by Rob Guy
Rob Guy
Also by Rob Guy
Harry Watt Series:
Bombs Away
Bad Blood
Standalone:
A Pisa The Action
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Contents
I. New New Orleans, New America, 2150 AD
1. Harry
2. Larry
II. Onboard The Venus Freighter Dragonfly
3. Raquel
4. Hansel & Gretel
5. Love’s Labour’s Lost
III. Venus Station
6. Angel
7. Dolores
8. Jonny’s
9. The Pursuit
10. Heidi
11. Chisato
12. Dr Noe
13. Choices
14. A Rude Awakening
15. Interview
16. Free To Go
17. Larry Meets Heidi And Chisato
18. In Court
19. Back In Court
20. Raquel Reunited
IV. Onboard The MCS Infinity Wing
21. Welcome Aboard
22. Sachinyo
23. Billy No Mates
24. Twice Two
25. Desperate Measures
26. Heidi Reunited
27. Hackman
V. Mars
28. Bed Rest
29. Back In The Saddle
30. Manny
31. 13
32. The Council
33. Hideout
34. The Message
35. Preparation
36. Family Ties
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Part I
New New Orleans, New America, 2150 AD
1
Harry
Harry Watt’s office was at the intersection of Dumaine and Bourbon Street, on the first floor above the casino, and across from the strip club in the heart of the French Quarter in New New Orleans. Any faded private eye pulp novel from the last two hundred years would have contained an office like Harry’s. It was small and dark, and would occasionally creak and vibrate as the hover-trains flew through, or when events got a little heated down below. He had made repeated requests to his landlord to undergo repairs, but such matters tended to get lost in translation. Mandarin was not Harry’s chosen language, neither, one could argue, was English.
Born to an English father and French mother, Harry had spent all of his childhood in New New Orleans, watching the place become increasingly lawless. He was nineteen when his father was gunned down and killed for the sake of twenty credits. Shortly thereafter he left the family business and applied to join the Bureau, where he served for twelve years, mostly with distinction, until his suspension and subsequent resignation.
When he first began as a Bailsman, Harry would listen intently to what his clients had to say. His hand would scribble away, (he hated the digital graphene tablets), taking notes and questioning every other remark, just so he had the complete picture. In these latter days however, complacency was his enemy. He had heard every story, every wrong doing that people did to each other, continually it seemed. He would listen for maybe a minute before his brown eyes started glazing over.
Harry hated the term Bailsman. Though the job description had changed a great deal over the last century or so, it was still a weak, insipid title to him. Bounty Hunter, that’s what he was. An iron willed, square jawed no excuses kinda guy who took no shit from anybody, someone who got the job done, a maverick, and yes, even a desperado at times. It read Fugitive Recovery Agent on his door, which was slightly better than Bailsman, but not by much. Yes it left little doubt as to his occupation, but it was just so run-of-the-mill. Bounty Hunter. Mention that to anyone and it conjured up a certain mystique, certain ne'er-do-wellness. Plus it had gotten him laid numerous times.
And so here he was, three years and one divorce down the track, sat in his office, waiting for life to start again.
It was Tuesday. Harry hated Tuesdays. Only one thing he hated more than Tuesdays was a wet Tuesday, like this one. They were filled with grey skies and grey people. Take his latest client, back again. Grey suit, grey eyes, grey hair, grey teeth. The Honorable Judge Joseph Belmont Headlock III Junior stood at the window, looking out at the grey and damp world, relaying all the usual bullshit, trying to make the trite sound interesting.
“I want this guy back in custody by the end of the month, understand?” the Judge was saying, tapping one hand onto the other behind his back.
“End of the month, check,” Harry replied, leaning back to stretch his athletic, eighty odd kilogram body.
“God this place is filthy,” Headlock remarked, shifting his gaze to inspect the plasti-glass.
Behind him, Harry pulled a face, and drew a hand through wavy, brown hair before yawning, and clacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. The Judge continued to yabber on about something, but Harry’s mind was already shifting to more important matters. He opened a drawer in the desk to check his gun, a custom made Smith & Wesson .45 semi-automatic, an exact replica of a model manufactured over a century before, circa 2030. It nestled snugly in a beautifully crafted walnut and velvet box beside a silencer and five magazines of ammunition. It took a thirteen round clip, and was fitted with a laser sight, palm print ident grip, flashlight, the works. Yep, still there, still ready and loaded. He pictured it up against the Judge’s skull, the look on his face right before he pulled the trigger.
