Mercenary

by Dave Barsby

  Rogdo scratches his head, then realises there is no other option. He removes a datacard from his jacket and slips it into the machine. Two seconds later, the datacard is spat back out. Its details have been recorded and a direct debit system has been authorised between Rogdo’s account and the jumped-up parking meter.

  “Hmm,” Rogdo says, again to himself but loud enough for the local neighbourhood to hear. “For just ten extra tabs, you can order a personal, self-driving taxi service direct from your craft to any location you wish.”

  “Shall we ask if it will take us to Camera-7?” Tima quips.

  Rogdo smiles, presses the order button. “Let’s see.”

  Ten tabs are immediately debited from Rogdo’s account. After a fifteen minute wait for the taxi, a frustrated Rogdo furiously jabs the button again. Another ten tabs are debited. Rogdo grabs the meter and begins to shake it, attempting to throttle the machine. Four hundred tabs are debited for disorderly behaviour and attempted criminal damage. Rogdo steps back and refuses to go near the machine again.

  We have learned our first valuable lesson on Pilatara – everything you do will cost you money. There are plenty more lessons still to come.

  When we first get to meet President Gartha, Rogdo is already 11,926 tabs out of pocket. Talking in a moving vehicle was one we were all fined for several times. Add to that the fact that the taxi itself wasn’t ten tabs – that was only to order one. The taxi proceeded to charge us an extortionate fee for the journey to the palace (long route, naturally), then as we were leaving and the direct debit was being processed it casually mentioned that the charge was per person. Immediately after, Rogdo was fined twenty seven times for swearing in a public place.

  We pass the initial security detail only after an X-ray search for weapons (I am given a conventional though thorough pat-down because X-rays will mess up my memory implant) and another fifteen minute argument over whether Rogdo can be persuaded to repeat the password. Eventually I chip in with the answer and we are allowed onto Gartha’s private gold-plated elevator.

  The elevator is silent, the quiet only punctuated by a regular thunk. I glance around my colleagues. Rogdo looks bored, Tima is professionally composed, Bolland’s ageing and rejuvenating procedure seems to have stepped up a notch, likely brought on by the stress of the situation. Sanshar is making the thunk, or to be precise the swishing of her tail against the elevator wall is. I’ve never actually seen a Cat up close. She is soft, sleek, a golden hue to her body. Large, bright eyes framed by long, delicate lashes, coarse whiskers protruding from a permanent grin. I suddenly realise that I am staring at her. It doesn’t pass Sanshar by either. She turns to me, meeting my gaze. My cheeks flush.

  “What are you staring at, kid?” she purrs (literally).

  “Erm…I…” my ability to form coherent sentences escape me.

  She smiles kindly, that permanent grin growing wider. “You want to stroke me, don’t you.”

  “Erm…” I scratch the back of my neck, embarrassed.

  “I get it all the time. Go ahead.”

  Nervously I reach out one hand. She does look so soft and cuddly, and surely Cats get pleasure from a little pat on the head – the ones on Earth always used to.

  As my hand grows close, she snaps at it with a feline growl. I immediately withdraw, cradling my untouched hand protectively and stare wide-eyed at her. The other elevator passengers start to quietly laugh.

  “Never touch the fur, kid,” Sanshar says.

  “She does that to all the fresh meat,” Tima explains. “At least you didn’t cry.”

  I don’t like being the butt of a joke – no one does. Some people let it turn them into a blubbering wreck, wailing that nobody likes them. Some shrug it off as just another cruel facet of life. I am the kind of person who stands up for myself, proud and strong in the face of adversity. Well, at this very moment I am that kind of person. I feel a surge of adrenaline coming on, but I’m not sure if it is because I am about to assert my place, or if I’m expecting Sanshar to attack me in five seconds time.

  “I’ve always wondered if your species uses a kitty litter tray,” I say calmly.

  The plan works, in a sense. Tima and Rogdo burst into laughter, Bolland warily awaits the shedding of blood and Sanshar narrows her eyes.

  “You give as good as you get, kid,” she says. “You’re all right.”

  “Glad to see you’re finally making friends with the crew,” Rogdo tells me. Before I can respond the elevator doors open.

