by Chris Bunch
“The Federation was well aware of the Al’ar’s mental abilities,” Brandt said. “They mounted a crash program to find a way to keep the Al’ar from exerting their powers against men. They tested several versions in combat, but none seemed to work, except for those helmets you saw Mister Kakara’s men wearing. They were tried out in a raid just before the Grand Offensive, and appeared to make men invisible to the Al’ar, or at any rate the postaction report said the Al’ar were confused at their appearance. There wasn’t time to put the helmets into production before the Grand Offensive, and then, when the Al’ar vanished, there wasn’t any need for them. I had read the preliminary reports, and was able to find a handful of the experimental models. It would appear the reports were correct, wouldn’t it? You certainly weren’t about to do anything to prevent your capture.”
“You see?” Kakara said, “we’ve got you fore and aft, as they used to say. All right, Doctor. Enough talk. How do we get this bastard to do what we want?”
“Quite simple,” Brandt said. “You cannot ask him to reveal his secrets. But you can order him to take us to wherever your wife is. And you can order him to make sure she expects friends, not enemies. Ask simple, direct questions, and you’ll receive a direct answer. Don’t ask for any interpretations or extrapolations. Even with the drug, he has enough free will to avoid answering those. Or else his avoidance mechanisms will be activated.”
A slow, dirty smile spread across Kakara’s broad, battered face. “All right, then. Take me to Rita.”
The sea was a tempest above. Wolfe sank deeper, deeper.
“Set your nav coordinates for the deep space settlement known as Malabar, in the Outlaw Worlds,” he told Kakara.
• • •
Kakara poured himself another drink, lifted it in a toast to the rigid figure of Joshua Wolfe. They were alone in the ship’s luxurious captain’s suite. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen,” he said, “once I get Rita. First, I’ll kill you, because I don’t want any chance of a slipup, and I’m still not sure what you are, a man or an Al’ar. But you won’t die easy.
“I thought I’d kill this man, whoever he is, next. But then I considered … I think I’ll have some fun with Rita first. Show that bastard what I used to like to do to her. But this time, I’ll let it go further than I did. Then I’ll kill him. Slower than you died.
“As for Rita … I thought for a while I’d kill her last,” Kakara said, breathing heavily. “But there’s worse things than death. After I finish with her, maybe let some of my men have their fun too, I’ll leave her alive. Maybe I’ll drop her on a world I can think of, with some supplies. Put a bird with a camera on her, and watch what happens. There’s — things, I’ve never been sure what they are, might be interested in her … I’d like that.”
Kakara wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah,” he repeated. “I’d like that.” He sat for a time, just staring at Wolfe. There was a tap at the door. “Come in.”
A man wearing Kakara’s jagged crimson flare on a uniform tunic came in, with a sheaf of printout. “I have some preliminary data on Malabar, sir.”
“Give me a verbal,” Kakara ordered. “Wolfe, this is Pak, one of my analysts. He’s helped make Kakara Transport what it is. I use him for the cute details that I’d just as soon nobody know I need. Like what shipping line president likes to hire cute young men for traveling companions, or who grafted who during the war. I set him to work finding out about Malabar. Go ahead, Pak.”
“Malabar’s the name for the biggest planetoid,” the man said. “It’s not much more than a moonlet in an asteroid belt, system bap-bap-bap, coordinates thus-and-so, one-time Special Operations Naval Base during the war. After the war it was turned into a parking place for parts of the mothballed fleet.”
“Huh! We ever arrange to get a ship from there, back when we were getting started?”
“No, sir. It’s pretty well on the fringes of nowhere. It’s got a reputation for being a smuggler’s base, an illegal shipyard, a transshipment point, and so forth. Not much shows on the surface — most everything’s underground. No estimates on current population. Somehow it’s been converted to private property, even though the mothballed ships are evidently still there.”
“Any government?”
“None I could find. The official caretaker for the scrapheap is someone named Cormac. An ex-Spec Ops pilot, highly decorated, frequently reprimanded. That’s the only name he uses now, but his full name is Cormac Pearse. Discharged with the rank of commander.”
