ORDNANCE
BY: ANDREW VAILLENCOURT
Copyright © 2017 by Andrew Vaillencourt
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
The Slide Rule Group, LLC
25 Mortimer Rd
Moosup CT, 06354
Ordering Information:
Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.
Orders by U.S. trade bookstores and wholesalers. Please visit:
Chapter One
The inconveniences started, as they so often do, with a woman. Not in a sappy, romantic adventure sort of way; but in that specific manner that always seems to follow the introduction of two people who, for better or worse, were going to be stuck with each other for a good long while. That the person in question was a woman, it could be posited, was entirely irrelevant. But it was a woman nonetheless, and no one could deny the inconveniences started with her.
She stood exactly five foot seven, with short, dark hair worn in a fashionable pixie cut with a single magenta stripe in the front, obviously done by a professional. She was just on the lean side of curvy, but with taught thighs and a hint of definition in the muscles of her shoulders and arms. The shape and tone reminded Roland of a dancer’s body. It was the body of someone who took care of her health and fitness without getting obsessed with it. He decided it was a good body.
Roland approved of the look, in the style of banal acknowledgement that the males of the species were inclined to bestow upon the females, entirely unencumbered by the females’ complete and utter disinterest in such. Roland had grown accustomed to the disinterest of women, so his approval went unvocalized and subsequently unacknowledged. This was probably for the best since Roland was not the kind of man women wanted any kind of acknowledgement from. Most people were happier if Roland did not acknowledge them at all. So was Roland. It was a system that worked for everyone.
Other than her general good looks, there were other reasons to keep an eye on the girl… no… woman as she entered the room. Roland adjusted his estimation of her age to mid-thirties as her face caught the dim light near the bar. Pretty face, too, he acknowledged. Not that it mattered.
No, she commanded the eye for reasons other than attractiveness. First among the interesting phenomena was her presence here at all. This was a spacer’s bar; located one long block from Farragut Shipping’s main platform. Arguably cleaner than most Dockside watering holes to be sure, but the furniture and décor were showing their age. As were many of the patrons, for that matter. The lights burned dim and yellow, and both music and clientele leaned towards the ‘loud’ and ‘old’ ends of the spectrum for either. The bar, a long hardwood affair at the back of the room, had more gouges than grain left in in it. Coincidentally, this is how an astute observer might have described the bartender as well.
It was an old-school watering hole, with old school sensibilities. It did not have a stage for bands to play, nor did it have a wine list. Beer they had though, in wonderful variety and quality, which elevated ‘The Smoking Wreck’ above most gin-mills this side of the Sprawl. The suds ran cold and flowed cheaply. This pleased the clientele; who were decent enough folk (for Dockside, at least).
The uniqueness of the surroundings and the patrons meant no one came here except longshoremen, spacers, pimps, thieves, and whores. She did not belong to any of those groups, Roland was sure. Her clothes appeared nice and fashionable, but also practical. She wore tight blue pants with black leather boots which rose to just below the knee, with a wide belt trimmed to match the leather of her footwear. A black shirt made of some style of shimmery material that looked comfortable and durable covered her upper body. It had no sleeves and had been tailored snug against her body. Not sleazy-snug… more like… fitted. It was a garment for practical purposes, and it looked well made. She carried a small bag over one shoulder. Black, and about eight square inches in size, it sported a simple silver button at the flap. Everything about her screamed “Upper-class socialite.” Which made her a very strange addition to the current cohort of Dockside lowlifes and ambitious street scum who liked this bar. “The Smoking Wreck” wasn’t just a wry turn of phrase; it was truth in advertising.
Second, she moved funny. She was twitchy as if hopped up on chemical speed or perhaps neurologically augmented. This might make her presence more à propos, but her eyes were clear and there was no sign of ataxia or shuffling. When she spoke to the bartender, her voice was a sure, unshaken alto that neither stammered nor slurred. To Roland’s practiced eye, she didn’t look like she was on anything. But every move she made had the aspect of an old film reel run at a speed just a little faster than it should have been. The woman walked too fast. She talked too fast. Her hands darted like striking cobras with even the most basic movements. The effect appeared subtle, but consistent. Roland doubted anyone but he had even noticed it.
The last thing keeping Roland’s attention on the girl was what she said to the bartender. It started innocuous enough, and Roland could hear it quite well despite the noisy bar.
“I’m trying to find someone. I was told he would be here.”
The animated mass of tanned leather and scars that served as bartender was an old war veteran named Marty Mudd. He had been slinging watered-down gin in this dive for twenty years, and he knew better than to give a straight answer, “Lots of people come here, doll. Don’t really know every one of ’em. Lot of ’em come here hoping to not be found, if you know what I mean.” He looked left and right in an exaggerated caricature of clandestine chicanery, “Not sure as it’d be good business if I started acting contrary to their wishes.” He winked an overly conspiratorial wink at her. His bushy eyebrows and shock of unruly white hair made it a very comical gesture, indeed.
