by Mark Wandrey
“On this planet? Over a year, I’m pretty sure.”
“And the ship itself?”
The kid gave a little shrug. “Maybe three years?”
This was a complication, to be certain. There was no way he was going to have the kid follow him around inside the ship, slowing him down and maybe drawing attention. He also couldn’t just leave him there.
“Any more like you on this ship?” The kid shook his head. Murdock pulled the crappy Glock from his waistband and the kid cringed. “Easy kid,” he said, and held out the gun. “You ever fire one of these?”
“My dad showed me how, before they…”
“Yeah,” Murdock said and let him take it from him. “You said you can fit in the air vents?” The kid nodded vigorously. “Good, you take that gun, crawl in the vents, and stay away from the shooting until it’s all over. If I don’t make it, go down to the hangar and steal the skiff I came in on, head south. The fishing fleet is there, they’ll help you. You think you can do that?”
“Yes, sir,” the kid said.
“Good,” Murdock said and patted him on the head. It was the most paternal thing he could think of doing. He got a half smile for it. “What’s your name?”
“Vincent, they call me Vince. What’s your name?”
“I’m Murdock. Okay, Vince, get to someplace safe.”
“What are you going to do, Murdock?”
“Kill every one of these motherfuckers.” Vince gave Murdock his first genuine smile.
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
True to his word, the kid didn’t need any more encouragement or help to get into the ventilation system. He produced a little tool kit, removed the cover, stuffed the gun in his waistband (like he’d seen Murdock carry it), and was gone in a second. Murdock nodded in appreciation of the kid’s no-nonsense demeanor and slid the grate back in place. If you looked carefully, you might notice the screws were missing, but that was the only clue Vince was inside.
“You stay out of sight, you hear me?” he stage-whispered into the vent.
“Yes, sir,” a quiet voice answered. Murdock nodded and left the galley.
A ladder led to the next deck up. Murdock climbed until his head was just below the deck, then paused while listening carefully. The low murmur of a voice confirmed his suspicion. He silently crept back down to the lower deck and went back to the two men he’d killed, retrieved one of their machine pistols, and headed back to the stairs. Slinging the rifle over his back, he gave the pistol a quick once-over. Inexpensive Earth manufacturer. These pirates were pathetic. Fully-automatic, 9mm drum magazine holding forty rounds, and a cheap wire extendible shoulder stock.
“The locals should have cleaned up this bunch ages ago,” he mumbled as he began to climb again. Murdock suspected the local government’s duplicity in the scam was mostly responsible for that not happening. They kept any human mercs from coming in. He suspected Jim Cartwright would have happily brought a platoon in here to take out these slaving pirate shitheads. Probably would have done it for free, too. He felt a moment of regret as he climbed, missing being part of Cartwright’s Cavaliers. He’d been a Horseman for a short time, and Jane Wheeler’s lover. What a great time it had been, too. Now he had to issue some payback.
Reaching the top, he checked the chamber, verified it had a round in it, switched the selector from ‘safe’ to ‘fire,’ and got a good grip on the gun. He breathed deeply a couple times, preparing, then stuck his head up quickly and yelled. “Hey assholes, how’s it hanging?”
In the second he was up on deck, he saw four pirates standing there looking at him, dumbfounded. Three were in the middle of the corridor, one half-concealed behind a door. Their guns came up, and he quickly ducked down, hunching his back to get his head as far down as possible.
Gunfire erupted with a roar as the four pirates blazed away at where he’d been only a moment before. Bullets went Sprang! and Whing! as they ricocheted off the steel ladder and metal of the ladderway. Three rounds thudded into the armor on his back and side. That hurt, but not as bad as it would have if his head had been up there.
After a couple seconds, the pirates’ magazines were empty, and the gunfire suddenly stopped. My turn, he thought. Murdock unbent and stuck his head up, and the machine pistol he’d liberated. As he figured, all four were busily fumbling magazines into their guns, not looking down the corridor. One looked up and saw Murdock’s head. Murdock gave him a feral grin as he brought up his machine pistol.
