebel against it,” added Benkei.
“Correct. The point is that while the Sector War ravaged much of Earth and the rest of the galaxy, the bulk of the area once known as the United States managed to avoid much of the destruction that would affect the majority of the globe, as well as much of the solar colonies. Meaning, it’s still a place of great wealth, even more so now that they’re free from Federation taxes. And they want to hold onto that wealth. Though the former United States has broken into several separate sovereign nations, they are all still extremely powerful. New York, however, is unique. The city took advantage of the chaos after the Sector War to become a nation-state of sorts, like Singapore or Hong Kong in the twentieth century, or San Francisco or London in the twenty-first. It’s independent, and wishes to stay that way.”
“Meaning, anything that could increase the wealth of the colonies would decrease the wealth of North America,” added Amelia.
“Correct. Especially with the Eastern Imperium consolidating the way they have been. And the more distance they can put between themselves and the Europe
an war zone as they rebuild, the better.”
“Anyway, the job,” he continued. “There’s a lab in New York. They have data that I want. Data about extra-Terran farming. Data that could be extremely useful in helping the colonies grow, and reduce their dependence on Earth, Venus, and Mars. Reducing this dependency will help the colonies in the belt and beyond increase in power and population, which will be essential in maintaining the power balance of this post-Sector War system. The faster one empire runs away with the most power, the sooner we have another Federation. And the sooner we have another Federation, the sooner we have another Sector War.”
“The politics lesson is great and all, but the pay?” asked Amelia.
“Ah, that’s right. I’m speaking with mercs. Pay is two and a half million. I think that’s more than fair.”
Amelia almost staggered at the amount. That much would keep them in the black for at least the next few months, if not longer.
“Two million?” exclaimed Sam. “Sold!”
Amelia shot Sam a narrow-eyed look. “You still haven’t said exactly what the job is.”
“A data heist, like I said. All of the other details will be made known to you once you get into New York. But trust me, it’s well within the skillset of you and your crew.”
Amelia looked over at Sam and Sasha were both giving enthusiastic nods. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Benkei was giving a nod of his own, though his was more measured. Thoughts of what the money could buy running through her head, Amelia had to restrain herself to avoid looking too eager.
“We’ll do it.”
The man leaned forward. “Excellent,” he said. “I knew you’d make the right call.”
“But wait,” said Amelia. “We didn’t even get your name.”
“Hmm,” he said, looking away. “Call me Geff.”
CHAPTER 8
The Meridian sailed through the debris around Icarus Station. Sam pointed the ship toward the upper atmosphere of Earth, the wisps of clouds over the Northern Hemisphere dominating the view.
Dangerous Data (The Meridian Crew Book 2) Page 4