Difficult, but not impossible. Training and instinct took over, and March scanned the room for threats.
Right away he saw why Casimir had no trouble allowing kinetic firearms into the Renarchist’s Pride.
Two massive black metal shapes stood against the walls, each one standing about eight feet tall. Both looked vaguely human-shaped, though much wider and broader than normal humans. Armored helmets covered their faces, and both arms ended in triple-barreled plasma cannons. March’s experienced eyes noted the hidden launch ports for grenades and small rockets.
“Jesus,” muttered Dredger. “Are those suits of power armor?”
“Nope,” said March. “Hiroth Foundries Mark XII assault drone. Plasma cannons, grenades, rocket launchers, and burst lasers. One of those could probably kill everyone in the building without much trouble. Our guns wouldn’t even scratch the armor.”
Though March could disable one of the drones if he timed it right. He knew the weak points on the Mark XII drones, weak points that Hiroth Foundries had corrected when the Mark XIII came along a few years later. If March hammered his cybernetic fist through the weak points, the impact would disable the drone. But even then, it was chancy. The drones were quick, and would likely gun him down before he got close enough.
“No need to worry about the drones,” said Tolox, glancing over the crowd. “Everyone’s on their best behavior here.”
“Drones help with that, I suppose,” said Dredger.
“Ms. Tolox?” One of the waitresses approached, a blond young woman with a bright smile and cold eyes. “Mr. Casimir will see you now. He regrets to inform you that only one of your party can accompany you.”
“Very well,” said Tolox. “Dredger, you’re with me. March, stay here and make sure we keep out of trouble.”
March nodded, and Dredger patted his pocket. If there was trouble, Dredger would call, and March would serve as the backup. Though if Casimir wanted to murder the head of the local Silent Order branch, inviting her into his private club was not the best way to do it.
“Right,” said March.
“Go have a drink,” said Tolox.
“This way, Ms. Tolox,” said the waitress.
Tolox and Dredger followed the young woman. They crossed to a door next to one of the assault drones and vanished through it. March nodded to himself and walked to the bar, leaning against it.
“What will you have, sir?” said the bartender, another young woman with a bright smile and cold eyes.
“Whiskey,” said March. “One shot. Whatever’s the cheapest.”
The bartender feigned approval at his choice and turned to prepare his drink. March’s eyes lingered on her backside for a moment, then he made himself look up and watch the mirror running along the bar to keep an eye on the room. He wondered where Casimir had found all these waitresses. They didn’t look Rustari, and they didn’t have any of the telltale signs of Sugar addiction. Maybe he had hired them all from off-planet.
The bartender set down his drink, and March paid her and took a sip. He didn’t know what kind of whiskey she had given him, and he didn’t much care. It was good, though. Even a sip burned against his tongue and sent warmth flooding down his chest.
He leaned against the bar and gazed into the mirror, watching the room. This was pleasant, he had to admit. The liquor was good, and the atmosphere of the Renarchist’s Pride was enjoyable. Recreation was not something March enjoyed often. Suddenly, almost against his will, his mind conjured an image of Juliette Revel standing next to him in a sleek black dress, gazing up at him as she leaned upon his arm.
March shook his head in annoyance and took one more sip of the whiskey. He had come here to do a job, not to daydream about attractive women. He reached into his coat and glanced at his phone. He decided to give Tolox and Casimir forty-five minutes. Then he would contact Dredger.
If he received no response, then he would take action.
A dark flicker in the mirror caught his eye, and March turned.
A woman walked towards him. She was dressed oddly by Rustari standards, wearing high-heeled black boots, black dress trousers, a white shirt with a high collar buttoned up to her throat, a black waistcoat, and a long black coat that hung to her knees. It looked a little like the suits the Administrators wore, but it was better cut, and it fit well against her body. Her head had been shaved bald, even her eyebrows, and a pair of dark sunglasses concealed her eyes.
The last time March had seen her, she had been wearing black goggles.
The sniper leaned against the bar and looked at him, March’s reflection in the sunglasses. Up close, she looked far more attractive than she had while fleeing through the factory. Had she grown her hair out, she would have been stunning.
March watched her.
The woman smiled at last. “It is customary in these social interactions for the male to purchase alcohol for the female.” Her voice was flat, toneless, a contrast from the almost manic glee in her expression.
“And why would I want to buy you a drink?” said March.
“Traditionally,” said the woman, “the purchase of alcohol is used as a social gesture to express sexual interest and to initiate the rituals of courtship.” She grinned at him. Her teeth were white behind pale lips. “On a more informal basis, it could be used to initiate a conversation.”
“What would we want to talk about?” said March.
“Many things.” The woman reached up and adjusted her sunglasses, and March caught a glimpse of her cybernetic eyes and the scar tissue around them. This close her metallic irises looked like whirling clockwork engines.
“Bartender,” said March. “Another drink for the lady. Same as what I had.”
The bartender produced another overpriced drink, and the sniper picked it up. She took a sip, nodded to herself, and straightened up.
“Let us sit together and converse,” said the sniper. “We can speak in relative privacy over there.” She nodded towards one of the assault drones. “The other patrons, fearing the possibility of their mortality, will not sit near them. Most humans do not like to be reminded of their mortality.”
