by Gary Jonas
Chandler grinned through his bruises. The ass-kissing continued for another ten minutes, all the way out the door, where he found a limo waiting for him. He looked behind him and wondered how many people had left the place in style, not counting those who left in a box, of course.
The door to the limo hissed open and Randol nodded to Chandler. “Get in.”
Chandler slid into the seat beside him. The limo smelled like it had just come off the showroom floor. It had a fully stocked bar and a plush interior. He looked at the old man for a moment, then raised his arm and moved it backward through Randol’s body. The image flickered, then re-formed as Chandler pulled his arm back from the holo. “Didn’t think so.”
“Somebody talked,” Randol said.
“No shit. What do you need me for? You should be the detective.”
The limo pulled away from the detention center and rose in a lazy circle toward the traffic flow.
Sai trudged through the rainy streets, past the shanties and closed shops of the dilapidated West Side. It may have been risky to walk those streets, but there were fewer people to dodge, and this way she could sneak back into Starman’s Quarter and possibly avoid detection. Nebulaco Security had no doubt alerted the taxi companies and public transports by this time.
She glanced upward and saw the beacon lights of the starport through the mist of falling rain. The lights cut sharply through the darkness, radiating into multiple spectrums. They beckoned wandering starcraft home to port, back to a safe haven. The Silver Dollar wasn’t too far away now. Hopefully, she could find Jensen, leave quickly, and try to find a safe haven of her own.
She heard something behind and above her. She whirled around. Movement up high. The hum of flywires cut through the white noise of the rain. Three men flew toward her out of the darkness, each clad in black and red. It was a street gang. Sai recognized the colors: Tenel’s bunch—the Flyboyz.
They glided gracefully toward Sai. Each man had devices grafted to his forearms that shot molecular wire-lines with static hooks on the ends. They fired the hooks ahead to lock onto an array of anchor points the gang had mounted throughout their territory, then glided forward on the wires. As they approached the end of their lines, they released and retracted the trailing hooks and shot them forward again for another great step. Fire, glide, release, fire—they flew toward her like angels of doom.
Sai crouched low and tried to disappear into the shadows, but one of the Flyboyz let out a shrill whistle and Sai knew she’d been spotted.
She ran for it, hoping to find someplace where she could more easily defend herself. Here on the street, she was wide open. To make a stand would be suicide.
This just wasn’t her day.
Sai looked back to check their proximity, but she could no longer see them. Before she could turn forward again, a booted foot shot out from nowhere and kicked her in the back, driving her face-first into the curb.
The three men laughed. Sai pushed herself to her feet. She spit blood and wiped her split lip with her hand, glancing briefly at the crimson stain on her fingers.
The Flyboyz landed, surrounding her.
“Nice night for a swing,” she said.
The smallest of the three kicked Sai full force in the stomach. She doubled over, retching in pain.
“That’s it, Tork!” the second Flyboy said. “Give it to her!”
The third, clearly the leader, stood well back from the others, saying nothing—only watching.
Little Tork strutted before Sai. “Who are you, bitch? What are you doing in our sector?”
Sai looked up, rubbing her stomach with one arm as she tried to catch her breath.
“I’m Taj,” Sai lied. “Tenel knows me.”
“Tenel knows everybody so that don’t mean shit to us. You got caught in our space so you gotta pay. You got credits? Or,” the little man smiled, “do we take it out in pain?”
Tork released his flywire like a whip and cracked it down on the pavement beside Sai. He arced a loop of the molecular wire, and it sliced cleanly through the curb. Sai glanced down and watched the curb slide into the gutter.
Her eyes glazed for an instant as she reached out with her mind toward the trio. Her cyber-psi senses traveled the twisted paths of the circuits that tied them to their flywires. She could see the psychedelic fire of electrical impulses at the bases of their brains and the electro-neural pathways to the flywire bands. She readied a data command. Already, she could see the second Flyboy standing by, command sequences poised to attack.
Tork kicked her again, this time in the face.
“Speak up!” he said. “What’s it gonna be, babe?”
Sai rode out the wave of agony. Strange, she thought, how the smallest assholes always have the biggest mouths.
“I don’t have any money. If I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting out here in the rain.” She rubbed along her bruised ribcage again, this time grasping the whisperblade, hidden out of their sight.
Tork grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. His hand slipped under her jacket as he yanked her close. “I guess that means tonight’s your lucky night!”
Sai stared deep into the Flyboy’s eyes.
“Could be,” she said smiling, “but not yours!” She whipped the bright, humming blade out of her jacket in a cross draw, and Tork’s severed hand flopped to the ground.
He screamed.
Sai dove to the right and mentally sent the command sequence.
“Whisperblade!” shouted the third Flyboy, who had kept his distance. He backed farther away to get full use of his flywires and tried to fire, but couldn’t.
Sai threw the whisperblade at the second, who still hadn’t grasped what was happening. The whisperblade flew like an angry hornet.
The Flyboy saw it coming and tried to duck behind a waste disposal unit. The whisperblade hissed and whipped around the corner to its victim.
