Red Noise

by John P. Murphy

  “Probably not…”

  “All right,” Screwball said, and relaxed a little. “We’ll hang out here, and jump him when he comes out. I know this isn’t neutral ground, because you let him punch me in the face here.”

  Ditz visibly struggled with that, but kept his mouth shut. Screwball thought about texting some of the other guys for backup, or just to keep an eye out and make sure there wasn’t company coming, but he didn’t trust any of those assholes. He got the little baton he’d printed out of his pocket and practiced whipping it out. It made a nice sinister snik! noise, and it’d sound real satisfying against Raj’s ugly face.

  “Woah, woah, hang on,” Ditz said, waving his hands at the baton. “Seriously, man, this is Raj del Rio here. He gets hurt, Angelica will fucking flip.”

  “So what, he can just beat me up and nothing happens?”

  “Well, kinda–”

  “Can he beat you up? The whole damn crew? Can he walk into the hotel lobby and nobody’s allowed to touch him? I didn’t hear anything about him being untouchable. Did Feeney say he’s untouchable, and he can just jump me and I can’t do shit about it?”

  Ditz’s face drooped. He looked tired and miserable. “No, man, it’s just, man, this’ll escalate shit. I just want it to all go back to normal.”

  “What, Angelica and Feeney best friends again? You want Nuke back, is that it?”

  Ditz’s hangdog look just deepened, and he stared down at his shoes. “No, man, but shit, Nuke was a friend of mine. I know he’s gone and he’s got to be gone, but he just made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “Some mistake, Jesus.”

  “Look, you weren’t here. You don’t know.”

  Screwball felt bad for him, so he didn’t push. He didn’t know much about Nuke, but from what he had heard, the guy was a vicious psycho. “OK, sorry. Look, I’m putting the baton away. We’ll beat up Raj a little but not too bad, and–”

  The door slid open as Screwball was fumbling to collapse the cheaply-printed baton. He dropped it and planted his feet to fight, then relaxed when he saw that rangy jerk Preston standing there.

  “What are you two morons doing here?”

  “We’re the welcoming committee,” Screwball said, and grinned evilly.

  Preston gave him a contemptuous look. “There’s no ship due in. Push off.”

  “We’re waiting for someone who just went in.”

  Ditz craned his neck to peer into the port behind Preston, but Screwball couldn’t see.

  “Who?”

  Screwball pursed his lips and started to say something cagey, but Ditz said, “Raj.”

  Preston snorted. “Knock yourselves out, then. It’ll be three weeks.”

  Screwball stared at him, and the dockmaster met his stare with obvious contempt. “Huh? What’ll be three weeks?”

  “Until his ship gets back,” Preston said, “Assuming nothing ‘happens’ to it.”

  “He got on a ship?” Ditz asked.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re even dumber than I tell people. Yes. He got on a space ship. The space ship is leaving. The space ship will be back in three fucking weeks. Now get the fuck out of here, I gotta take a piss.”

  They stepped aside and let him past, not being able to figure out anything different to say or do.

  “He just left?” Ditz said. He seemed even more depressed about Raj leaving than when Screwball had been proposing to ambush and beat him up. Screwball himself, suddenly relieved from the not-too-remote possibility that he’d have been beat up again himself, stood tall and grinned.

  “Ain’t that something,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Ditz said unhappily.

  “You know what that is? That’s intel. The old man’ll love it.”

  Ditz’s “Yeah” sounded like a funeral bell.

  MCMASTERS GETS A SHOT

  The Miner walked across the galleria to where an unshaven guard sat sleeping in a chair, snoring gently. Taking the direct route from Takata’s restaurant meant weaving through the empty tables and stepping over a little cleaning robot as it burbled along looking for something to pick up among the unused furniture. She stood awhile with arms folded in front of the snoring guard, looked up into the big window labeled SECURITY and saw nobody behind it.

