Ordnance

by Andrew Vaillencourt

  Next, there had been the hit on the Dwarf’s operation, where Tank had cleared out the runt’s best boys. Marko knew Roland professionally and by reputation, and he was unsurprised that the Dwarf’s crew couldn’t handle the big man. Marko hated to lose a Garibaldi; good help was rare planetside, but at least the other one would live. The Bosses agreed to let that hit slide, as Roland’s reputation in Dockside made him too valuable to antagonize, and the more pressing concern was locking down whoever was running jobs in New Boston outside the lines.

  Then another call came in later that night, and that particular question found its infuriating answer. Some Corpus Mundi big shot copped to the hit, and told them that more ‘contractors’ would be on site in thirty-six hours. That didn’t set everyone off until the company man explained that they would use off-world hitters.

  The Bosses had lost their minds over this, Marko included. He remembered it very clearly. There was plenty of profanity and more than one disparaging epithet slung at the pudgy little man in the expensive suit on the screen. The company shill didn’t realize that using off-world talent was a serious breach of the rules. Pops had made it clear in no uncertain terms that the Combine would handle this bounty, and that off-worlders were out of the question.

  At that, the company bigwig had laughed. He laughed at Pops Winter! Nobody did that. Ever. That was how you wound up as assorted pieces in a recycling container on your way to the Moon. But what could they do? Corpus Mundi had unlimited money and just as much political swing as the Combine did. Not to mention, the relationship between Corpus Mundi and the Combine had been very profitable for the criminals. So, Pops acquiesced, and that brought the rest of them in line. They just couldn’t afford, financially or politically, a war with Corpus Mundi.

  After the call, it was decided that the proper way to retaliate was to declare the price for all Corpus Mundi work would now be triple the normal rate. Sometimes you must send a message, and the only way to hurt a corporation like that was in the wallet. The Combine could afford to push the company on that front. Corpus Mundi did plenty of outside-the-lines work, and all of it went through the Combine. Thanks to the temerity of that fox character, every one of those jobs just got a lot more expensive. It was a plan that would send the correct message without a costly conflict and preserve the reputations and respect of the Bosses. As an addendum, the council of Bosses also resolved to bring the bounty in before the mercenaries arrived, thus preserving the rules and maintaining an orderly business environment.

  The Board then dumped this unenviable job on Marko, and in turn he had sent it down the channels. It was a big enough bounty that word hit the streets in minutes, and every thug and punk from Big Woo to the Old Fen Way was combing the street hoping to hit that once-in-a-lifetime score within the span of fifteen minutes. New Boston was big, but there were eyes and ears everywhere, and every single one of them would be fixed on a single target.

  Which should have been the end of the story, except that he had just lost fourteen guys to a single fixer and a spoiled Uptown bitch in the heart of his own turf. It was maddening beyond all belief. On the bright side, he didn’t have to go hunting for them anymore. The big asshole said he was coming here, so that eliminated one whole aspect of the job, at least.

  There was just one teensy little issue with that: Marko did not want that big mook anywhere near his person. Despite his fearsome past and unforgiving reputation, Marko was not the kind of man who enjoyed dealing with scary problems personally. One thing he had learned scrapping his way up from the street-level thug he had been, was that macho crap like that is how you got maimed and killed. No, this is precisely what moderately paid flunkies were for. Case in point, the sweating trembling mess of middle management in front of him right now.

  “Who do we got in-house right now?” he asked his lieutenant, a man with the unfortunate name of ‘Fatir.’ When you work for a crime lord, having your name rhyme with ‘fodder’ came with certain connotations. While the irony was not lost on Fatir, it wasn’t appreciated, either.

  Fatir straightened his tie, “The Garibaldi’s are out of commission, obviously, but you had Tom Miner brought in for this already. There are three crews of enforcers in-house as well right now,” he paused, and consulted a worn Data Pad, “plus our normal Compound crews.”

  Marko grunted approval. He wasn’t sure how Tank had dropped two crews of regulators on his own, but there was a serious compliment of hard-hitting bad-asses stationed here, and Miner was a goddamn monster. That made him feel better.

  “How many regulators are out searching?”

  Fatir tapped the Pad a few times, “Six crews remain in the city, maintaining the search. We appear to be getting interference from several of the street-level gangs, though.”

  Marko’s chuckle was dry and bitter, “Fucking McGinty being a dick again, I guess? Why haven’t we killed him yet? Remind me.”

  Fatir answered with robotic precision. This was a conversation that got repeated often, “McGinty’s Teamsters run almost three quarters of the pharmaceuticals through Big Woo, and his labs produce the highest-quality product at the lowest costs. Nearly forty percent of our total revenues are directly related to his administration of the Teamsters. Our best-case projections have our financial losses upon his removal to be at least half that amount. Worst-case projections don’t bear enumeration.”

  Fatir tucked the Pad under his arm, “McGinty currently controls, either directly or indirectly, approximately thirty percent of the street-level manpower in Big Woo. The other gang leaders respect him, and pacifying him keeps operations smooth and profitable at levels currently unmatched anywhere else.”