  A narrow, long corridor, walls and ceiling painted cream, carpet thick and burgundy, potted plants and famous landscape art arranged at regular intervals. Somehow it is as I always expected it. Expensive but devoid of taste or style. At the far end of the corridor is another security detail, and we are checked once more. This time I offer up the password before we are even asked, to avoid further arguments. We are led into Gartha’s office.

  Similar to the corridor, the office is largely devoid of taste or style. It is far too big for its purpose. Gartha sits on a leather chair behind a large mahogany desk with precious little paperwork on it. Behind him is a wall-to-wall one-way window offering a quite stunning view of the sprawling metropolis and the forest beyond. In one corner, what looks like an en suite bathroom, in the other, an unused meditation lounge.

  “Ah, come in, please. Sit down, sit down,” Gartha says in a laconic, corrupted drawl, not deigning to stand before us. We settle into four of the semi-circle of chairs close to the desk, Sanshar opting for the floor. “Would you like anything? Drink? Food?” Gartha continues.

  “Do you have coffee?” I ask, not realising Rogdo has already given ‘the look’ to everyone else to refuse the offer.

  “But of course,” Gartha answers with an unnerving greasy smile.

  Sanshar plucks up the courage to disobey Rogdo’s ‘look’. “I don’t suppose you have any stewed rabbit in jelly?” she asks.

  “I don’t suppose we do,” is Gartha’s response. “Anyone else? No?” He turns his attention to the guard at the door. “Bring a coffee.”

  The guard closes the door behind him. I realise for the first time that Gartha doesn’t have any other security measures. There is no one else in this office except him and us. No discernible CCTV, alarms or the like. Just a few guards standing outside the heavy double doors. This kind of security must be an assassin’s dream, I think, and I am about to wonder if I should choose this moment to persuade Rogdo he’s been hired to kill the wrong man when I remember that thorough X-ray searches prevented any weapons being smuggled in, and that not even Sanshar could rip out the monster’s throat before enough sound was made to alert the guards. My dream will have to wait a little longer, I realise.

  “So, to business,” Gartha says.

  “To business,” Rogdo answers.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Erm…” Rogdo’s cheeks flush. “Sorry. I thought that was a toast.”

  “Without drinks?”

  “Hey,” Tima butts in. “Don’t patronise-”

  Rogdo holds up a hand, silencing her. “It’s okay,” he says. “The President is paying us enough money to patronise me if he wants.”

  Gartha grins. It is a grin everyone across the galaxy would recognise, even if they’ve never seen it before. It is the grin of someone who knows they are in control and they love that power.

  “Ah, yes, money,” he says. “It makes the universe go round.” He clasps his hands together in contemplation. “I like you, Mr Flavian. You understand the power of money. The only people who say money can’t buy you happiness, are those who don’t have any.”

  There is a brief, barely audible knock at the double doors and they open. I am handed a small, pathetic cup of weak coffee and a note. I glance at the note. Rogdo’s account is down by another fifteen tabs. I screw the note up and decide not to tell him – he’ll probably pick up a few more fines on the way back to the ship, so he shouldn’t notice a 15-tab cup of coffee. I sip at the drink. It tastes
bitter.

  “So, as I said, to business,” Gartha says. I almost raise my cup in a toast just to piss him off. “One mill now, the rest upon confirmation of Bailes’ death.”

  “Okay,” is Rogdo’s answer.

  “I am hiring you, Mr Flavian, because I am told you are the best. I could have killed Bailes myself by now. We often know of his rough location, and we have the ability to carpet-bomb the area with nuclear devices. But that will bring with it another problem – meddling outsiders. So far, the political bureaucrats of this fine galaxy have tutted and wagged their fingers at me, but that is all. I know most of the public is against me. In their naïve optimism they see a glorious fight for the freedom of the people with me as their oppressive ruler. Well, let them, I don’t care what they think as long as all they do is talk. But if I were to have Bailes assassinated, there would be moral outrage and several star systems would fully back the war effort against me. No matter that I have the people’s best interest at heart…” Gartha briefly indicates the cityscape behind him. I take the opportunity to burst his majestic bubble by slurping my coffee. Unfazed, he continues.

