Red Noise

by John P. Murphy

  Fergus and Kayla leaned in and made appreciative noises. It only looked a little scuffed, probably just turned it off by accident, but he’d have two more hours on shift with Oggy, who was a pain in the ass when he got sniffy.

  They were supposed to be patrolling, but what the hell was there to patrol on Deck 4 anyway? Those morons had blown up their own chop shop, then killed a bunch of each other, and now were bottled up in their little hideouts. The place was a ghost town.

  So they were sitting in an old barber shop, drinking and relaxing and waiting for their shift to end. Fergus was the new guy, so he didn’t get a chair; he had to stand leaning against the outside window.

  “That was something,” Kayla mused. “That kid getting shot?”

  “Which one?” Fergus asked.

  “The del Rio kid.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Wow. Hell of a shot.”

  “My money’s on Feeney,” Oggy said. “I bet he did it.”

  Kayla frowned. “How come?”

  “Didn’t like his granddaughter boning the enemy. Or the enemy’s brother.” He handed her the bottle in response to her grabby hand motions. “I wouldn’t like that.”

  “I bet del Rio did it herself,” Kayla said. Fergus’s skepticism reached his face, and Oggy scoffed. “No, seriously!” She took a chug from the bottle and coughed. “Seriously, he turned traitor! You don’t think she’d kill him for that?”

  She and Oggy argued for a bit, and Fergus tuned out. He thought he saw movement outside the side window, and he stared for a while, but there wasn’t any more. He accepted the bottle when it was finally passed to him again, and passed it on in turn.

  “You’ve been quiet,” Kayla said, and it sounded like a demand. “What do you think?”

  “Huh?”

  “Who killed the del Rio boy,” Oggy demanded. “Feeney or his sister?”

  Fergus frowned. “Fuck if I know. Neither, probably. Who was that woman who was working for both of them?”

  “The one the Captain says did it? Psh, nobody believes that. The Captain’s full of shit, he’s just not taking sides.”

  “But he showed us her rifle.”

  Kayla waved a hand dismissively. “Oggy took that off her ship himself.”

  “Hmm. Maybe that guy who lives down in the bottom decks?”

  “Nah, Shine’s a wimp.”

  Oggy yawned. “I’m going to go take a leak.”

  “Where’s the toilet?” Fergus craned his neck to see if there was anything in back. His vision swam a little as he moved. Shit, that stuff was strong.

  “The whole place is a toilet.” He got up and handed off the bottle to Kayla, who scowled.

  “Don’t piss in here,” she protested.

  He mock-bowed. “Very well, your highness.” Then he strode out the door and took a left in front of the windows. He turned to face them and leered, sticking his hands on the armor at his groin.

  “Not there either! Go around the corner, nobody wants to see that!”

  Oggy just cackled and continued on around the corner.

  Kayla frowned at Fergus, like she was thinking of something, then made a face and took a slug from the bottle. “Jesus, this is disgusting. No wonder somebody shot him.”

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  She sniffed at the mouth of the bottle, cautiously took another sip that she swirled in her mouth. “Tequila, I think.”

  “What? No way.” He considered taking another taste, but decided against it. He considered taking Oggy’s seat and decided against that, too. He wondered if Kayla was judging him for not taking it.

  “So how are you liking John Wayne Koganusan Station?” She said the name in an ironic tone. “Everything you hoped it’d be?”

  “It’s all right,” he said, not sure what the right answer was.

  “It’s a toilet.”

  “Last place was a toilet, too. At least here the pay’s all right and we get to bust heads sometimes.”

  “Mmm.” She made a side-to-side gesture with her head, like she was considering it. “There are worse perks, I guess.”

  They had a brief conversation about the relative merits of busting heads and whether the stun batons were fun (Fergus’s position) or took the fun out of it by knocking them out too soon (Kayla’s), and whether Oggy was full of shit about hitting someone so hard he busted his baton (the mutually-agreed position).

  “Where is that shithead, anyway?” Kayla said. “Did he lose his dick or something?”

  “I’ll go look.”