“What do you think of it?” said March, picking up his drink.
She smiled again. “I think everything dies.”
March followed her to the table. He pulled out the chair for her, and the woman sat, carefully arranging the skirt of her coat to hang behind her. As she sat, March took a quick look at her neck. Yes, it was there – the familiar scar of a removed hive implant at the base of her skull. Had March shaved his head, his scar would have been just as visible.
He sat, and the woman regarded him, still smiling.
“What should I call you?” said March.
“Axiom,” said the woman.
“Short for Axiomatic?” said March.
Axiom’s smile widened, though her toneless voice never changed infliction. “No. Simply Axiom. By what name shall I call you? I already know many things about you, but I do not know your name.”
“Jack March,” said March. “And what do you know about me?”
Axiom looked at him over the top of her glasses, the cybernetic eyes seeming to spin.
“I know that you stand one hundred and ninety point five centimeters tall and weigh ninety-eight point four two kilograms,” said Axiom. “I know that you have a body fat percentage of eight percent, that your body temperature is presently thirty-seven point two Celsius, except for your left arm, and that your heart rate is presently sixty-eight beats a minute. It has risen since we started talking as an involuntary reaction, most probably because you find me attractive.” She leaned closer. “And I know that your left arm is a cybernetic prosthesis capable of prodigious feats of strength, and despite considerable amounts of surgical work, you still have substantial quantities of nanotech in your bloodstream and bone marrow and several remaining implants. All of this cybernetic technology is Machinist in origin.”
“You’re very observant,” said March. “But I would
expect that from a former Iron Eye.”
Axiom smiled. “And how do you know that I am a former Iron Eye and not a current one?”
“No hive implant,” said March. “The scar is visible.”
“Ah,” said Axiom. “Of course. That was why you held out the chair for me. I thought you were just being gallant.”
“Maybe it was both,” said March.
“I would expect that from a former Iron Hand,” said Axiom. “Well.” She lifted her glass. “Shall we drink to our liberation and the ultimate destruction of the Final Consciousness?”
“I’ll drink to that,” said March.
They clicked glasses, and March took only a light sip of his whiskey. He noted that Axiom did the same.
“How were you separated?” said Axiom. “For drones of our level, separation from the hive mind of the Final Consciousness is a rarity.”
“I was wounded,” said March. He didn’t want to tell her the whole story. There was no way he could trust her. “A family cared for me until I could get on my feet again. They didn’t have to, but they did. Then the Machinists killed them and all their neighbors for no reason.” And billions of other people, too. For no reason, no reason at all, save that they had lost control of the system. For that, they had bombed Martel’s World and turned a habitable world into a cinder.
“Fascinating,” said Axiom. “Then you left for matters of…” She stopped and considered. “Conscience.”
March shrugged. “If you want to call it that. Maybe I was just angry that people who had helped me had been killed for no reason.”
Axiom took another sip of her drink and set the glass back down. “I was born on a small colony world. Separatists from one of the major interstellar powers.” March nodded. He had heard stories like this before. Small, undefended colonies were often easy pickings for anyone looking for prey. “When the Machinists came, my sister and I were both tested for compatibility. I was compatible, she was not. Much later, I was on a mission where I encountered her again. I had been ordered to kill her, but I could not. She helped me get away and find surgeons who could help me. We have been freelancers ever since.”
“Your sister,” said March, and then he understood. “The helicopter pilot.”
“Very good,” said Axiom. “You and Ms. Tolox are both Silent Order, are you not?”
March said nothing.
“Casimir does not know,” said Axiom. “In certain areas, he is quite cunning, but in others he is oblivious. Ms. Tolox presents herself to Rustaril as an information broker and a peddler of influence.”
“Which she is,” said March.
“She is also head of the local branch of the Silent Order,” said Axiom. “I have seen it before.” She leaned forward, seemingly fascinated. “But why does a former Iron Hand work for the Silent Order? A man with your skill set could become quite wealthy. Not quite as wealthy as me, of course, but still.”
“Why does a former Iron Eye become a hired assassin?” said March.
Axiom smiled. “Because I am good at it. Because the scum I kill deserve it, even if I am hired by a different kind of scum. Because the galaxy is a hard place and two women making their way through it need all the money they can get. And you have answered my question with another. Why are you working for the Kingdom of Calaskar? They are hidebound traditionalists wedded to an archaic religion.”
“They fight the Machinists,” said March. “They’ve refused to have anything to do with the Final Consciousness. They see it for the abomination that it is.”
“Abomination?” said Axiom. “A strong word, though I cannot disagree. Is that why you are Silent Order? Revenge on the Final Consciousness? Or because of your sense of right and wrong?”
March shrugged. “Why can’t it be both?”
“Do you ever miss it?” said Axiom. “The hive mind, I mean?” She lowered her voice. “The absolute unity. The mighty chorus inside of your skull. The certainty that whatever it wanted to do was correct.”
“No,” said March. “I don’t.” He found himself speaking more than he intended. “At the time, you can’t think past it. Nothing else exists. But once you’ve been out of it, you see it for the horror it was.” Something he had heard in a sermon on Calaskar came back to his mind. “It is only to the damned that their torment seems anything less than intolerable.”