  Fatir paused and tilted a tired head towards his volatile boss, “I am certain that he is deliberately interfering with the bounty hunt, but I cannot figure out why. Tactical considerations indicate we should kill him immediately. But strategically, if we remove him now, we will lose a lot of money in the long term.”

  Marko frowned and grunted a belligerent approval, “I wonder if the little shit is just pissing me off for the fun of it… or is he finally making a move?” He thought about it for a moment, “Logistically speaking, Fatir, how much trouble can he make for us directly?”

  Fatir turned his attention back to the Data Pad. He made some deft keystrokes and frowned at the screen before responding in slow measured tones, “In a direct confrontation, he would suffer a complete loss. He has doesn’t possess the manpower to do much more than annoy us, due to our overwhelming materiel and expertise advantage.” More keystrokes and frowning, “Yes, he would absolutely suffer total loss in a short time,” the lieutenant’s scowl deepened, “His behavior makes no sense. The man must know how big this is, so why risk your ire now, of all times?”

  “Fucker thinks he has an edge. He thinks this Tank guy can take me down and he wants to move in, the ballsy prick,” Marko had always considered himself a shrewd judge of character, and this was a thing he suspected McGinty had always been waiting to attempt. Marko smirked, “Little shit is overplaying his hand, though. It sounds like all I have to do to slap him back in line is bring down Tank and collect on the girl.” The big gangster sat back down, and his chair squealed in brisk protest, “Regulators ain’t gonna find ’em if the gangs aren’t helping, though. Fuck. That means he’ll get here soon enough. I want security tighter than a nun’s asshole up here. Nothing in or out.”

  Fatir cleared his throat, “There is a scheduled delivery today. From the Teamsters, sir. The usual revenues and supplies. Shall I cancel?”

  Marko swore, “Shit. If I don’t get the deliveries out to the Sprawl and Uptown, the other Bosses will think I’ve lost my nerve.” He gave it a good long think. That delivery was not to be trusted, but he also needed to keep the product moving. An interruption of goods and services would make him look bad. Like he wasn’t in control.

  “Make them unload at building nine and hump that shit over to shipping by hoversled. I don’t want that truck anywhere ne
ar the center of this compound. If there is any sneaky shit going on with that delivery I want it far away.” He had a thought, “And put the Miner on it as security.”

  “Would you rather have the him here, sir? For protection?” Fatir offered.

  “No. If something goes down, I’ll have enough time to move as long as the that monster can handle one fixer for a little while. I’d rather have him close to the threat, either way. Leave two teams of enforcers on me though.”

  Fatir made some notes in the Pad, and sent out the missives, “I have relayed your instructions, sir, and put the compound on condition red.”

  Marko leaned back in his chair and exhaled in anticipation. He set his jaw and cracked his knuckles loudly, “Ok. Let’s see how this shit plays out.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The truck was old, with a fossil-fuel engine and solid rubber tires. It was loud, it smelled terrible, and it bounced and jostled with unnerving violence on ancient suspension that had been rebuilt and repaired a dozen times.

  In the back of the ancient transport, stacked with crates of hard creds and a dizzying array of consumable intoxicants, was a tall crate marked in stenciled block letters, ‘Ordnance.’

  Roland wondered if McGinty had any idea how ironic that label was. He wasn’t even lying about the contents, officially speaking. Unless you considered the smallish woman in body armor in the crate with him. It was a very tight fit, and Lucia’s back pressed against him tightly. She was small and warm and he could feel her pulse pounding through her armor. She felt fragile and tiny, but Roland now understood the lie of that impression. Her eyes were clear and her movements controlled. Her jaw was set and her hands were as rock steady as any contract mercenary he had ever seen. He had seen less from career soldiers.

  If he cocked his head to the correct angle, he could see the effort lines in the corners of her eyes as she controlled her breathing with will alone, forcing her senses to relay only important information to her overworked brain. She was a fast learner, and her determination was incredible. He was witnessing her mastering her augmentations in real time, a feat that took most people months or years. He didn’t think she realized just how impressive she was.

  Roland was proud of her, in a silly way. He had to remind himself that he hardly knew her, but her ability to adapt to this new reality was impressive as hell. Don Ribiero had a spine of steel, and it seemed his daughter was made of the same stuff.

  Don would be proud, too, the cyborg thought. Then another, more urgent thought followed it, I have to make all of this right. Every shitty thing I’ve ever done won’t matter anymore if I can fix this.

  He felt a shudder of fear move through her body, but she suppressed it the instant it manifested. She moved and squirmed in the bouncing darkness until her hand fell to the butt of her pistol.

  Please, he thought, let me get her through this without making her a killer like me. She doesn’t have to be like me. A wave of sadness came over him, Why did you do it, Don? Why her? Roland had to believe that Ribiero had a good reason to augment his own daughter, since he knew better than most what that often meant for the person augmented. Don wouldn’t curse his own child to a fugitive’s life without a good reason, right? Roland shifted so he could rest a hand on Lucia’s shoulder. It was awkward, but he wanted her to feel something akin to reassurance. His only experience was with green troops in warzones, so that is what he relied on now.