“Holy fu—” was all the man got out before Murdock pulled the trigger.
The gun was inaccurate, poorly constructed, and about as elegant as a rubber hose. Still, it had an impressive cyclic rate. He worked the gun back and forth quickly. By his estimate, all forty rounds were gone in about two seconds. One long Brrrraap! and the bolt locked back. The screams of two of the men were swallowed by the cacophonous roar of the pistol, especially as it activated his high-tech hearing protection. One guy, the one who’d seen him, caught at least five rounds in a stitch from lower left abdomen to right shoulder. The guy next to him took three rounds, one in a left shoulder, another in the neck, and one through his right hand, which he’d raised to cover his face. The round passed through the hand, hit him in the mouth, and blew his lower jaw completely away.
He’s not walking that off, Murdock mentally chuckled as he dropped the spent pistol and swung the laser rifle up on its sling. The other two had had enough presence of mind to move instead of gawk. One was the guy half behind a door, and he’d simply moved sideways. The other dropped to the deck and covered his head with his hands. A couple seconds after the gunfire ceased, he moved his hands and looked up, just in time for Murdock’s laser beam to punch him right between the eyes and burn completely through his body and out his ass.
Murdock chuckled again as he shifted aim. The only one with enough brains to use the doorway as cover was spinning back around, his machine pistol reloaded. Murdock took a quick shot at the hand as it appeared. His beam sliced through the man’s jacket sleeve, missing his arm by a bare millimeter. The guy yelped and pulled his arm back.
“You bastard!” the guy screamed ineffectually.
“You don’t know the half of it, punk,” Murdock yelled back, adding a little laugh. The guy double faked and tried to swing his gun around again. Murdock fired again, and this time the guy lost meat on his forearm.
“You fuck!” the guy screamed as he pulled the arm back yet again. “You goddamn fucker!”
Murdock laughed out loud, a cold, mirthless laugh. This guy was wasting his ammo. He sighed and sighted on the frame where his torso would be and pulled the trigger. The beam burned through, and he heard a yelp of surprise. Gotcha, he thought and climbed the rest of the way up. The guy came around the corner on his knees, singed along one side of his head. Shit, he thought, now you go and grow a brain?
Half out of the ladderway, he did the only thing he could; he stopped and aimed. The man’s machine pistol roared, spitting death at Murdock, just as the old merc saw the sight picture of his adversary’s upper body center in the reticle. He stroked the trigger and the laser fired the last shot in the magazine.
A burst of machine pistol fire tore into Murdock, staggering him on the ladder. Icy fire tore along the right side of his head, several pounded into his chest, another into his abdomen, and the last his hip. The combat armor was modular, designed to fit over most uniforms and provide good protection against killing shots. It covered vitals like your neck, chest, underarms, abdomen, crotch, and thighs. By habit Murdock had added upper arm sleeves; you could bleed out quite effectively by having the brachial artery cut by a bullet. However, there was nothing in the area below his stomach and to either side of his groin.
His laser took the man center chest, just below his neck. Several arteries were cut, as well as his trachea. He staggered, still holding the pistol as he gurgled and sprayed bright red blood. With so many bullet hits, it took Murdock a second to realize he’d taken
one outside the armor. When wetness began washing down his left leg, that was a clue.
“Fuck,” he said and tested the leg. There was an agonizing stab of pain, but not the crunch or grinding of a bone hit. Well, there was that at least. He reached the deck and stepped out, looking down. The bullet had gone just under his abdominal armor and above the thigh. There was a nice chunk out of his side, and it was bleeding like a motherfucker. He would have shot the staggering fuck again if the magazine wasn’t empty. Worse, he was out of nanites.
The pain was finally beginning to register over all the hits stopped by his armor, and it was that good kinda pain. The kind that made you wish you’d taken up accounting, or maybe truck driving, instead of being a merc. Judging by the volume of blood, it might have nicked an artery too. Swell.