  She returned to the tables and picked up a half a plastic poker chip from one of them. Examining it carefully, she walked back and flicked it at the sleeping guard, hitting him between the eyes and clattering to the ground to make some robot happy. When he snorted and coughed awake, she said, “I want to talk to Captain McMasters.”

  The guard – a kid, really, no older than most of the punks – gave her a funny look. “Why?”

  “I want to compliment him on the diligence of his crew. Is he here?”

  The kid looked to struggle with that one. “Maybe?”

  She glanced at the door behind him. “Through there, then?”

  “You can’t go in there, that’s the security station.”

  She cocked her head. “Yeah? What’ll you do if I go in anyway?”

  “I’ll arrest you, that’s what.”

  She waited a bit to see if he’d catch on, but the look of belligerent stupidity didn’t waver.

  “And where will you take me?”

  “To the–” Enlightenment dawned, and he got mad. “What are you, a smartass?”

  “I just figure I’m going in there either way, so it’d be nicer of me to let you sleep in.”

  He stood up and put his hand impressively on the handle of his stun baton, mashing it down in a way that would make it harder to draw. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  The Miner scratched under her chin. “Pretty much what you think it does.”

  She sidestepped an awkward punch, and the door opened. A man with a crisply-pressed black uniform and an impressive blonde mustache stood in the door and gaped as his goon staggered off-balance, recovering poorly from failing to land the blow. The newcomer looked to be in his forties, and inclined to pudginess. The Miner looked at the new guy and immediately thought “Colonel”, even though his uniform sleeve showed gold captain’s bars. He wore a sidearm, which she thought interesting. Cheap little flechette job, from the looks of it, all threatening black plastic angles and no stopping power, but still.

  “What,” he started in crisp, acid tones, “the hell are you doing?”

  The Miner didn’t wait for him to answer. “Are you Captain McMasters?”

  “Yes,” he said, not looking at her.

  “She thinks she can walk right in and talk to you,” protested the kid.

  “She’s right, you idiot.” McMasters scowled. “Go back to sl–” He stopped himself. “As you were, Ellsworth.”

  Ellsworth didn’t have as good a scowl, but he deployed it anyway and resumed his chair with all the dignity of an emperor.

  The Miner followed McMasters into the dark security station, through a small empty front room with a vacant sergeant’s desk and on into the back. It smelled of cheap whiskey and stale sweat. Two more black-uniformed guards sat hunched in the back corner, playing some kind of game, but other than that the place was empty. Desks bore dirty dishes and a broken-down stun baton laid out on a grease-streaked towel. The inner walls bore dozens of projected squares showing video feeds from all angles around the station, many of them moving. The Miner guessed those were lapel cameras. The rest were too few to cover any kind of real acreage, and there was a lot of bare wall to project onto.

  “Well,” McMasters drawled. “That’s the tour. No charge. Did you have something to say to me?”

  She eyed him up and down, not too obviously. Herrera had given some sketchy details about the guy, enough to know she wouldn’t like him much but could maybe get along. “Heard you were a military man. Served on the Kaftan Lay, that right?”

  His thin blonde eyebrows went up, hardly visible in the dim light. “That’s right.”

  “Nice ship,” she said. “Well run.”

  “Thank you,�
�� he said, and smiled. He looked a little taller and puffed-up than he’d been before. “Time of my life, I had on that ship. Were you in the service yourself?”

  She nodded. “Intel corps.”

  His smile looked a little frozen. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I was passing through, and heard you could maybe use another pair of hands around here,” she said, turning to take in the surroundings. “Since I could use some cash, I figured we could help each other out.”

  He gave her a knowing look, which she didn’t much like. “I see. A little place to kick back, maybe take out some aggression now and again? Well…”

  She shook her head. “I’m not looking to stay. Seems to me the place could use a house-cleaning, is all.”

  He laughed. “Seems to you, does it?”

  “Seems to me,” she said, smiling, keeping it friendly. “I figure five thousand will cover it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Five thousand credits?” He stared. “And what would that buy me, Ms…”

  “I’ll tidy up. Take care of Feeney and del Rio, give you a clean slate.”