  “Nah,” she said. “Technically I’m in charge. He’s probably waiting, hoping one of us will come around the corner so he can ‘accidentally’ flash us.” She thumbed the control on her baton and let it crackle and flicker, and grinned maliciously. “Accidents happen.”

  She sauntered off, and this time Fergus did take one of the two chairs. They weren’t that comfortable in armor; it was hard to get settled. He moved his butt this way and his shoulders that way, but the edge still dug in between his ribs. He squirmed again and there was a thud.

  He stopped, turned, and craned his head. There was a gun on the floor. He got up, squatted down and inspected it. He didn’t really know shit about guns, but it looked pretty awesome. It had some kind of dragon etched on the side of the metal thing, the barrel, and the name “George Washington Chung – Happy Birthday” on the other side.

  It was faint, but he heard the crackle of the stun baton. He chuckled, then frowned. Shouldn’t Oggy be screaming in pain? Maybe she was just scaring him.

  He picked up the gun. It was a lot heavier than it looked. Now Kayla was taking too long.

  He wandered out, around the windows. It was just empty corridor ahead, and it kinda smelled like piss, but most of the corridors in that station smelled like piss.

  “Shit, this is dumb,” he muttered, and at that point three things happened: he was grabbed from behind with something sharp pressed against his neck, and the woman who grabbed him said, “Yes, it is.” The third thing was that the gun in his hand went off. His eardrums shot pain into his skull, and he tried to put his hands on his ears, but she pulled him down backward.

  The next thing he knew, the gun had been knocked from his hand, both hands were pulled roughly behind him and tied, and he was shoved forward. He couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears, but he didn’t have to. She grabbed his wrists and pulled up on them, frog-marching him ahead down the corridor and then into an open doorway. She pushed him and he hit the wall hard enough he saw stars through the pain as he slid to the floor.

  “Shit,” his abductor hissed, the first thing he heard properly. The back of her right hand was covered in blood and she cradled it in the other. Fergus rolled and saw Kayla and Oggy trussed up with gray tape over their mouths. Kayla gave him a look of utter disgust, which Fergus thought was unfair. Oggy’s pants were around his ankles.

  He recognized his abductor, now, too, mostly by the sword at her hip. She had a wicked-looking knife clutched underhand in her left hand, digging in the back of her right hand in a way that must have been excruciating, judging by the look on her face. It jerked and something small flew. She flexed her right hand and winced.

  “Lucky shot,” she growled. “Shrapnel from the ricochet.”

  Fergus wasn’t sure what was lucky about that, or whether it was lucky for him. She dug in one of her deep pockets and came up with some more gray tape, which she managed to wrap tightly around her hand using her teeth and her left hand awkwardly, then tore it. She flexed again, and it obviously hurt but she didn’t make a noise. Blood welled and dripped from the edges of the makeshift bandage.

  She surveyed them for a moment, then ducked out of the room. She returned just a few seconds later with the gun in her hand. She inspected it, shoved it in her pocket, and retrieved that wicked-looking knife from its sheath.

  “Well, you pissed me off,” she growled at the three of them. “And I have to assume someone heard that. If I were you, I’d talk or I m
ight get impatient.”

  Holding the knife like she meant to use it, she bent over Oggy and ripped the tape from his mouth. He screamed and swore, and Fergus remembered his ugly little peach fuzz mustache and wondered if he still had it. Kayla took her treatment with a little more dignity, just a sharp intake of breath.

  The woman stood back. “Now. Where’s Geronimo Rommel?”

  Fergus’s heart dropped into his stomach the moment she started saying the name, and he struggled to shout, “We’re not telling you any–”

  “Him,” Kayla and Oggy said at once, Kayla illustrating who she meant with a flick of her head toward Fergus. Traitors.

  The woman frowned at him. “You?” She spoke dubiously.

  “Um,” Fergus said.

  “You’re not Rommel.”

  “Um,” Fergus said.

  “Yes he is,” Oggy said. “At least, he said he was.”

  “Shut up, Oggy!”

  “You,” the woman said, and kicked Kayla’s foot. “When did this guy show up?”