  “Quite simply, Mr Flavian, I want you to kill Hawk Bailes but no one must know I was in any way involved in this operation. You have never met me, you have never spoken to me. Is that clear?”

  “Discretion. No problem.”

  “God help you, Mr Flavian, if this gets to the press. I have a saying you would do well to heed: ‘See a journalist, shoot a journalist.’”

  I find that so amusing I just have to do something. I grin and say “Yes.”

  Gartha fixes me with an amazed stare. “Did that person just speak to me?” he asks. “Who allowed that person to speak to me?”

  “Sorry,” Rogdo quickly interjects before I can dig my hole directly to the planet’s core. “Involuntary reaction.”

  “Involuntary reaction to what?” Gartha asks suspiciously.

  “To…erm…rousing speeches, Mr President.”

  Gartha throws a datacard to Rogdo, who catches it awkwardly. “You have your money. I have your assurance of discretion. Do you need anything else?”

  Rogdo shrugs and is about to reply negatively when Tima forcibly clears her throat.

  “Well?” Gartha asks her directly. “Speak.”

  “I am the chief strategy officer, Mr President. Would it be possible for me to liaise with a member of your military intelligence? We will require some more information about the enemy.”

  “Very well,” Gartha sighs. “I will send for someone. Wait in the corridor for them. The rest of you may leave the building. Quickly.”

  Rogdo behaved perfectly the entire journey back to the Diablo III, so he noticed the bill for the coffee and earned another three swearing fines.

  The only other time he set foot outside the ship he took three steps and accidentally squashed an endangered beetle. Another ten grand on the bill plus five more swearing fines.

  I spent a day sight-seeing, but the city largely comprised of financial office blocks and art museums dedicated to images and statues of Gartha – nothing worth a first look, never mind a second.

  We all spent the rest of the time waiting for Tima to hatch a plan.

  4. TARA’S PILLOW

  The landing craft is stapled to the top of the Diablo III, with the rear loading ramp forming the floor of an airlock. Once we are bundled into the cramped, poorly-lit craft, the hatch closes, the airlock is unsealed and Drift carefully levers us off the larger ship’s hull.

  The ride is bumpy, every slight wind shear creates a distressing jolt and my already queasy stomach is ready to perform an exit procedure. I have now spent seven days attempting to alter Rogdo’s mind, but he is adamant that the mission must be carried out, especially now he has taken Gartha’s money. I know when I am beaten, but I have decided to keep my ears open for any opportunity that may arise.

  The sun is setting over the treetops as the black landing craft skims the humid air to our destination. We have narrowed down Bailes’ location to within a fifty mile radius. Sanshar’s keen sense of smell will do the rest after we set down undetected in a clearing just outside our target area.

  The plan is, as Tima often said, quite simple. Gronk is still guarding the Diablo III, Yew has been told to feed Torque via the engine room hatch and Dirk has the most hazardous job of all by attempting to clean the galley. The rest of the crew are on this little jaunt. Once we set down, Bolland will stay by the landing craft while Sanshar leads us to Bailes’ camp. Once there, she will return to the landing craft for two reasons – one, if something happens to Drift, she can still pilot the craft, and two, in order to act undercover as rebel soldiers we need to be humanoid, so Cats are out of the question.

  The other five, namely Rogdo, Tima, Drift, Hiaelia and myself, have been dressed in rebel militia clothing. We each wear a neck scarf drawn across the larynx, inside which is a vocaliser that will distort our voices to create a believable Pilatara accent. I am the only one not armed with a retro-fitted carbine weapon, but I am armed with the most vital weapon of them all – knowledge. Passcodes, slang, military regulations, details of squads, regiments, companies, including names and bases of operation. The others have all tried their best to learn as much as possible, but thanks to my memory implant I can avoid any faux pas in an instant. That is, as long as Gartha’s information is accurate.

  It comes in handy as soon as we stumble upon the camp. The journey had been arduous through the thick vegetation, and it is already deep into the night-time when we arrive. As the scampering of Sanshar drifts into the distance, we hear a rifle cocking.