“Ah.” Axiom let out a breath. “What does that make us, then? The formerly damned? Or is that why you fight the Final Consciousness? Repayment for your torment?”
March was growing tired of the philosophizing. “You say I fight the Final Consciousness…but I’m not the one who tried to shoot a major Machinist operative a few days ago.”
For the first time Axiom scowled. “That was just bad luck. I had him. If Deveraux’s lieutenant had not moved a tenth of a second before I pulled the trigger, Richard Venator would be dead, and we would not be having this conversation.”
“Richard Venator,” said March. Likely that was the alias Lorre had been using on Rustaril. “Casimir hired you to kill him?
“He did,” said Axiom. Annoyance entered her toneless voice. “I do not like to fail. Granted, I failed through random chance, but I failed nonetheless.”
“Why did Casimir hire you to kill Venator?” said March.
“Because he does not like what Venator is helping Deveraux to do,” said Axiom.
“And what is that?” said March.
“I do not know,” said Axiom. “Casimir himself does not know. In a way, you remind me of Casimir.”
“Oh?” said March.
“He believes himself dedicated to an ideal, just as you do,” said Axiom. “And…” She turned her head. “But I calculate our discussion is about to move to another phase.”
March followed her gaze.
Another woman walked towards them, dressed in a long black formal dress that left her toned arms bare. Her black hair had been done up in an elaborate crown, and jewels glittered on her ears and upon her throat. Her heels made gentle clicks as she walked towards the table, and she stopped and looked down at March and Axiom.
The last time March had seen this woman, she had been wearing sunglasses and a headset as she piloted the helicopter away from the factory complex. She wasn’t as pale as Axiom and had deep brown hair and brown eyes. Likely Axiom would have looked like that, had the Machinists not made her into an Iron Eye.
“Helen,” said Axiom.
The woman looked at her, at March, and then sighed. “You clean up nicely.”
“So do you,” said March. “Especially since you flew away in a helicopter the last time that I saw you.”
Helen shook her head. “You were trying to shoot my sister.”
“I wanted to talk to her,” said March.
“To employ the popular metaphor,” said Axiom, “we got off on the wrong foot. Though since we were not dancing the metaphor is not suitable.”
“Since my sister has no social graces whatsoever,” said Helen, “I’ll make the introductions. My name is Helen Descard, and you’ve met my sister Axiom. We are freelance professionals who solve problems for reasonable fees.”
That was one of the more unusual euphemisms March had ever heard for contract murder.
He rose to his feet and shook her hand. “I’m Jack March. I’m a privateer captain.”
Helen raised one eyebrow. “And just why was a privateer captain running around a rooftop with a gun?”
March met her eye as he released her hand. “I was solving a problem on a freelance basis.”
Axiom snorted.
Helen gave him a thin smile. “I’m sure.” She looked at Axiom again. “Casimir and Tolox are ready for us. And they want us to bring Captain March.” She looked back at March. “Guess it’s time for more freelance problem-solving.”
Axiom got to her feet, adjusting her coat, and she and March followed Helen to the door that Tolox and Dredger had taken earlier. The door opened, and March saw an elevator on the other side. He entered with
Axiom, and Helen joined them and pressed the button for the top floor.
The doors slid closed.
“If Axiom actually pulls the trigger on your freelance problems,” said March, “then what do you do?”
“I cannot stand people,” said Axiom. “They talk too much, and most of their faces look stupid.”
“As you might guess,” said Helen in a dry voice, “despite her immense abilities, Axiom has certain social difficulties. I represent her to people who might wish to hire her talents for various tasks.”
“In other words,” said March, “she’s the gunman, and you’re the fixer.”
“Gunwoman,” said Axiom.
“More or less,” said Helen. “Though we make most of our money from industrial espionage and high-end burglaries these days. Casimir promised us a large payoff for this job.”
“You were right about him, by the way,” said Axiom. “Silent Order.”
March frowned. “I thought you said no one else knew.”
“Pay better attention,” said Axiom. “I said Casimir and his people did not know. My sister and I are not Casimir or his people.”
Helen’s eyes flicked over March’s left arm. “So how does a former Iron Hand end up working for the Silent Order?”
“Revenge, mostly,” said Axiom. “Some adherence to higher principle, but mostly revenge. The same reason I shoot Machinist operatives whenever convenient.”
“Makes sense,” said Helen.
March let out a long breath. “Do you give customers discounts when they have to listen to you two talk?”
Helen laughed. “We charge them extra. But I think, Captain March, that you and Ms. Tolox and Mr. Casimir are about to do all the talking.”
The door hissed open, and March found himself on the top floor of the office building, eighty stories above the street below. The hallway that stretched away from the elevator looked like a typical office wing. Neither March’s dress shoes nor Axiom’s and Helen’s high heels made any noise against the carpet. The hallway was darkened, with only a third of the lights in the ceiling on, and the occasional gleam of headlights coming from the window at the end of the hall. Helen walked past five doors.
Silent Order: Axiom Hand Page 10