Roland smiled in quiet approval. Marty was good people. He had done his tours during the Venusian secession without complaint and came home to a planet that didn’t need him anymore. He didn’t take it personally. It just wasn’t his style.
No, Marty had stepped off the dock still in his uniform, walked into this bar and took a job sweeping the floor. Sixteen years later he bought the place. Smart, friendly, and tough as tungsten, he proved to be a man Roland liked very much. This made Marty special in a world full of people Roland didn’t like at all. The feeling was mutual. Marty liked Roland as much as Marty could like anyone. Roland wasn’t big on ‘friends’ in the classical sense; but he and Marty had history.
The two old soldiers enjoyed a professional arrangement as well: Roland took care of Marty when Marty needed his particular kind of help, and Marty did not charge Roland for every single drink he consumed. Marty also helped ensure that Roland’s privacy remained sacrosanct and unmolested by too much unvetted scrutiny. Truthfully, a lot of the people in Dockside helped with Roland’s desire for privacy. Docksiders liked having Roland around because Roland kept problems away, and in exchange the folks respected his privacy. Which of course, is another reason the woman at the bar needed watching. Unfortunately for all of them, the next words she uttered were a big ’ol heap of problem.
“I’m supposed to say the word ‘breach’ to you. Does that mean anything?” A hint of desperation tinged the edge of her question. Marty flinched in surprise, and he could not help but blink and cast a glance back
over the high-top tables and across the dimly lit booths. It carried all the way to a dark corner of the room deep in the back. She caught the look and whipped her head to the left, and Roland knew she could not help but see him seated in the corner booth.
He stared vehemently down at the table and his empty beer glass. His mind swam in a frenetic crossfire of desperate thoughts, all of them pushing the same agenda.
He furiously willed her not to have said the damned word. But she had said it.
He sat silently and tried to will the woman to walk out at that instant. She stayed put.
With a sinking heart he willed his beer glass to be full. But the glass remained stubbornly empty.
He did not want to look up and meet her eyes.
But he had to look. And he did look. She saw him, and he saw her.
Marty held up his hands in mock surrender and gave Roland a look of abject apology. Roland heaved a mighty sigh and waved the woman over. The packed bar was loud with drunken conversations and bad rock-and-roll coming from the ancient music machine in the corner. A few of the locals stopped to stare at the attractive woman in the nice clothes supremely out-of-place in their happy little slice of hell. But as she passed through the dive bar and got to Roland’s table, they made it a conspicuous point to look at something else. Another reason Roland liked this bar: People knew to mind their damn business here. The woman sat down in her nervous, twitchy way. She snapped her head left and right to check her surroundings, and Roland started in before she could get a word off.
“Who told you to use that word here?” Though phrased as a question, Roland took for granted most people understood that he did not simply ‘ask questions.’ What he had meant was, “Tell me who told you to use that word here. Now.” Clever people rapidly figured out that his veneer of politeness was merely a courtesy. He was a brusque guy, and he liked it that way.
She responded, “My father. He said to come find you and to call you ‘Breach’ if you didn’t trust me.”
“Yeah well, I don’t trust you, and using that word doesn’t necessarily mean you are trustworthy. Who is your father?”
“My name is Lucia Ribiero. My father is Donald Ribiero.”
Roland could only think of one thing to say, “Well. Shit.” This information changed everything.
She went on, “My father said he knew you from the Army, and if I ever got into trouble to find you here and say that word.”
“And you’re in trouble?”
“Yes.” There was grim finality in that lonely syllable.
“The kind of trouble your father thinks I can help you with?”
“I hope so,” she shrugged weakly.
“Did you father say I’d help you?”
“He said if you didn’t help me, it was because you really were a soulless bastard and the only part of you worth a shit leaked out of you onto some off-world battlefield decades ago. He said you owed him, and even though you were going to act like a complete asshole you actually were a very nice man and just didn’t want anyone to know.” She looked sheepish.
Roland cocked an eyebrow, “He said all that, huh?”
“I’m paraphrasing. There were more swear words and some yelling I couldn’t make out,” she shrugged. Roland had to admit that sounded a lot like the Don Ribiero he remembered.
“He talked about you a lot when I was growing up. Mostly when he drank too much. He said you were solid.” She spoke more quietly now. She sounded sad and scared at the same time.
Roland sighed, “You don’t know the half of it, lady. You need to know every bad thing he ever said about me is true, and the good things are likely exaggerated.”
“He only ever said good things about you.”
“Then he lied. But yes, I knew Don Ribiero, and yes, I owe him.” Roland rubbed his eyes wearily, “And the best part of me absolutely has leaked out onto some off-world battlefield, for the record. But I’ll listen to your story, anyway. No guarantees on what I can do for you though.”