Harry had a major mistrust of most things modern, weaponry included, and had no time for the latter day excuses for guns, all that silly compressed air pellet nonsense. He was a bounty hunter after all, and a bounty hunter required an appropriate weapon, one that sounded like Hell’s fury, not a high pitched fart.
“Are you listening to me, Watt?”
“What?”
“I said are you listening?” The Judge had turned round, staring at him with an expression that would sour milk.
Harry grimaced and closed the drawer. “I heard you. End of the week, like you said.”
“Month, you dumb ass! End of the month.”
Bang!
“Even you can’t get to Mars and find this guy in a week, though I admit that would be impressive. Once you have him back here, you take him to Tyrell’s on Burgundy first. Okay?”
Harry frowned. “Tyrell? What does he want with him? Isn’t this a federal case?”
“He owes him for dry cleaning. How the hell should I know? Just make sure he sees him first before you bring him back to the courthouse. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Good. Questions?”
“Just one if I may. According to the last press release you’re only looking for one man. But it’s really two isn’t it?”
Headlock narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that?”
“I have a source.”
“A source eh? This source wouldn’t happen to speak with an Irish accent would it?”
“Is it true?”
“Even if it were I’m not giving you any more information than you need.”
“Fair enough.”
“Very well. The State will pay the usual fee plus expenses. And in answer to your earlier query, the Feds have given me autonomy on this one.”
“Really?”
“Cut out
the inquisitor crap, Watt, you’re not with the Bureau anymore.”
Harry moved his lips but didn’t say anything.
Would that I were, smartass.
Headlock paused in preparation for his next sentence. “And there’s another fifty once Tyrell’s finished with him.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Fifty? Something tells me this isn’t no ordinary criminal.”
“A double negative. Stop trying to sound like a gangster, it doesn’t become you.”
Harry shuffled in his chair and coughed.
Gangster, eh?
He pictured the .45 pushed into the Judge’s mouth, his damn grey eyes pleading for mercy.
“Too late, Judge, you had your chance to apologize, now it’s clover pushing time.”
“Daisheys.”
Bang!
“Is there likely to be anything left after Tyrell’s finished with him?” Harry asked. “I won’t get paid if I drop a stiff on the courthouse steps.”
“There’d better be,” said Headlock. “That bastard owes me too. So don’t you go breaking anything either.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Judge.” Harry appeared wistful. “Fifty huh? What did he do?”
“He broke the law then jumped bail! What else do you need to know?”
“Nothing. Just the fifty that’s all. You’ve never paid me anyway near that much before. Must be important.”
“That’s for me to know, and you not to find out. Remember you’re on bail too. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. You do that, and keep your mouth shut, you’ll get your extra fifty like a good boy.”
Again, Harry ruminated, asking himself for the countless time how he’d got here.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, forget it,” said the Judge, snapping Harry out of his reverie. “Just bring him back here on the next shuttle run. Think you can do that?”
“Have I ever let you down?”
“Frequently, you miscreant. Any more questions?”
“Dossier? Would be good to know what he looks like.”
Forgot didn’t you, you smug bastard?
The Judge grunted, and digging a hand into his coat pocket, threw Harry a plastic disk. He caught it deftly with his wrong hand, and played with it between his fingers.
“Now I want this to go smoothly. No mistakes, like on your last trip out there. Understand? Christ the shit you put me through on that one. And I can see you’re getting maudlin. You’re here because of what you did, your choice. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t need reminding.”
“Well it seems that you do!” the Judge squeaked, and Harry thought for a moment the man’s head was going to explode. “You were caught with three crates of portable atomisers fresh out of the Boondocks. You were lucky not to have been summarily executed by the Martian police. I had to let that pederast Sheriff Pratt beat me at pseudo golf in order to get you off. Christ I hate doing that.”
“That must have been hard for you, Judge,” Harry remarked, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “I’ve seen your handicap. Department champion last three years.”
The Honorable Judge Joseph Belmont Headlock III Junior paused, thinking back to those eighteen holes of torture. Yes, it was good work, ass licking of the highest order, something neither he nor Pratt were likely to forget.
He shook himself. “Just don’t screw this up, Harry, okay?”
“Okay.”
Harry knew the Judge was through with the lecture once he referred to him by his first name. Despite their chequered history, he liked to think the Judge had a soft spot for him. It was probably between his legs if the rumors were true.
“I mean it. Get to Mars, and bring him back here. Period.”
“You got it.”
“And try and avoid any run-ins with the local Constabulary, Pratt especially. If he gets wind of this he’ll want his bloody cut as well. The last thing I need is to kowtow to him again. Got it?”