  “Feel all right?” He asked, “How are you holding up?”

  Her voice was quiet, but it did not waiver, “I won’t let you down.”

  Roland couldn’t stifle a chuckle. She was about to infiltrate an armed compound where they would fight their way to a fortified stronghold. Once there, they would then interrogate and assassinate a major crime lord. But the thing this untrained noob worried about was disappointing him?

  “What?” she said, irritated by his amusement.

  “I know damn well you won’t let me down. I was checking to make sure you were doing OK. This could get hairier than the parking lot, and I want you to be ready.”

  “Oh.” She smiled weakly, “Actually, I’m pretty goddamn terrified…but kind of excited too, y’know?” She looked down, “I want to find my father, and this is the closest we have gotten. I just kinda want to get to it to get through it, know what I mean?”

  “But you feel weird about wanting to fight and hurt people?” Roland was familiar with this conversation. He had been new to combat once, too.

  She nodded in the pitch black of the container, “Yeah. I don’t know if I can kill anyone, but I’m not so sure that I can’t, either. Like, I’ll do it if it means getting Dad back. Does that make me bad?”

  “Only if you think I’m bad, or every cop who kills a perp, or any soldier on any battlefield is bad.”

  He shook his head, “Don’t lose sleep over it: These will be full-on criminal shitheads in there. They trap young boys and girls with drugs to sell them as sex slaves. They extort people for money they haven’t earned. They steal, and lie, and kill for pleasure and profit.” He took a long pause, “It’s funny, but I never really gave too much of a shit about that stuff for a long time. It was just the way the world worked, and I had my own problems to deal with. I kept my stupid head down and I kept my corner of Dockside clean. It was enough to do that, I figured.” The big cyborg gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “Don Ribiero would do more than that. He’d have helped more people. Your father risked his life to save me, even though there was nothing but trouble in it for him. He acted like a good man is supposed to act.” Roland felt a lump in his throat, “He was a better person than me. Probably still is." A self-deprecating head shake followed, "His daughter sure is.” He felt, rather than heard her flush at that, and it was adorable. That is, if you were prone to notice that sort of thing. Roland was sure he was not.

  “Now these bastards have kidnapped your father, probably because they want to steal something amazing he built, and they don’t care how many people die in the process.”

  Roland was getting mad now, “You think you’re bad?” His head shook in the dark, “Hah! I know that I’m supposed to be better than this, but I would kill everyone in that compound and burn the whole damn place to the ground, just to see those pricks gone from this universe.” He let the growl he felt in his chest be heard in his voice, “I’ll sleep like a baby when I’m done.”

  The big man’s voice dropped to a solemn hush, “I’ve done it before.”

  “No, wanting your Dad back and being willing to fight for it against the people who took him isn’t bad, Lucia. It’s the most honorable thing I can think of, really. This is every soldier’s dilemma. Relax, Lucia. You’d make a good soldier.”

  In the dark, his enhanced eyes could see the beginnings of tears forming in hers, but her voice was strong, “Would you really kill them all, for my Dad?”

  “For him. And for you. You don’t deserve this. It’s wrong. And I’m getting tired of people ignoring when something is wrong.”

  She wrestled and wriggled until she could reach up and put her tiny gloved hand on his, resting on her shoulder. It was a novel and uncomfortable feeling for Roland. The closeness of the moment, and contact of her body was bizarrely intimate. It just didn’t seem right, to feel things in a storage crate on the way to a battle. But the woman pressed against him with claustrophobic intensity seemed quite at ease with the situation, despite the inexplicable madness of it all. He felt her body relax a little more, and heard her say, “Dad was right about you, you know.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “You actually are a nice man who just acts like a complete asshole.” He heard her chuckle in the pitch black of the storage crate, “Thank you for doing this.”

  “Don’t thank me until after you see the bill,” he offered with mock severity. She responded in kind.

  “There’s that ‘asshole’ act, again,” was her sardonic riposte, but there was no real venom in it, “It’s OK to just be a pers
on sometimes, you know. I won’t tell anyone that you said anything nice or that you aren’t really an amoral murder-bot. Your secret is safe with me.”

  His view of her face was imperfect, but he heard the smile in her words. It was probably the nicest thing anyone had said to him in two decades, and it moved him as much as anything could. He was quiet for a long moment. He stood in mute frustration with just how bad he was at these kinds of conversations. Being squished into a crate with a pretty girl who was saying nice things to him represented an new set of variables for him to process, and his processors were definitely on the fritz. Though awkward and brusque, Roland was not obtuse. He understood that this was the point in the conversation where he was supposed to compliment the pretty girl back, but he couldn’t find anything to say. There was a moment where part of him was inclined to simply say what he was thinking, but experience had taught him that this was almost never the best idea. He was confident that this was not the correct time for her to hear something like, “For reasons I don’t understand, my brain won’t make words when you are this close to me.”