by Nick Webb
Desh took a seat in the passenger cabin, closing the privacy door to the cockpit to discourage the pilot from initiating a conversation. The shuttle ride was smooth, no doubt another effect of the planet’s low gravity and thin atmosphere.
Okay, you’ve put it off long enough. Call Headquarters.
He pulled out his holophone, dialed a number from memory, and then punched in a code at the prompt.
“The line is encrypted, you may proceed,” a robotic voice told him.
“Contractor 211, requesting mission update,” he told his phone.
“You exited faster-than-light travel almost twenty-five minutes ago—why have you taken so long to call in?” a supervisor asked him.
“I didn’t think I should call in from a public shuttle terminal,” Desh told the man, exasperated.
“You should have called from your spaceliner,” the supervisor chided him.
“I’m calling now,” Desh said. “What’s the update?”
“The client’s becoming impatient—this was a time sensitive mission, and we’re several weeks behind schedule.”
Desh tapped his fingers against his armrest with impatience. “Did you remind them it was their intelligence that sent me to the wrong planet?”
“Regardless, they’ve opened up the contract to local bidders.”
“They’ve done what?” Desh asked, sitting up in his seat.
“The contract is still valid, but fees will be paid to whichever party completes the assignment first.”
“And if the local guys, if these... amateurs... get there first?” Desh asked.
“That would constitute a failed mission,” the man told him. “And I don’t have to remind you of the consequences of failure.”
Desh swore. “I just got here! I haven’t even made contact with the target yet. I need to do reconnaissance and surveillance, plan the mission—”
“Normally, yes. In the circumstances, I suggest you cut those activities short.”
“How long has the contract been open to locals?”
“Three days.”
“Well, the target’s security team will have caught wind of it by now. They’re going to be expecting an attempt.”
The line stayed silent.
“My last mission, and you’re telling me my only option is to do a hit-and-run on a target that’s expecting me, with local hitmen likely to interfere,” Desh pointed out.
“Headquarters staff will be standing by to support you in whatever way we can,” the supervisor replied.
“That’s reassuring,” Desh told him, and hung up.
Desh felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck—the force of gravity was becoming more noticeable. He opened the cabin door and saw that the planet’s canyon now filled the forward viewport. Desh walked forward and took the seat next to the pilot.
He pulled up a picture of the target on his datascroll and held it out for the pilot to see. “I need to know if this man is alive.”
The pilot frowned, but glanced at the photo. “Lloyds? Yeah, he’s alive.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. If a guy like Lloyds got taken down, the whole planet would know about it.”
Desh grimaced. Wonderful.
“I think he’s opening a new titanium refinery on the South Rim this evening,” the pilot continued. “I saw something about it in the news last night.”
“Take me there.”
The pilot began to ask Desh a question, but caught sight of Desh’s expression, and thought better of it. Instead, he concentrated on guiding the shuttle onto its new course.
Desh set his backpack on his lap, opening the main compartment to unfold a large, clamshell-shaped device, his Forge. Hello, old friend. He ran his open palm lightly over the smooth metal, smiling faintly. I hope they let me keep you when this is all over. Just for old time’s sake. Accessing his internal computer, he sent the device a series of commands, and watched as nanomachines in the backpack’s open tray whirred to life. The butt of an auto-pistol soon began to emerge. The pilot glanced over briefly, then carefully kept his eyes fixed out the front viewport. While Desh waited, he slaved his internal communications device to the shuttle’s radio.
“Radio check.”
The pilot touched his earpiece and nodded. “I got you. We’re coming over the South Rim.”
Desh craned his neck to look out the polarized window next to him, noting a jagged edge of cliff close below them. Beyond the cliff’s edge and far below it, a sprawling industrial park belched flame and fumes into the red sky. The pilot made a steep bank, bringing the craft down and sharply to the left, cruising just above the factories.
“What now?”
Desh thought for a second. “Give me a pass over the new plant.”
Desh picked up the completed auto-pistol, loaded it with practiced ease, double-checked that its digital point-of-aim reticule appeared on the heads-up display of his optical implants, and then placed the weapon in the waistband of his pants. In his Forge, the nanomachines were already at work on a grenade.
“Coming up on the plant,” the pilot reported.
“Slow down.”
The pilot took the shuttle through a wide, slow turn, allowing Desh an excellent view of the plant out his window. None of the machinery seemed to be operating, but he identified the glass-domed main entrance by the large, lighted tunnel leading to it.
“See if you can find us somewhere inconspicuous to set down.”
The pilot hesitated. “If you want to get in there, we’re going to have to land in a bay with atmospheric seals... I don’t have survival gear onboard.”
Desh had forgotten the planet’s air was not breathable. Focus! he told himself. If we land in a bay, the shuttle’s going to get recorded on security cameras. But I don’t have a choice at this point.
“Then set down in a bay. Close to the plant.”