  One of the goons in the corner seemed to lose her game, judging by her opponent’s cheer. Distracted, apparently.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’m trained and qualified in hand-to-hand, zero-G, long guns, and sidearms. I’m no stranger to wet work. I’m cheap at five-k, but what the hell. I need the cash, and the folks on the Lay treated me nice.” They’d left her the hell alone as an Intel corps spook, which suited everyone fine.

  McMasters seemed to notice his mouth was still open, and fixed that. “What’s your name?”

  “No names,” she said, shaking her head. “You can pay me when I’m done. No risk to you, just let me bend that firearms rule for a little while.”

  “I’m not risking my crew in some insane–”

  “I don’t recall asking for help.”

  In the quiet she could practically hear the two game-players straining to listen. McMasters stared hard at her, and she decided he was trying to find a way to say no that let him save face in front of them. Some combination of fear and greed would keep him from rocking the boat, she could see it in his eyes.

  “A lot of folks here are hurting,” she tried anyway. “The ones who are left.”

  “The situation on this station is quite under control,” he finally managed. “I won’t have some amateur scurrying around stirring up trouble.”

  “They pay that well, huh?” She shouldn’t have said that, she knew. She’d been alone too long, forgot how there ought to be a filter between her brain and her tongue. Not that there ever really was.

  His face went red, and then redder when one of the goons in back couldn’t suppress a snort.

  Before he could squeak out a reply, she said quietly, “Sorry about the crack, but every gravy train stops, friend. I can do a lot of good here, and you’d look good if you let me.”

  “I think we’re done here,” he said through his teeth.

  “Guess so,” the Miner said. “Just remember: I offered.”

  JOB APPLICATION

  The entrance to the Hotel Astra was big, all glass retro-future with lots of chrome and a subtle blue glow that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Tasteful furniture was laid out in a huge lobby, a luxurious waste of space. Comfortable so that tired travelers would feel welcome, but not so comfortable that they’d loiter and spoil the ambiance. At least, that was the intent once upon a time. The effect was currently entirely spoiled by a series of stains and tears, plus the rough-looking drunk sleeping on the big couch. The carpet had seen better times, too. The Miner figured it had either started out crimson and faded under foot travel, or started out white and then been the scene of a large number of improbably well-spaced fights.

  She stepped through the front doors and surveyed the lobby with her hands on her hips. Two more toughs played cards off to her left. They slowly, stupidly looked up at her. The one facing her, whose mohawk would have been improved by shaving the sides of her skull more than once a month, tilted her head like a puzzled dog.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The Miner scratched the back of her neck and continued her look around the place. It didn’t improve under further scrutiny. She’d never actually seen rats in space, but this would be the place to look.

  “I said–”

  “I heard Feeney’s hiring. He worth working for?”

  “If you’re good,” said the other card-player, who had a fat lip and a black eye. The Miner idly wondered if he’d gotten it from Angelica’s gang or from his opponent.

  “I’m good.”

  They laughed.

  “You laughing at me?”

  They kept on, but their laughing gained a brittle quality. The Miner shrugged. “I don’t see what’s so funny about being good. Maybe you’d like a demonstration.”

  They flinched like she’d threatened them, but instead she turned on her heel and walked slowly out. A hurried conversation, louder for being hushed, took place and chairs scraped against tile. The Miner walked down the sweeping curved stairs to the galleria floor, in no hurry but not wanting her stumbling followers to get bored or lost. The guard called Ellsworth had left, which was fine by her.

  Angelica’s casino, which used to be Feeney’s casino, was named Lady Luck. Big neon-colored dice rolled in the window and came up seven. Reflected in the mirrored columns out front that held up the walkway above, the only ones decorated like that, the Miner could see her two followers slow down and exchange nervous looks. A couple of the opposing gang’s toughs glanced up lazily in the window, their meerkat routine again, then they snapped to attention.