“Rita was a pilot during the war,” Kakara said. “I got the idea she was involved with that stupid commando shit, too. Wolfe, is he the one?”
Joshua said nothing.
“Shitfire,” Kakara said in exasperation. “Do you know this man Cormac?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know Rita Sidamo?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well. So Malabar’s where we’re going, and it’s a real den of thieves, eh? Pak, is that something for us to worry about?”
“Negative, sir,” the brown-skinned man with the calm face said. “I’ve never known criminals, or anyone on the wrong side of the law, to stick up for anyone other than themselves … or possibly for an immediate gain.”
“And there surely isn’t an advantage going up against Jalon Kakara. Still … Send in Captain Ives. I think we’ll visit Malabar with a little muscle.”
• • •
Five ships broke out of N-space. One was Kakara’s liner, two were converted troop transports, two more were scoutships. All wore the jagged crimson insignia.
About three E-diameters distant floated dead starships, warships, liners, freighters, and yachts, orbiting close to the largest planetoid in a scattered asteroid belt.
In the liner’s main salon and in the two troopship holds, armed men stared at tall screens, listening to Jalon Kakara:
“ … the bastards have been very happy here on Malabar, taking a ship of mine here, a cargo there, for five or six years. It’s taken us that long to track them down, but finally we’ve found their little den of thieves. The Federation doesn’t seem interested in intervening, although I’ve requested support half a dozen times or more.
“Most of you know Jalon Kakara, and know he doesn’t stand interference, and if pressed he has a way of taking care of things in the most effective way possible, if maybe not the way bleeding hearts would prefer.
“That’s you, men. Some of you have worked for me in the past on ticklish little jobs like this, and you know how you’re taken care of. You’ve already seen the insurance policies, no questions asked if anything happens to you, seen the weapons you’re issued, and know how promptly you’re paid if the mission is successful. This whole operation will be on the same level. All I want is no more Malabar. Not ever. When we pull out, we’ll set blasting charges so no other jackals will be able to use this den. And as far as what happens to the men — and women — who’re down there … They’ve cast themselves beyond the law, haven’t they? Now the law — my law — has winkled ‘em out. We’ll deal with them the best, most permanent way we know, won’t we?”
There were hungry roars of approval.
Jalon Kakara motioned, and the pickup went dead. “That’s as much as they need to know.” He walked across the bridge of the liner to another com, where Wolfe sat. Joshua wore a tiny receiver in one ear, and Brandt, standing to one side, out of pickup range, wore a bonemike. Kakara picked up another mike, positioned it on his breastbone.
“Go ahead,” Kakara said. “Make the call.”
Wolfe sat motionless.
“Mister Kakara,” Brandt said in reproof.
“Sorry,” Kakara grudged, then said, precisely, “Wolfe, contact Malabar without arousing alarm.”
Far down, Joshua fought for control of his mind, his lips. They moved silently, then spoke aloud: “Malabar Control, Malabar Control. This is the — ”
“Corsair.” Brandt’s whisper was loud in Joshua�
�s ear.
“This is the Corsair. Request approach and docking instructions.”
Wolfe waited, not patiently, not impatiently. Finally: “Corsair, this is Malabar” came from the com. “We’re a private port, and don’t grant approach or landing permission without reason.”
Wolfe sat motionless, as if the information had no meaning.
Kakara pursed his lips angrily. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Contact your friend Cormac. Tell him it’s all right. Tell him who you are. Just like the last time you talked to him.”
Just like the last time …
“Malabar, this is Corsair. Request you contact Cormac. Tell him I shackle Wilbur Frederick Milton unshackle. Sender Ghost.”
“Corsair, wait.”
Time passed, then: “Ghost,” a different voice said, “this is Cormac. Golf Alpha.”
“This is Ghost India,” Wolfe said.
A few seconds passed, then: “Welcome back to Malabar, Joshua. I assume everything’s well with you.”
Wolfe made no reply.
“Joshua,” Cormac said, “are you all right?”