  “A couple days ago. File said his real name was Geronimo Rommel. The Captain was all happy because he was some kind of special forces hot shit.”

  “You,” the woman said ominously, “do not look like special forces hot shit. And you sure as hell aren’t Gerry Rommel. Explain.”

  “Um,” Fergus Capper said.

  “You said that already.”

  “So, uh. We were on a ship together.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Um,” he said, and she racked the pistol. “Big guy. Mohawk. Only wore tight black clothes. Slept with like half the ship.”

  Her deep scowl softened to a frown. “Well, you’ve met him anyway. So why are you wearing his name?”

  “I was mad that McMasters hadn’t given me an offer even though I really wanted to be in security, and he said that his offer was insulting, but it was insane! He said he wasn’t setting foot on this bullshit cheap station, and he said he’d sell me his offer for a thousand credits, I just needed to pretend to be him and he’d tell McMasters he was using a false name, except it was my name, and shit lady I didn’t know he was a friend of yours, honest!”

  She snorted. “You’ve definitely met him. Did he stay on that ship?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You haven’t seen him on this station at all?”

  “Yeah, seriously. Shit, you think I haven’t been watching? I’ve been scared half to death he’d pop up and I’d have to give all that money back.”

  She stared at him a long time, and swore.

  “You have to believe me, it’s true!”

  “That’s the problem, I do believe you.”

  She folded her arms, her hand still dripping dark blood. She stared at them, and they stared back. It sounded like she muttered, “Point to Herrera.” Louder, she said, “Where’s Gloria Settles?”

  “Fuck you,” Kayla said.

  “Yeah, we’re not telling you shit,” Oggy said.

  Fergus felt annoyed that they were totally willing to give him up, but not one of their other buddies. But he didn’t know who this Settles was, and grudgingly admitted it.

  Their kidnapper studied the three of them, then unsheathed her sword. It sounded like a whisper of steel on steel, and he barely heard it over his pulse pounding in his ears. She lowered it to the ground with a soft tap and drew its tip along the deck as she walked slowly down the line, eyeing them each in turn. Fergus. Kayla. Oggy. They stared at the light glinting off the blade, strained to hear the faint scratching. She stopped in front of Oggy and stared down at him with a nasty glint in her eye. Her hand dripped blood onto the deck, tap, tap, tap.

  “I’m not above torture and you have no pants. Talk.”

  “She’s in the infirmary.”

  Kayla groaned.

  “Let me guess, she got sick right before Raj del Rio was shot?”

  “...Maybe.”

  The woman folded her arms, frowned. Then, fighting down the yells and attempts to bite, she taped all their mouths again. Blood dripped onto Fergus’s face from her taped hand as she did, and he noticed that she was trying to hold it stiff.

  Then she left.

  They all made muffled noises and tried to get themselves upright, but mostly just thrashed into each other. Fergus hit his head twice and gave it up. Their shift was almost up, and someone would come looking soon. Probably.

  He heard a noise like someone chewing a rubber tire, and then a spitting sound. Oggy heaved with exertion, but it wasn’t muffled by the tape anymore. He laughed like gloating.

  “So what are they paying you, ‘Geronimo’?” Oggy said in a nasty tone of voice, the kind that said that Fergus hadn’t heard the end of it, and wouldn’t for a long time.

  He tried to say “shut up” through the tape, and he was pretty sure he was understood.

  Kayla laughed, muffled by the tape.

  “Whatever it is, it’s too much.”

  THE REAL SNIPER

  The Miner’s hand burned. She was pretty sure she’d broken one of the metacarpals, judging by the swelling just below her middle finger and the sharp searing pain every time she tried to flex it. Of all the places in the universe to lose the use of her middle finger... She tried to ping Doc Mills, but he didn’t respond – probably for the best anyway, in case his comm channel was compromised. Anyway, she was running out of time. Once they found the three guards she’d subdued, or once they freed themselves, it would be obvious she wasn’t on her ship. The lawyer’s office they’d commandeered for an infirmary was close to the galleria, though, exactly the wrong place for her to be.