Lucia never got the chance get to tell her story though. Because the doors to bar chose that moment to open with a melodramatic bang; and four men strode in. These did not look like spacers or longshoremen either.
This group was a study in clichés: Four big goons each wearing tailored gray suits having all they could do to contain musculature one could only describe as ‘excessive.’ They sported identical crew cuts with suspicious bulges under their arms, and they scanned the room’s occupants with curt, professional efficiency. Their practiced and tactical positioning upon entering pegged them as high-quality hired muscle of some sort or another in Roland’s mind the moment he saw them.
The whole aesthetic appeared deliberate, and it made their intentions transparent to anyone with a three-digit IQ. Five newcomers from the right side of town in this dive on a Friday night was not a coincidence. Roland did not believe in coincidences under the best of circumstances and he did not believe one out-of-place rich girl and a squad of armed goons would all come to this Dockside bar at the same time for the beer selection.
The men were pros, it was obvious. They could not be local talent, either. Roland was familiar with all the local talent personally. But he would have bet a month’s pay they were here for a certain now-terrified woman sitting across from him. That much was obvious. Roland weighed his options as the four newcomers moved quickly and professionally through the bar. It did not take a tactical genius to ascertain that he really had none. There was no way to get out the back without being noticed, and there was no viable way to slip by them. Roland was not great at slipping by people under the best of conditions, so it was hopeless in this case.
But, true to their irascible nature, the patrons of the Smoking Wreck made all tactical considerations moot when, with their customary pugnacity, they rebuffed the inquiries of the men in gray suits.
One of the regulars, John Rikker, worked as a professional sled driver for Farragut for forty hours a week, and liked to moonlight as an amateur tough guy the rest of the time. He took pride in being a big strong man from a hard part of town. He had so many rough edges, referring to him as a ‘troublemaker’ could only cover the most superficial aspects of his personality. John Rikker, Roland conceded, was an asshole on a very fundamental level. More importantly, he was not a man who suffered the rudeness of outsiders gladly or with grace.
He clearly took exception to the demeanor of the pushy, well-dressed invaders. So, in true Dockside fashion, he invited them to engage in an anatomically improbable and certainly uncomfortable sex act with several different inanimate objects. It was too impressive a bit of vulgar eloquence to have been extemporaneous. Roland assumed that John had practiced the insult ahead of time in preparation for the joyful day he could unleash it upon some unsuspecting joker. This was John’s big moment, and he got his jaw busted for the trouble.
The quickness with which the lead goon blasted poor John in the head with a right hook was beyond impressive. This set Roland’s jaw a little. It was beyond human. Superhuman speed meant one of two things: Either he had his neural and physical capabilities boosted through drugs, or he was physically augmented. Both were bad, the second one very bad. Knowing Don Ribiero was mixed up in whatever this mess was meant it very likely leaned strongly toward the ‘very bad.’ Roland realized he needed answers, and he only knew one way to get them. He spared a longing look for his empty beer glass and sighed. So much for a relaxing Friday night.
“Stay down,” he ordered Lucia, curtly. Then he got moving.
Chapter Two
The well-dressed man searching for Lucia Ribiero was not having a good time. Paying gigs were nice, and nice-paying gigs were even nicer, so Roger Dawkins didn’t like to bitch too much about it. Complaining was for hourly chumps, and he was a goddamn professional. But he very much resented having to leave his nice, clean, uptown apartment and schlep all the way to Dockside chasing some skirt whose Dad didn’t know well enough to play ball. When that stinking, grubby, Dockside asshat had
mouthed off, Roger indulged himself with a little well-earned justice to make up for having to come here at all. It wasn’t the most professional way to have handled that, but busting that rube’s jaw would also likely loosen up the other tongues in this craphole. He considered it an investment in getting the job done in a timely manner.
Maybe, just maybe, he could get out of here before the smell of working-class trash and shitty beer bonded permanently to his nice 4,000-cred suit. That would be nice.
When the man in the corner booth stood up from his chair, Roger’s day went rapidly from bad to worse. Roger did not know how to process what he saw when the big shadow stepped into the dim light of the main bar. It was six inches shy of eight feet tall, and impossibly wide. He had what appeared to be normal human anatomy, but the physique was hyper-muscled in a manner akin to caricature. His chest was beyond thick, with a wide, powerful waist. The thighs were like oak trunks. His shoulders looked like over-inflated basketballs, and what passed for the neck was just endless cords of sinew and muscle connected to trapezius that looked like ship cables.
The big man was in simple black military-style pants, slightly baggy, and a tight black shirt that had long sleeves and a high crew neck collar. He wore gloves, which Roger thought was strange. But then again, everything about this guy was strange. The huge man was completely bald and had a pug nose and wide jaw. Small black eyes were set deep under heavy brows, and the face sat locked in a scowl of grim purpose. His skin had a flat, almost waxy tone to it that nagged at Roger’s subconscious, but that could have just been the bad light.
Ordnance Page 1