“He’s got a virus,” Brandt whispered. Kakara nodded, keyed his mike. “You have a virus.”
“I’m all right,” Wolfe said. “I have a virus.”
“Well, come on down, and tell me where you acquired that fine fleet I see. Evidently times’ve been good.”
Wolfe made no response.
“You’re doing fine,” Kakara prodded.
“I’m doing fine,” Wolfe echoed.
“Guess it doesn’t hurt to be warmish with the Fed, eh? Good. Tell your ship captains to switch to channel 643, and I’ll have Control give them individual docking instructions. As for you, you rogue, I’ve still got the De Montel you didn’t finish last time.”
“Good,” Kakara said. “Why don’t you and Rita meet me?”
“Good,” Wolfe said. “Why don’t you — you and Rita meet me?”
“That’s what we planned,” Cormac’s voice said. “See you in a few, Ghost India.”
“Ghost India. Out.”
“Now,” Kakara gloated, “now it’ll all come paid.” He turned to the bridge.
“Captain Ives. Take the deck. Have two men with rifles meet me in the forward lock.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll disembark first with Brandt and Wolfe. Stay linked with me, and I’ll give the word for the main attack. We’ve got a chance to nip ‘em in the bud now, and if their leaders are down our job’ll be even easier.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go, Wolfe. This is what they call the hour of reckoning.”
• • •
Kakara was suited up, except for his helmet. He took an expensive live-mask from its pouch, pulled it over his head, and tugged at its earlobe on-sensor. The mask took a moment to warm up and mold to his features. Kakara now was a balding, bearded, benevolent-looking man who might’ve been a banker. “Like I said, I think of everything,” he said, and pulled his helmet on, sealed it, and closed the faceplate.
“Cycle the lock,” he ordered. “Entering Malabar. Go first, Wolfe.”
Joshua obeyed, walking carefully, one alloy-suited foot in front of the other.
His mind clawed, spat like a caged catamount, reaching out, swirling as the deep ocean currents swept him helplessly around.
Then he felt another wave, far distant, growing from nothingness, from another ocean, one that held everything, held the “red virus,” held the Al’ar Guardians.
He remembered long years ago, on a gray shore, being very small, and watching someone he loved dive into a cresting wave, and he felt fear for that person. Then the person’s hand waved, and he was swimming safely on the far side of the wave as it curled, broke, smashed into shore. Another wave loomed, and feet kicked, and the man — it was a man, his father — swam forward, was swept up by the wave, lying in it, cradled like Joshua’s mother cradled him, one hand jutting out, the other along his side, and the wave held him, and he was using the wave, letting its power carry him toward …
“Come on, Wolfe,” Kakara ordered. “On through.”
The outer lock of the liner closed, then the outer lock of Malabar.
Joshua felt the whir of machinery, then heard it dimly as air filled the lock and the inner door slid open.
The five men went into a bare room.
“Where’s your friend?” Wolfe made no response.
Kakara hesitated. “We’ll unsuit,” he ordered, and twisted his helmet off. “Take off your suit.”
Wolfe slowly obeyed. As he stepped out of the lower half of the suit, a speaker crackled. “Joshua, this is Cormac. A slideway was stuck, so we’re running a little behind. Be there in a moment.”
Kakara smiled thinly. “I like a man who’s in a hurry to get what he’s due,” he almost-whispered, then started as a wall panel slid away, revealing a long, dimly lit hall. “What do we do, Wolfe?”
“Go down there,” Joshua said. “He will meet us.”
Kakara motioned them forward, his other hand near his holstered gun.
They started down the corridor, first Wolfe; then Brandt, beside and a little behind him; then Kakara and the two gunmen.
The great, friendly wave was roaring, coming closer, but still far, far away …
A panel slid open about thirty yards distant, and Rita Sidamo and Cormac stepped out. Rita wore a close-fitting tunic, Cormac his familiar khaki pants, faded shirt, and old sleeveless sweater. Neither appeared armed.
Wolfe fought to cry out, to strike, but he could do nothing.