The asshole who’d shot him was still swaying back and forth, pumping blood like a cheap horror movie. Murdock might have been mildly amused by the tableau if he wasn’t doing pretty much the same thing. He needed to do something about that, but first things first.
He hobbled down to where the horror show was standing, swapping his last magazine into the laser rifle. He checked it first to make sure it hadn’t been damaged by all the gunfire. Chemical laser magazines could be just as lethal to the user as their targets. Certain it was okay, he locked it in place and pressed the charge control, loading the weapon.
The man standing there was trying to staunch the blood flow, not really conscious of the fact it was gushing out his back as well. He watched Murdock with huge eyes, mouth moving with nothing coming out. Murdock butt-stroked the man to the deck so he could glance around the corner into the room he’d been using for cover. Some kind of meeting room, or maybe an office. Nobody else inside.
The guy finally had the grace to gurgle his last and die as Murdock leaned against the desk in the office and dug out his medkit. A moment of regret passed through his mind at the empty spot where the nanite dispenser had once rested. Maybe he’d been a little too liberal with its use while torturing Deagan? His personal rule was to never regret fun, so he let it go. There was a small mirror over the desk. Murdock used it to examine the head wound. As he’d suspected, there was a graze just above his ear. The bleeding was stopping on its own, and he couldn’t do much about it without getting complicated, so he ignored it and grabbed one of the trauma pads. He opened his shirt a little clumsily with his messed up right hand, exposing the bullet wound, and cursed again.
“That’s ugly,” he said. The bullet went in just above his hip, and out at the same height. The wound channel was maybe a centimeter in from the side of his body. It had made a real mess out of the muscles there, though it wasn’t far enough in to get a kidney. Using a big wad of gauze, he soaked up the blood, hissing at the spike of pain, and looked in the wound. Blood flowed quickly without spurting. There was no white of bone. Some luck after all.
Murdock peeled back the cover on the trauma pad and slapped it against the wound, wrapping it all the way around to the back side. The adhesive was similar to old-fashioned superglue, and it stuck instantly. The pain was quite impressive, as the pad was soaked with a quick-clotting agent.
Certain it was in place, he dug into the kit and found a single-use syringe of pain killer and stuck it into his side, just above the wound, and pressed the activator. A quick sting, and numbness began to replace the pain.
“Oh, that’s better,” he said aloud and dropped the spent dispenser on the floor. His entire left pant leg was soaked with blood, and the left boot felt like it was full. At least a quart, he guessed. He felt a little light-headed, as well. He dug out a blister pack of the stims CASPer drivers called CASPer Candy and popped them in his mouth. He chewed the nasty things before swallowing to speed them on their way. No time for a break, too much still to do.
“Sixteen left,” he said as he replaced the now greatly-depleted medkit and picked up his rifle. As he verified each of the four outside the door were dead, he helped himself to a pair of the machine pistols and two extra magazines. If his luck held, he was liable to need it. Afterward he went across the hall, moved to the side, and slid the door open.
“Don’t shoot!” someone yelled inside.
Murdock popped his head around the door frame, one eye only to scan the room. A man was sitting on a bed holding up his hands. He edged around the corner, rifle first, aiming at the guy’s face.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Price,” the man said, “I’m a captive. They caught me some time ago.”
“Is that so?” Murdock asked, and the man nodded. Murdock examined the room. Spartan, to be sure, but it had all the amenities. Small bathroom, dresser, computer, and a comfortable bed which could be converted for zero-gravity use. “Why’d they capture you?”
“I worked for the government. You a merc?”
“Retired,” Murdock said, completing his examination. The man, Price, had calmly put his hands down on the bed to either side of his legs. The sheets were bunched up behind him.
“Retired?” Price said incredulously. He took in Murdock’s appearance. One leg soaked in blood, more blood dribbling out of his boot with every limping step. Still more blood caked down the right side of his face, not to mention his maimed right hand. “Why are you doing this?”