“I got it. Straight in and straight out.”
“Good.”
“Still, that only gives me around thirty days,” Harry said, spinning to and fro in his chair, staring at the paint peeling off the ceiling. “I would have to hire something pretty fancy to get me to Mars and back that quick.”
“Bullshit. The new ships are doing the Martian run in less than two weeks now. That should give you plenty of time to get there, get your man and get the next shuttle back.”
“Two weeks?”
“Something called a StrateLine Drive that bends space-time or something.”
“Sounds expensive,” Harry persisted.
“First class would be. Super economy wouldn’t.”
“I see.”
“I sincerely hope you do.”
Headlock made to leave. He adjusted the collar of his overcoat, and threw a pink and white striped scarf around his neck, a crooked monstrosity that looked like it had been knitted by a blind woman. Harry frowned, something the Judge caught. “My daughter made it. Any questions?”
“Looks great,” Harry lied.
Headlock growled. “The Flying Dart leaves tomorrow at 05.00. If you’re not on it I’ll know.”
“I’ll be on it, don’t worry.”
“And if you can’t stand being with the plebs, use some of your extra to bump yourself up.”
“I’ll need an advance.”
“Ha!”
The two men parted with a mutual understanding that if this one went south, trouble would be coming north, as well as east and west.
2
Larry
Harry didn’t need an alarm clock. If he wasn’t in the sack by 2 then he seldom slept at all. This was going to be his last night on Earth for a few weeks, so he was going to make the most of it. After the Judge had left him, he checked his flight status, and then called his source, Manny, who was also his occasional lackey and confidante. Manny wasn’t interested in an all nighter, and suggested, in his thick Dublin accent over the sound of loud music and people having a good time, that he should, “get some sleep. Either that or risk a return to prison. Now get lost!”
Click, brrrrrrr.
Harry grimaced as he replaced the receiver on the desk unit. He checked his watch. 15:00. Another fourteen hours before his flight, and no drinking buddy.
Brenda. Now she could show him a good time, as well as something he couldn’t get from Manny. He hadn’t seen her in months. In fact the last time he saw her he got laid, which was also the last time he got laid. He crossed his legs and pulled at his crotch. He dialled her last known number. Nothing. He felt a cold breath of air across the back of his neck.
Here he comes…
“What are you doing, Harry?”
Harry almost jumped out of his skin. Despite always receiving advanced warning that his departed ex-partner was about to make an appearance, Harry could never get used to his sudden voice. The receiver shot from his hand, and clattered on the desk in front of him. He turned, a lingering, cold shiver rippling down his back, to see his ex-partner sitting in the other chair, scraping dirt from under his nails with a ballpoint.
“Jesus, Larry!” Harry exclaimed. He fumbled for the receiver before replacing it on its cradle. “I’ll never get used to this. You’ll give me a heart attack one of these days. Mon Dieu!”
“Can’t have that now can we?”
“Aw, don’t be like that. Look, I’m sorry okay? You scared me is all.”
“Apology accepted. So, where are we off to?”
“I am off to Mars, in about twelve hours or so. You, my friend, are not.”
“What’s the case?”
“The usual, though the Judge wants this guy back here tout de suite.”
“Must have done something pretty bad to warrant such alacrity. Don’t give me that look. There’s nothing fancy about an expansive vocabulary. You should try it some time.”
Harry frowned, vaguely realising he had just been insulted. He thought about repaying the complim
ent in French, but since his friend’s untimely death, Larry would be able to interpret it. Something to do with life in the spirit world that gave him limitless access to all that had gone before.
“Screw you, Larry!” he decided on. Short and to the point, always reliable. “Why don’t you float off and go bother someone else?”
“You know I can’t do that. You’re all I’ve got, Harry, all I’ve got till you break the case.”
“I thought we’d settled this. I got hit on the head remember? I don’t remember a thing.”
“You remember getting hit on the head.”
“Very funny. That sonofabitch Hackman left me for dead too you know. Three weeks I lay unconscious.”
“Days, you devious prick. Three days. Every time you tell the story the coma gets longer and longer.”
“So I exaggerate a bit, big deal. When I finally came to you weren’t there, you… Well, you know the rest.”
“I know, pal. Sorry. It’s not easy being on this side either you know.” Larry lifted his tall, lanky figure out of the chair and walked over to the window. He wore the same black suit he had been wearing the night he was killed, his flaxen hair drawn back tight and flat, and tied in a little bob behind his neck. He looked out. “Must be Tuesday,” he remarked, tilting his head to the darkening sky.