The bay the pilot chose was mercifully empty—he landed with a slight jolt, and the bay doors sealed behind them. As the bay repressurized, Desh slipped into a large trenchcoat, pocketed the grenade from his backpack, and then closed the device, slipping it on. He took a minute to detail his plans with the pilot, and then exited the shuttle quickly, heading for the nearest air-sealed pedestrian tunnel. He pulled his coat close around his jumpsuit, hugging the thin material to him for protection.
There were no guards at the entrance to the new plant, and Desh allowed himself a silent sigh of relief. He stepped out of the entrance tunnel into a large, domed arboretum, ringed with shops and food stalls. The factory could be seen through enormous reinforced glass windows on the far side of the trees, the heavy pipes and valves looking strangely incongruous behind the imported trees.
Those trees must have cost a fortune.
His initial walk-through of the area yielded nothing: Lloyds was likely inside the plant itself, but the inner entrance to the plant was blocked by a security gate. He did notice several workers installing a podium on a small stage under the trees, however. An official opening ceremony out here, maybe? Desh remembered a mission, long ago, the target a recently-elected politician. He had set up his position on a rooftop across the city square with a long-range dart gun. Back then, he had been excited to be a guildsman, electrified at the prospect of so much wealth and the challenge of missions.
And how quickly that luster faded.
A flurry of movement in his peripheral vision caught Desh’s eye, and he turned, looking back at the same entrance through which he had entered the arboretum. A man was walking out of the tunnel’s arch, flanked by an aide and several alert-looking men whose demeanor immediately earned them the label ‘bodyguard’ in Desh’s mind. Desh dialed up his optical implants, zooming in on the man’s face, switching to infrared.
After a second, a notification popped up:
“I’ve got him,” Desh said.
“Okay,” the pilot replied over the radio. De
sh could hear the whine of the shuttle’s engines kicking on in the background.
He switched back to normal vision to count the security personnel. Four. Wait—could be five, he chided himself. Don’t get sloppy now and automatically dismiss that aide as a non-hostile.
Lloyds and his entourage were headed in his general direction, so Desh pretended to study the menu options at the nearest food stall and let them approach, relaxing and breathing evenly. Then he saw two men across from him leave a store, heading straight for the target, eyes focused on the man. Desh swore under his breath.
And here come the local crew. And they’re telegraphing their intentions like kids near a candy bowl.
Time slowed, as it always seemed to do in the seconds before an engagement. The bodyguards had seen the threat, and by unspoken agreement, they tightened their formation around the target, protecting him with their bodies, while one of them stepped forward to confront the approaching men. The two local hitmen traded a worried look, and then yanked cut-off heavy rifles out of the boxes they were carrying, opening fire with an incoherent yell. Their fire was wild and undisciplined, but their first salvo killed the lead bodyguard and the aide.
Desh drew his pistol, dropping to his right knee in one fluid motion. The white crosshairs appeared on his heads-up display as he brought the weapon up, and he squeezed the trigger smoothly as the crosshair bracketed his first target. He fired two rounds, shifted aim, and fired two more, dropping the local hitmen in the span of three seconds. The surviving bodyguards, in the midst of returning fire, now turned to face Desh, surprised by the intercession of a third party. They aimed their pistols at Desh, keeping Lloyds kneeling in the center of their tight circle.
Desh stood up, pistol pointed at the ceiling, and yelled, “Interstellar Police, don’t fire!”
Killing an Interstellar officer carried a death sentence on many planets, but Desh knew he had only bought himself a second or two of confusion. He braced himself for the final push, and took a deep breath of air.
“Now!” he yelled.
Above the bodyguards, the shuttle erupted through the outer skin of the arboretum, shattering the airlock seal and showering the people below with fragments of glass and steel. The craft skewed wildly as the pilot fought to regain control. The three surviving bodyguards turned their heads to evaluate this new threat, their weapons no longer pointed at Desh. Holding his breath as the atmosphere vented out of the structure, Desh lobbed his fragmentation grenade at the security personnel. The detonation knocked the knot of bodyguards over, and Desh saw the target go down as well.
Probably dead, but no sense in cutting corners now.
He caught a glimpse of a team of armed security personnel pulling on oxygen masks back at the entrance to the factory, but ignored them and ran up to Lloyds, stopping to fire four rounds into the man’s inert body. Then he dashed over to the hovering shuttle.
His lungs burned from lack of oxygen and his vision began to blur by the time he reached the craft, but Desh managed to grab one of the shuttle’s support struts and pull himself into the cabin. The pilot sealed the door behind him, and Desh gasped in a gulp of fresh air.
“Get back to the transfer station!” Desh coughed.
The pilot veered out of the arboretum, deftly exiting through the hole his craft had made, and accelerated to gain altitude, heading for high orbit and the freedom of an interstellar transport. On impulse, Desh checked his counter bracelet, tapping the button. A golden ‘50’ appeared above his wrist, spinning slowly. Desh closed his eyes and smiled, letting out a long sigh. An insistent beeping interrupted his reverie.
He opened his eyes and noted several red lights blinking on the shuttle’s dashboard.
“Equipment malfunction,” the pilot reported. “I think the boosters were damaged by the crash.”