“I hate pirates and slavers,” Murdock said and moved to turn around. Price went for the gun hidden under the sheets, and Murdock shot him just below the sternum. Had Price been paying closer attention, he’d have noticed the laser rifle never once moved from its aim; only Murdock’s head and shoulders turned.
“Gah!” the man cried and slid off the bed to the floor. He put a hand over the burnt shirt as blood flowed out of the rectangular wound. “H-how did you know?”
“I’ve met Vince,” Murdock explained, “you know, you pirate fuck? The kid you took after killing all his people?” The man’s eyes shot hatred at him, so Murdock kicked him in the face with his big right boot. It made the wound on his left side hurt like hell, in exchange for the crunch of Price’s facial bones. It was a good trade.
Out in the corridor were the unmistakable sounds of many feet running. Murdock glanced over and saw there was an intercom by the bed, light glowing to indicate it was on. They knew he was alone and were making a rush of it. Fine with me, he thought and pulled the two machine pistols out. He’d checked the condition of the weapons when he’d picked them up. With a glance and a snort at Price’s caved-in face, he moved sideways toward the door.
He guessed this was all of them. It had to be, because the damned corridor was full, a bunch coming from left and right. Of course, what they didn’t think about was something mercs were taught from day one: crossfire. As soon as they saw him, both groups exclaimed and opened fire. Murdock simply backed up into the room he’d been about to exit, and the two groups peppered each other with gunfire.
Murdock literally laughed out loud as the gunfire quickly stopped and the screaming started. As soon as the last gun went off, he stuck both of his machine pistols out into the hall, one in each direction, and held the triggers down. It wasn’t his finest gunplay, he was certain. He only just managed to hang onto the right-hand gun as he worked it back and forth, emptying the guns, like earlier, in one continuous burst.
The guns now empty, Murdock popped back into the room long enough to drop them both next to the dead Price and snatch up his laser rifle before carefully looking outside. He needn’t have been particularly careful; the corridor was awash in blood. Screaming wounded were everywhere. Even those not injured were yelling in confusion and horror. It was ridiculously easy to use the laser rifle to meticulously kill every single one of them.
The work done, Murdock went around the bodies to double check, and to count. He found fourteen dead, which meant there were two left. Assuming the asshole hadn’t lied about how many there were on the ship, just two more. He was pretty sure he knew where they were. The place he’d been heading next anyway. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his hip, Murdock he
aded for the bridge.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
The converted freighter began to shudder and lurch as whoever was in control brought it to life. As Murdock carefully and painfully climbed to the next deck, he was certain it wasn’t to submerge again. The survivors were certainly aware the attack against him had failed spectacularly and were planning to make a run for it. They might well have friends in orbit. He didn’t intend to let them get there.
The top of the ladder only revealed a small corridor with three doors. The two to either side had metal doors. One proved to be a communications room, the other the captain’s cabin. Both were empty. The last door was heavier metal and was the bridge; it wouldn’t be empty, and it was locked. The ship shuddered again and felt like it was rising. He banged on the heavier bridge door.
“Hey,” Murdock yelled, “open up.”
“Fuck off!” someone yelled back on the other side.
The ship’s ascent engines roared, and Murdock felt gradual acceleration building. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll do this my way.” Murdock slid his laser rifle around on its sling and moved the power/burst control under his right thumb. The laser rifle wasn’t as versatile as the laser carbine, but the carbines weren’t as powerful, trading power for utility. They could pulse fire, produce long-duration cutting beams, and had much larger magazines. Using the rifle as he intended was far from optimal.
The settings adjusted, he picked a point on the door and pulled the trigger while sweeping the weapon up. A long, less-than-perfect cut resulted. Murdock grimaced at the results, which had cost him four shots from the last magazine. He’d planned to cut a square entry, but after seeing the results of his first shot, he decided on a more expeditious solution. Aiming, he fired and swept a second time, then a third time.