Sai heard the shriek but didn’t see the blow. In an instant, the knife flew back to her. The blade gleamed, but the handle was covered in blood.
The final Flyboy stood on the curb across from Sai. They stared each other down, thirty paces apart.
Tork still screamed unintelligible prayers as he clutched his stump.
Sai relaxed her combat stance. “All I want is to be on my way,” Sai said.
“Then go,” the leader said.
“I’m sorry about your friends. I didn’t choose this fight. I didn’t want any of this to happen.”
“It could have gone the other way.” The man gave her a sweeping gesture indicating she was free to pass.
Sai relinquished her control of the flywires and gave the man a small salute.
He gave her a nod, then moved toward his fallen comrades. Tork wasn’t screaming anymore. Sai looked over and saw that he had passed out from shock and loss of blood. His body lay in a heap. The rain washed his rich red blood down the sidewalk into the gutter.
She continued toward the docks of the Starman’s Quarter. A few blocks down the road the comlink vibrated on her wrist. It was the status update on Chandler that Dirion had set up. The man had been released. Sai cut into an alcove and keyed in the com number Dirion had obtained for the man. She might be able to make the delivery after all.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Chandler,” Randol said.
“No, you don’t. Let me hit you in the head with a chair and have some asshole yell at you for a few hours. Then you’ll begin to have an idea about how I feel. Only I don’t have a mansion where I can go home to feel sorry for myself.”
“At least you’re getting to go home.”
“Sorry,” Chandler said with a sigh. “It’s been a long day. Thanks. I do appreciate you saving my skin. But you know this is a stupid move if you want to keep your name out of this mess,” Chandler said.
“I hired you because you had the integrity to keep my secrets. I assume you didn’t reveal anything to your interrogators?”
“I am the most pitiful victim of
circumstance that you can imagine.”
“Well, had I not acted when I did, you would’ve eventually been taken in for a deconstructive scan and they would have discovered every detail of your mission. As it is, they can suspect and surmise all they wish, but that’s far preferable to solid evidence.”
“Not to mention that I would’ve been an empty husk at the end of it.”
“In any event, the situation has changed. The courier is no longer my primary concern. My private yacht, the Aurelius, was attacked by pirates a few hours ago. My daughter, Helen, was aboard. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“Is she all right?”
“Shortly after I learned of the distress call and the attack I got a simple anonymous message: ‘We have her.’ Nothing else.”
“Listen,” Chandler said, “couriers, security teams, pirates, and kidnapping. I want to help you, but I can’t work in the dark. Tell me what’s going on. If you’re not prepared to do that, drop me off here. I’ll help myself to a pocket full of these little bottles of booze and I’ll be on my way.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is,” Chandler said.
Randol nodded. “Five years ago I sponsored Frederick Casey to the position of director of security. I thought he had great potential—all-the-way-up-the-ladder kind of potential. When the pirate Thorne started the attacks against Nebulaco, Casey recognized early on that there must have been a leak high up in the corporation. I was the only lord he trusted to keep in the loop as his investigation progressed. Neither Oke nor Hemming inspire confidence.”
Chandler nodded. “From all I’ve heard about them they’re idiots.”
“Please, Mr. Chandler. They are lords and deserving of a modicum of respect for that fact alone.”
Chandler shrugged and Randol continued.
“Casey was sure that the only hope of success lay in an internal investigation. The Confed patrols were ineffective. Thorne doesn’t just wander around looking for targets. For the last three years, every raid has been a directed strike. A quick surgical action in and out, almost no chance of being caught. All of our Trojan horse missions—heavily armed ships disguised as merchants—have failed. In any event, we also realized that there was great potential for personal danger. Therefore, we established a protocol for any and all evidence that he had obtained to be delivered to me upon his death.”
“And I take it that Casey is dead and the courier woman has this evidence?”
Randol’s hologram nodded. “An allegation was brought forward that Casey was the one leaking information to Thorne. Before any hearing or review of the evidence Casey was found dead. Reportedly a suicide.”
“I take it that you aren’t buying it.”
“It’s ridiculous. He must have gotten too close and the traitor killed him,” Randol said. “I need someone I can trust to help me, Mr. Chandler. There isn’t a soul working for the corporation that I rely on completely. I’ve been betrayed too many times.”
“I can see that. Your courier was ambushed at a secret meeting. The route of your yacht was compromised. Yeah, you’re in trouble. But we do have a few things to look for. Typically, pirates aren’t wasteful. The ship would be too precious to destroy, and since they obviously know who your daughter is, she is likely safe enough for now. They’ll hold out for a ransom. The question is, how much would you pay to get your daughter back?”
“Mr. Chandler, I may be ruthless in aspects of business, but I would give up everything for my daughter.”
Chandler bowed his head for a moment, then met Randol’s eyes and held them. “You realize that no matter how much you give up, they’re unlikely to release her alive.”
Randol shifted uncomfortably as if the thought had been pounding in his brain, but he refused to acknowledge it. He looked away and closed his eyes. Finally, he turned back to Chandler. He nodded. “That’s where you come in.”