  She ducked from empty doorway to empty doorway, shops and residences and storerooms. She listened carefully to the amplified mic in her comm set, and used her mirror and a tiny camera to watch, but her heart still pounded, and the pain in her hand was distracting. A first aid kit would have been a damn smart thing to have brought.

  There wasn’t much time. She chanced a call to Herrera. “I need another favor. It’ll piss off McMasters.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want you to splash yourself with vodka, walk out to his quarters, and ring his bell. Keep me on the line and tell me who you see on the way. If he’s there, give him a piece of your mind. If he’s not, go back slowly and tell me who you see.”

  He laughed evilly, and she only half-listened to the noises, first of splashing, then of him walking. “Fuck you,” he said like a greeting to someone.

  She moved to the nearest elevator and got ready.

  “Bottom of the fucking morning to you, you goddamned semi-sentient barnacle,” Herrera greeted someone else.

  “You’re drunk,” she faintly heard. That was two. Three down-decks, six in the port. She tried to remember how many were on patrols elsewhere. Another half dozen? She heard a hatch opening, and had to check to make sure it wasn’t nearby.

  “You,” came a familiar voice. “What the devil do you want?”

  She nodded. That was all she needed to know.

  “I want you to know that you are a shitweasel of the second order, you filthy inbred dick-moss. I’ve had diseases more socially acceptable than you.”

  “Oh, for the love of God. This again? You’re depraved. Get your foot out of my door, you old drunk.”

  She turned down the volume on the entertaining string of abuse, and got to work. First, she tapped into the program she’d left in the dockmaster’s shack and started the airlock gas purge on a slow cycle. “Keep him distracted,” she murmured into the comm. “What the hell’s a jobbernowl?” she heard McMasters say. While the gas purge was underway, she retrieved from her pocket the comm she’d borrowed from the female guard, figured out how to set the “Officer Down” alarm, and sent it down the elevator to the bottom deck.

  “You’re a feckless ninny! A whiskey shits-gargling plague vector with gruel in your balls and pus in your veins.”

  “That’s... That’s just disgusting. Just a… Shut up. I said shut… Will you shut up, god
damn you, I’ve got an emergency call. I said shut up!”

  She got away from the elevator and moved quickly around the long way to the galleria. She heard boots, hard to tell how many. The infirmary had been close by the doctor’s office, off a small alley.

  Close by, she could still hear running footsteps. Too close. She chewed the inside of her lip for a moment, then took the stairs up to the back of the upper level. Luck would only get her so far, and showing her face in the galleria was way beyond that. She took a grenade from her pocket, armed it, and tossed it left-handed.

  “Get. Out!” she heard McMasters growl, and the distinct sound of a door shutting.

  “He kicked me out,” Herrera said.

  “Good,” the Miner said. “Get the hell out of there and behind locked doors. Thanks.”

  The explosion drew shouts, and there was some cheering in there, too. Gunfire, but it didn’t sound serious, just desultory. The way to the infirmary was clear. The door was locked. She considered her options and knocked. Then she pounded.

  “Open up! There’s no time!”

  “What do you want?” came a woman’s voice. “I’m sick.”

  “No you’re not, you’re holed up waiting for your ride out of here. That’s me.”

  “No it’s not. Who are you?”

  “Change of plans. Angelica’s getting suspicious, the Captain wants you moved fast.”

  The door flew open, and a short woman in a black uniform stared at her. “Jesus, not so loud! What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m not the one who insisted on talking through a door. Grab your things, that distraction won’t last too long.”

  The Miner got a good look at Sergeant Gloria Settles as they stepped into the infirmary. She had a feeling that half the blood money had already gone up her nose or into her veins. Herrera had predicted as much: “Nothing else to do in this hellhole when you’re flush with cash. Drugs or VR, mostly, usually both.”

  She considered extracting a confession or continuing the rescuing hero charade, but she was already tired, cranky, and in considerable pain. Settles didn’t even look all that surprised when the Miner had her sword out and up at the woman’s throat.

  “Shit,” Settles said.