  “Who goes there?” a deep voice calls out.

  “Scouts for the 23rd Squad, 4th Company,” Tima calls back. She has been chosen as the Sergeant of our team, with Rogdo a Corporal and the rest of us lowly Privates because the rebel factions seem to favour a more matriarchal command system despite commander-and-chief Bailes’s obviously masculinity.

  “23rd Squad? What are you doing here?”

  “Scouting. We’re stationed at Beta Zone now.”

  There is a brief, furious and unintelligible bout of whispering from beyond the treeline.

  “Come forward,” is the response we receive.

  We brush past the last vestiges of foliage into a small clearing draped with a camouflage netting. A fire roars heartily in the centre of the camp, several tents are pitched around it and scruffy soldiers casually sit on wooden logs. Four soldiers are ready to greet us with raised weapons.

  “23rd isn’t at Beta Zone,” one of the soldiers tell us angrily. “They’re at Camp Oxon.”

  Tima laughs heartily, clearly enjoying this role-playing. I, on the other hand, am struggling to stay conscious. “Oxon?!?” she calls. “We left there six weeks ago! When did you hear that?”

  Two of the soldiers glance at each other. “Erm, four months ago,” the designated speaker answers guiltily.

  “I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to keep up with where each other is,” Tima responds. “I mean, who are you guys? We’ve had no word about anyone else being in these parts.”

  “No, you won’t have,” says another voice. Before he even exits the tent, just by the voice alone, we all know we are in the presence of Bailes. His voice carries weight, it commands authority and it causes our four-man greeting party to immediately lower their weapons and stand to attention. Bailes slips through the flaps of his tent, his bare, muscled torso streaked with mud. His chin holds a few days stubble, his dark hair is tangled. But even with the mud, the stubble and the tangled hair he makes such a striking figure most grown men would weep with jealousy at the mere sight of him. Rogdo and Drift hold their composure, while the ladies of the group successfully avoid the sexist cliché of swooning in his presence. This man…this God of men, is our target for assassination. Even if his appearance wasn’t enough to turn the heads of devout heterosexuals, he oozes such an authority and integrity it is actually quite difficult not to drop to your knee
s and start praying right there. Think I’m milking this point a bit, piling it on a little too strong? Obviously, you never met him.

  “We won’t have what, Sir?” Tima asks after a brief, flustered pause.

  “Won’t have had word we are here,” Bailes responds. “So, 23rd Squad, 4th Company. How’s Commander Traskill?”

  “We wouldn’t really know that, Sir,” Tima says. “We don’t exactly socialise with the officers.”

  “Ah, still like that, is she. Likes to keep rank disciplined.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And how about her nephew? How’s he doing in 3rd Company?”

  There is a brief silence. Tima takes in a deep breath. It seems that my implant is needed.

  “Spud transferred to 1st Company eighteen months ago, Sir,” I answer, praying I am right. My throat tickles as the vocaliser kicks in, and I am surprised how different my voice sounds.

  “Heh, old Spud,” Bailes says to himself. “They’re okay. Let them in.”

  “Actually, Sir, we were just passing through,” Tima answers.

  “Nonsense. Stay here the night. Enjoy our hospitality, for what it’s worth.”

  Tima glances round at us for effect, as though we really are deciding if we should stay or not. She is greeted by several nods. “Very well,” she answers.

  After we have pitched our tent (well, for the ‘sergeant’ only, the rest of us will have to sleep rough) and eaten a surprisingly hearty meal of soft, fluffy bread and a rich stew, we are gathered round the fireplace by Bailes. He seems very eager to talk with us. Cynics may say it is because he has been stuck with the same soldiers for several years and needs fresh chat, but there is a sense that he genuinely likes talking to the lower ranks no matter how well he knows them, and it fills us with a warmth the cool night air fails to banish. This man isn’t leading the people, he isn’t fighting for the people, he is the people.

  “Enjoy your meal?” he asks warmly as the six of us perch on logs around the camp fire. Some of the other soldiers are gambling in a corner, the rest have disappeared either to bed or on patrol. It seems that tonight’s chat is exclusively for us.