The first dome with a lit façade that they came to was called Krong’s. Cormac gazed at the sign and smiled to himself, remembering his childhood fascination with that character. Apparently Jebel U-cap Krong had survived the war and now ran a salmon farm on some backwoods world, though Cormac was not entirely sure he believed the story.
He and Yallow entered the smoky atmosphere and looked around. The place was starting to fill up, but there were still some tables available so Yallow snagged one and sat down, gesturing Cormac to the bar. He walked over and pushed through the crush there, ordered two beers, then scanned around while the barman, a brushed aluminium spider with limbs terminating in three-fingered hands, poured his drinks.
Carl?
Carl was ensconced with a few of the locals around a small table in one of the dimmer parts of the bar. They were drinking and talking, but did not show the animation evident at the tables surrounding them. Their discussion appeared serious, whispered and vehement. With his drinks finally before him, Cormac took them up, returned to Yallow and told her what he had seen.
“Works fast,” she commented. “I don’t think I’ve even spoken to a native yet.”
“They don’t look happy. Should we go over there?”
“Nah, if they start slapping him about it’ll be character-building for him.”
Yallow’s attitude to violence had ever been thus, but then few people would ever be tough enough to slap her about. In training he’d seen her flip a Golem instructor—something only one in a hundred recruits were capable of doing. Then, thinking of her earlier comment, Cormac remembered the first time he’s managed to get the upper hand against the same instructor. Maybe he took his own achievements too lightly. He frowned, took a drink of his beer, and decided then to keep a wary eye on any inclination to arrogance growing in him, then he drank more, keeping pace with Yallow.
They took it in turns to go to the bar for each round and he was feeling a pleasant buzz when he saw one of the locals standing and pointing a threatening finger at Carl. Carl stood too, glanced about warily, then leaned forwards to say something. The man backhanded him and Carl took it, blank-faced, then turned and headed away. Cormac tracked him across to the door, watched him depart, then observed some altercation back at the table. The man who had slapped Carl abruptly turned and hurried for the door, and that he was checking the positioning of something underneath his coat did not escape Cormac’s notice.
“I think we’d better finish up and take a walk,” said Yallow, obviously having watched events too.
They downed their beers and stood, quickly heading for the door and, once outside scanned the floodlit brightness and the deep shadows between buildings. No sign of the local, but Carl was a little way up the street strolling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, which struck Cormac as quite odd.
“You follow him,” said Yallow. “I’ll go the back way.”
She would be better there—sneaking about in darkness was her preferred pastime.
Cormac kept Carl in sight along the curving street, then saw him abruptly take a left heading for the barracks. The route there was dark, so Cormac picked up his pace, but reaching the turn could see no sign of Carl. Abruptly someone seemed to appear out of nowhere to balletically kick Cormac’s feet out from under him, step beyond him and drop into a crouch.
“Carl—”
Carl was aiming a nasty squat little pulse-gun at Cormac’s head.
“Ah fuck,” said Carl, then abruptly came upright and scanned about himself. Out of the darkness came the flash-crack of a projectile weapon, the sound of a fleshy impact, and Carl was flung back.
“Thanks for that, boy,” said a figure stepping out of a nearby alley.
Cormac froze for a moment, then began to move towards the interloper.
“You want some, soldier?” the man enquired, swinging the stubby barrel of some weapon towards him. Carl was coughing blood—not dead yet. Maybe all it would take was another shot—
Something slammed against the man’s back, and he oofed and staggered. Glimpsing a rock thudding to the ground, Cormac moved in close and crescent-kicked the gun from the man’s hand. As the weapon clattered to the gridwork then down into the mud, he moved in close for a heel-of-thehand strike, and just managed to duck the swipe of a blade. The guy was fast—used to this sort of encounter—and Cormac realised, by the way his opponent was poised, that a crescent kick would not work again.
“Come on, Yallow!” shouted Cormac.
“Oh I’m here,” said Yallow, from just behind the man.
There came a thump then, and the man lifted up off his feet and sprawled. Cormac thought Yallow had hit him, but looking round saw Carl lowering his gun—certainly not military issue, and certainly not something he should have been carrying here. Carl dropped the gun to the grating, then passed out.
“We need to get him to the infirmary,” said Cormac.
“I’ve already called a medivac team.” Yallow tapped her aug.
Cormac stooped beside the attacker, checked for a pulse and none found. He then found the charred hole right over the man’s heart, next turning him over to gaze at the fist-sized cavity in his back and realising a low-energy pulse shot had been used. A higher energy pulse would have cut a perfect hole right the way through, but this kind, however, was more damaging at close quarters and more likely to ensure a kill. He stood and moved over to Carl.
Yallow had wadded up her jacket and pressed it against the Carl’s sucking chest wound. Cormac stooped to take up the gun Carl had dropped, then studied it. The weapon had to be adjusted internally for low-power shots—something Carl was quite capable of doing—but his doing so demonstrated that he had felt the need for the weapon to perform in that way. Carl was into something, that was sure.
Soon, flashing lights lit the night above them and an AG ambulance settled. Three medics piled out followed by two self-governing floating stretchers. The medics dismissed Cormac and Yallow and set to work, and soon Carl and his opponent were on the stretchers and on their way towards the ambulance. Inevitably, before Cormac and Yallow could depart, another grav vehicle descended—the logo of the ECS military police gleaming on its doors. Cormac was tempted to slip Carl’s weapon inside his jacket, but decided at the last moment not to. Maybe unit loyalty should be encouraged, but only so far. Two military policemen stepped out of the vehicle, then one of them paused, holding up his hand to the other while listening in to his comunit. After a moment they both returned to their vehicle and it rose back into the sky again.
“Odd,” commented Yallow.
As the ambulance finally ascended, another vehicle descended from the sky. This was a rough-looking gravcar without anything to distinguish it from a civilian vehicle. A lean woman stepped out and Cormac recognised her instantly. She had long blond hair tied back with a leather thong, and was clad in a worn grey envirosuit and long leather coat. She was one of the couple he had tentatively identified aboard the heavy lifter wing as ECS agents.
“Well, you have been busy,” she said, gazing up at the departing ambulance, then down at the dark stains on the gratings. She now looked steadily at Yallow. “I’ve viewed your recording.” She tapped the discrete aug behind her ear. “But now I want detail from the both of you.” Looking at Cormac her eyes focused on the weapon he was holding.
“Carl’s,” he said, and tossed it to her.
With supreme ease she snatched it out of the air, inspected it briefly then removed its gas canister before inserting the gun inside her leather coat.
“Let’s go somewhere more convivial for a chat.”
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Prador Moon: A Novel of the Polity Page 24