“It’s nice seeing you again, Rita,” Kakara said, stripping off the mask and drawing his pistol.
“It is you,” Rita said, her voice cold with loathing, but utterly unsurprised. “I thought you might have changed, might’ve been able to let go of things, but — ”
“Neither of you move,” Kakara said. He keyed his bonemike: “Ives, send in the men.”
Cormac leaned back against the passage wall. He shook his head sadly. “Kakara,” he said, “you’re just about a thorough utter damned fool and someone should have put you out of your misery years ago.”
“The only one who’ll be doing any killing is me,” Kakara said. “Both of you, get your hands up. Now! Connors, Amtel, take them!”
The two men drew their guns, walked forward.
The wave was closer, much closer, its hissing promise of danger loud, very loud …
Rita started laughing.
“Jesus God, but Cormac’s right. You’re so damned dumb.” The two holo images vanished as a door panel slid away, and the real Cormac shot Amtel and Connors. The panel closed as Kakara snapped a shot, and the bolt crashed harmlessly into the nearby wall.
The wave broke …
Now everyone was underwater, and Kakara’s shout of alarm was blurred. Wolfe was in no hurry, had all the time in the universe. The drug still flowed in him, but there were antibodies, leukocytes surrounding each molecule of HypnoDec, isolating it, eliminating it …
Wolfe was turning, hands, feet in the reflexive attack stance …
Kakara spun, almost falling, pistol coming up …
Brandt’s mouth was open. He was shouting.
Wolfe sidekicked him forward as Kakara fired. The bolt smashed away Brandt’s lower jaw and upper cheekbone. He shrieked, clawed at himself, fell.
Kakara’s gun bucked with the recoil. He pulled it back on target, and Joshua was crouched, spinning, then up, and his foot caught the blaster, sent it whirling ten feet away to clatter against the deck of the passageway.
Joshua felt out, felt behind the passageway wall, felt Cormac and Rita. Cormac had his gun in one hand, his other on a panel-opening sensor. Joshua felt inside the sensor, felt its tiny parts. One of them bent, and the lock was jammed. He turned to Kakara. Now there was all the time in the world.
Kakara’s eyes were wide in fear.
“You told me once you were good with a knife,” Joshua said softly. “There�
��s a blade in your pocket. Get it.”
Kakara’s eyes never left Joshua’s face. His hand swooped into a pocket, came out with a long folding knife. It snapped open with a click.
“No Al’ar secrets,” Joshua mocked. “No games. Come to me, Jalon Kakara. You’re mine.”
Now Joshua was riding the wave, part of it, its power his, spray and foam, and he saw his father laughing from the shore, a woman beside him, his mother, young, alive …
Kakara came in cautiously, left hand extended at chest level, right about a foot below, behind the left, holding the knife like a fencer holds his foil, moving sideways, circling, moving toward Wolfe’s weak side.
He slashed, and Joshua wasn’t there, ducking under the slice, then coming up. Wolfe’s right hand blurred, and the back of his fingernails whipped across Kakara’s forehead, just a touch but drawing red lines, and then blood poured.
Kakara lunged from a crouch, forefoot sliding out. His knifepoint touched Wolfe’s breastbone, then glanced away.
Joshua spun inside him, drove his elbow back into Kakara’s shoulder, had his forearm in his left hand, yanked him down toward his knee as it snapped up, and Kakara’s ribs smashed. Kakara screamed, fell. Joshua sprang away, waited for him to recover.
The man came halfway to his feet, charged, knife hand slashing, back, forth. Wolfe jumped to one side, struck down with a claw hand, and Kakara’s ear ripped, tore, dangled down on his cheek.
A very faint smile came to Wolfe’s lips, stayed there.
Kakara lunged once more, and Wolfe’s left hand shot out palm first, smashing into Kakara’s face below the eyebrow. Kakara’s eyeball split as if it had been smashed with a hammer, and clear fluid poured down his face.
Kakara backed away, half-blind, bloody as a bull after the picadors, knife weaving a steel blockade against Wolfe.