Chandler’s comlink vibrated. He looked at the source information. “I don’t know this ID, but it’s coded urgent.” He hit the button to take the call. The viewscreen displayed the image of the girl from the bar.
“Chandler?” the girl said. “We were supposed to meet earlier at Tyree’s.”
Chandler looked up at Randol and smiled.
“The mysterious courier. I’m glad to know you’re still alive.”
“I’d like to finish my run and make the drop. Can you meet me somewhere?”
“I’m on my way to the dock. You can try to meet me at my ship, the Marlowe. It’s berth twenty-seven on dock D. I can be there in about an hour.”
“Got it.”
“Someone sold us out, so there may be people watching. If for some reason you can’t make the drop … hold on.” Chandler muted the circuit and looked up at Randol. “What’s your secondary location?”
“At this point, all attempts at stealth are pointless. Just have her bring it to me directly.”
Chandler nodded and unmuted the com. “If you can’t deliver it to me here, take the data directly to Lord Randol of Nebulaco. Book passage to Trent. Lord Randol is on the third moon, Mordi. Ask for his security head, Jorgeson. Randol will be expecting you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Be careful. You’re a lucky one, but sooner or later luck runs out.”
Chandler ended the call. “Well, that simplifies things. If I get the package, I’ll hand deliver it to you on Trent, then while your people go over it, I can start working on finding Helen.”
“The floater can take you back to your ship, but feel free to utilize it as you will while on Raken. In addition, I’m setting up a meeting for you with Vincent Maxwell, the head of Nebulaco Security. While I don’t fully trust him, he’ll have more information for you about the Aurelius.” A credit stick slid out of a slot on the console. “If you need to purchase equipment or supplies, simply use this. I will be available if you need to contact me.”
Chandler snagged the chip and grunted a reply.
“Good luck, Mr. Chandler,” Randol said as his holo image faded, leaving Chandler alone in the limo.
Lords and security, couriers and betrayals. Confed patrols and pirates. This whole thing was spiraling out of control. But, other than a bump on the head, he couldn’t complain about much. The pay was good. He cocked open an eye and looked around him. The fringe benefits were excellent so far. Chandler reached for a miniature bottle of Blackjack, cracked the tiny seal, and took a drink.
Still, it made him uncomfortable to be running with the big dogs. He was more the cheating-husband locator, the insurance-scam investigator. All this was over his head. But, in spite of the fancy trappings, there was a rat somewhere. He was a good rat catcher no matter how far uptown the rodents lived.
He reached forward to the override control panel. He had some stops to make for supplies. He intended to see how good Randol’s credit was. If he was taking this on, he wanted to make sure he had what he needed to survive.
Maxwell stormed through the hallways of the security building toward his office. People carefully avoided him, rushing to move out of his way, fearful of his infamous temper and barbed tongue. It would be unhealthy for one’s career to attract his notice at such a time.
Maxwell burst into his office and slammed his fist into the control that sealed his doors. “Son of a bitch!” he screamed. “Pompous ass! How dare he treat me like a lackey!”
Maxwell grabbed a delicate crystal sculpture from his desk. It had been created by a blind artist from Rigel, a member of a species whose artisans devoted a lifetime to construct a single, perfect masterpiece. It took him a fraction of a second to shatter the object against the nearest wall.
But even as he watched the shards of razor-sharp crystal explode and dance, glittering to the floor like tiny fireflies, he knew that it was true. He was only a lackey. He was the hired help. No matter how he struggled, no matter how high he climbed in the corporation, he would always be expendable. He would always be employed at the whim of the Council o
f Lords.
What made them any better than him? They held their position through an accident of fate. A genetic lottery. They were the pampered and worthless descendants of those who had founded the megacorporations. They had, for the most part, never worked a day in their lives, and if they had, it could hardly be called work. More like play-acting, as if it mattered whether they succeeded or failed. They had never missed a meal, never had to worry about the sound of booted feet passing by their door.
His intercom buzzed. “Confed representative wants to talk to you, sir. Line three.”
“Tell them I’m busy,” Maxwell said.
“But they’ve been calling every fifteen minutes. It must be impor—”
Maxwell cut the connection and stood there fuming. As if dealing with the lords wasn’t enough, he had the Confed breathing down his neck, too. Unlike the lords, they could be pushed aside for a while.
Maxwell had fought for everything he had ever obtained. But no matter how talented, no matter how intelligent or ruthless, he could never escape the lords and their mocking condescension. No one could rise to their level. It wasn’t an even playing field.
No new megacorporation had been created in almost two hundred years. Smaller corporations existed in remote parts of Manspace, but only because they were too insignificant to be any threat. Once they grew large enough to attract the attention of one of the megacorporations it meant that there was significant money to be made, and they were invariably devoured as the megacorporations collected the profit.
In order to survive, a corporation would have to be created quickly, suddenly, with massive growth and momentum. It could catch the lords by surprise, perhaps tearing out a place for itself before their ancient and bureaucratic system could react to the threat.
Yes, the man who could achieve such a coup would have the potential for even more. He would have to beat the megacorporations at their own game, break them down, conquer them one by one like Alexander the Great or Napoleon, and give the lords something to fear for the first time in their lives.