Desh saw the numbers on the altimeter slow to a stop, and then reverse with growing rapidity. The pilot struggled wordlessly with the controls and then swore. Outside the window, the rocky landscape blurred as the craft went into a shallow spin. The pilot continued to fight with the controls, but Desh just let his head rest against the window, watching as the planet’s surface hurtled up toward them.
God, I’m tired.
But at least I’m free.
Q&A with Piers Platt
Wait, that’s it? What happened to Desh?!?
Please have a seat. This might be hard for you to hear, but Desh... well, he didn’t make it. I’m terribly sorry. BUT! This short story inspired a much longer story, so if you liked the concept of the Guild and their “Fifty for Fifty” assassins, you can jump back into this world in the Janus Group series, which starts with Rath’s Deception. I like to describe it as “Bourne meets Bladerunner”—a fast-paced conspiracy thriller in a sci-fi setting.
So what’s your deal?
Aside from writing? I’m kind of tricky to pigeonhole. I was a boy chorister growing up – the red robes, daily church services, the whole thing. But I’m also a combat veteran, who led tank and scout platoons in Iraq. I love to scuba dive with my wife, and spend time with our daughter. She’s working on her reading and writing, which lately means making long lists of things like her favorite foods: MACRONEE! PEETSA! It’s awesome.
Why do you write sci-fi?
The limitless possibilities—it’s a blank canvas. I know creativity sometimes gets fueled by working within constraints, but I love that sci-fi has so much potential variety. It’s truly speculative fiction, bounded only by the author’s imagination.
Where do you come up with this stuff?
I get a lot of ideas in the shower! I have no idea why. I’ll get out and run downstairs dripping wet and make some notes on the next chapter. Maybe I should try writing in the shower. Are waterproof laptops a thing yet?
Train A leaves Westford at 70 mph heading toward Eastford, 260 miles away. At the same time Train B, traveling 60 mph, leaves Eastford heading toward Westford. When do the two trains meet?
Oh man, I hate these questions. Okay, distance = rate x time... carry the four... solve for X... square root of pi...and the answer is: 2 hours later.
Show your work.
No.
Where can I find your other stuff?
You can find links to Rath’s Deception and all of my other books on my website at www.piersplatt.com, where you can also get a free copy of Combat and Other Shenanigans, my New York Times bestselling Iraq War memoir. Thanks for reading!
Relic Hunter
by Chris Fox
1
“DO YOU HAVE any idea who I am?” Wes asked, resting his hand casually on the grip of his Welks. The heavy pistol felt massive strapped at his side, and he prayed he wouldn’t have to draw it. The last time he’d fired the weapon his wrist had hurt for three days.
“Yeah,” the armored, much larger, figure on the barstool next to him said, looming a bit closer. “You’re the guy whose arms I’m about to pull off.”
Wes considered his options, which seemed markedly limited. The man, if it was a man, wore a full suit of iron grey power armor. He wasn’t familiar with the model, though the fact that it had four arms suggested Ikadian design. If that was the case then only a shot to the faceplate had any chance of penetrating. Unfortunately he wasn’t a very good shot, and given how badly he was shaking his aim would be even worse.
“Listen, friend,” Wesley drawled, playing for time. He drew on all the frontier holos he’d grown up with, trying to channel the hero. “I don’t know what your quarrel is, but I’ve had a tough day. I just want to have a brandy and get some sleep. What’s say we just pretend we never met, and then we don’t have to make a mess all over the bartender’s nice furniture?”
“Don’t hold back on account of me,” the bartender chittered, a tall skinny Rhoidian with mottled green skin. His antennae quivered in amusement, the only readable expression on an insectoid face.
Great. Wes darted a glance at the door. He might be able to keep tables between hims
elf and the four armed bully long enough to escape out the door, but if he ran he’d never be able to set foot here again. That would make it impossible to hire a ship, which would make the entire trip a waste of time. He’d have to return to Corentia a failure. There had to be another option.
The armored figure moved with incredible speed, making his decision for him. The two bottom arms lunged, metallic claws reaching for his waist. At the same time the upper right claw sailed toward his face, and Wes knew that if it connected his jaw would be liquefied by the impact. He scrambled backward, his right foot catching on the bottom of the stool. The motion spilled both him and the stool to the pitted metal floor, and he landed heavily on his back as the robotic limbs swung through the space he’d just occupied. Wes snapped up the strap on the holster, wrenching the Welks out and aiming for the faceplate. He squeezed the trigger, elated as the weapon gave a deep boom. He’d remembered to take the safety off this time.
The armored figure staggered back as his faceplate shattered. Unfortunately, Wes wasn’t in any position to appreciate it. The recoil from the shot snapped the pistol back, and there was a thunderous crack as it crushed his nose. He tasted blood and snot, blinking away tears as he scrambled backwards. Through the shattered faceplate he saw his assailant’s face, and he nearly wet himself as he realized what he was facing. That face was a marbled grey and white, with the angular features of a Marbok. The thing inside the armor had a carapace made of stone, and was probably tougher out of the armor than it was in it. His shot to the faceplate hadn’t done more than upset it.