  Four of them shoved through the doors, looking around at each other and at the Miner. They were armed, sort of. The ones on either side had knives out, and one fumbled to put her fingers through brass knuckles. The tallest one, in the middle, carried a big steel rod slung over his shoulder. He ambled to a halt a few feet from the Miner and loomed over her, not really looking at her. Through the thicket of metal rings in his lips he managed to say to the toughs behind her, “The fuck are you doing here? You wanna die or something?”

  “They’re with me,” the Miner said. The two knife-wielders walked around either side of her, keeping their distance the way Rings with the metal rod wasn’t. They had it exactly backward, of course, but that didn’t stop the jolt of adrenaline. Her elbows and knees felt warm as her implants sensed it and tightened up.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Rings looked down at her like she was a particularly insignificant bug, and leaned way over so that he loomed more. “So Feeney’s feebs are helping old ladies cross the street, izzit? What do you want, old lady? Trying to get laid? You’re too ugly, and even I ain’t that broke. What the hell happened to your face?”

  “They’re just helping me find something I lost, that’s all. Good Samaritans.” She smiled broadly in a friendly, slightly stupid way. She could see in the mirror that her Good Samaritans had backed away and held up various gadgets to record what they probably expected to be her imminent and entertaining demise. “In fact…” She studied his face. “Yep, there it is.”

  Her augments engaged and her arm darted up into the tall tough’s face. She snatched at a ring in the center of his lower lip, faster than he could react, and she yanked hard as she took a step back.

  Rings screamed and clutched his hands to his face.

  The Miner looked down at the ring as his companions reacted with shock. “Never mind, wrong one.”

  Blood pouring down the front of his chin, face contorted with rage, Rings roared and sprang for her. Too close for a proper charge and way too close for his weapon, he couldn’t get his steel rod up. She took it from him left-handed, sweeping his leg as she sidestepped. He crashed to the ground, sending chairs and a table sliding. His buddies reacted too slowly; she went for the closer knife-jockey, driving the rod into her midsection har
d.

  As the kid went down puking, the Miner turned and had the rod up to parry a swipe from her pal on the left. A good knife-fighter could recover from that fast, but this guy wasn’t; she brought the rod down on his collarbone, and while he was howling she turned and delivered a quick boot to Rings’ ribs. He fell hard and she stepped neatly out of flailing range.

  That left her staring down the familiar-looking skinny girl who’d managed to get her brass knuckles on, and had apparently left Grandma’s knife safely at home. She was standing well out of punching range, but easily within “getting hit in the face with a steel rod” range. A brain cell fired somewhere, and she ran.

  Rings made it to his feet in time for the Miner to whack his right forearm with his own weapon, then she stepped into him and shoved. He tripped over a fallen chair and went hard to the ground in a tangle of cheap furniture and limbs.

  She looked down at the ring and tossed it onto his heaving chest. “My mistake, sorry.” The rod followed it with a soft thump.

  Still filming, Feeney’s toughs hurried to catch up with her as she walked away from the carnage. Behind her she could hear the commotion spreading through the casino, but she didn’t want to ruin the scene by rushing, and anyway she could see up ahead that a mangy-looking crowd had spilled out of the Astra. She tried not to glance too obviously at Takata and Herrera standing gobsmacked in the doorway to the bar, and felt a flush of shame. She hadn’t killed anybody, but if she were being honest with herself, the fight felt good.

  Off to her left, there was motion in the security office. The two black-armored game-players stood in their doorway looking lost, and after a moment of gawping they went back inside. McMasters didn’t show himself, but she hadn’t figured he would.

  A pale old man had come to the front of the hotel crowd overlooking the galleria by the time she’d mounted the stairs. He was gaunt but well-tailored in black and red. His slicked-back clean white hair gleamed under the lights, and his hard blue eyes, deep set in their sockets, saw nothing but her. She wasn’t even breathing hard, not like the guy behind her filming. “That was fucking awesome!” someone said, and the old man put up an indulgent hand to slowly motion for silence, not taking his eyes off her.