Dark Deeds

by Mike Brooks

  “Very well.” Orlov straightened his cuffs and turned towards the doors that connected the hotel to the casino. “Come with me.”

  Rourke fell in beside and half a step behind him, leaving the other two to position themselves as they wished. Roman took up a similar position on Orlov’s other side, while Larysa trailed a couple of paces behind. Orlov pushed open the heavy rosewood door that admitted them into the casino’s reception area, and two liveried attendants equipped with portable scanners stepped forward automatically. They hesitated when they saw Orlov, and once they’d seen him, they ignored the two bodyguards, but their eyes lingered on Rourke.

  She sighed and extended her arms. “Go ahead, knock yourselves out.”

  The attendants looked at Orlov, who nodded, and they quickly swept their wands over Rourke’s body. They apparently didn’t find anything—Rourke recognised the model as one that vibrated instead of beeped, for added discretion—and she was waved through.

  “I hope you didn’t mind,” Orlov said, a slight smile tugging at his upper lip as they walked past the chip counters.

  “It was an effective demonstration that you don’t fully trust me yet,” Rourke acknowledged. “And nor should you.”

  “So tell me,” Orlov said, ignoring her statement, “what measures would you suggest I take to keep myself safe?”

  “First of all,” Rourke replied as an attendant opened another door for them on to the main floor of the Grand House casino, “you need to accept that there’s no such thing as ‘safe.’ ”

  The Grand House wasn’t deserted, even at this hour of the morning. The sort of guests who had the money to gamble here were not, by and large, the sort who needed to pay much attention to minor concerns such as night and day: They tended to have people to do that for them. It was quieter than in the evenings, however, and the nearest few tables—blackjack, by the look of it—were empty.

  “Explain,” Orlov said, frowning slightly as he turned to look down at her.

  “To begin with, there’s the universe to consider,” Rourke stated simply. “Humanity has been living on this planet for, what, a couple of hundred years? Even with today’s science, tectonic activity is virtually unpredictable. We have very little information about the history of New Samara: For all we know, a fault line could open up beneath our feet tomorrow, and this entire city could be swallowed before you could even reach your aircar on the roof.” She shrugged. “Then there’s the possibility of some sort of catastrophic solar flare from Rassvet, dumping more radiation onto us than the magnetosphere can handle. Unexpected pathogens generated by some as-yet-unknown reaction between Terran crops and bacteria and the native soils . . . The potential threats are virtually endless.”

  Orlov pursed his lips. “I see.”

  “Then there’s human threats that are completely incidental to who you are,” Rourke continued as they walked. “A stray bullet that was never meant for you: a low risk, I’ll grant you, but still a risk. Perhaps the Free Systems commit some terrorist atrocity here, or the USNA opens hostilities in a new interstellar war by dropping a couple of nukes on one of the Red Star’s main agriworlds. You’d go down as an incidental civilian casualty, but you’d be a casualty nonetheless.

  “And that’s without the fact that shuttles go up and down from a spaceport only a few miles from here every day. Flight and guidance systems are theoretically foolproof these days, but fools are surprisingly ingenious. And of course, maintenance of a craft still comes down to the captain. Once something goes awry, you’ve essentially got a few hundred tons of mass packed with high-explosive fuel in the sky over your head. If that crashes anywhere near here, you’re as good as dead.”

  “And I could choke on my food, or the drive system of my aircar could fail catastrophically,” Orlov growled. “I am aware of this.”

  “So what about human threats that aren’t incidental to who you are?” Rourke asked, looking sideways at him. “I was pointing a gun at you yesterday. You could have died. The only thing that saved you was the fact that I didn’t want Ichabod or myself to die as well. If I hadn’t cared about my fate, or his, you’d be in a morgue.”

  “The fact that we are having this conversation suggests that I judged you correctly,” Orlov replied, skirting a potted fern.

  “Perhaps,” Rourke acknowledged, “but sometimes you won’t get that chance. My example of the shuttle wasn’t chosen at random. If someone in control of one decides they really, really want you dead, then all they have to do is aim it here, at your home, or your business. And they’ll probably get you. Your influence is far-reaching. You might not even know who they are, let alone what you’ve done to make them willing to sacrifice their life just to take yours. If you don’t know that, you can’t make that judgement.”

  Orlov’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

  “It doesn’t have to be someone with that many resources, of course,” Rourke continued. “An aircar aimed at your penthouse might get lucky. A small group of people in this casino could rush you, if they weren’t too bothered about the consequences for them afterwards. I’m sure your guards are very proficient,” she added, nodding at Roman and Larysa, “but even a small advantage of numbers might be able to force a brief opening. And that could be all that’s needed.”

  Orlov snorted. “You just walked through the weapons scan, Tamara. They’ll be coming at me with their bare hands. I think we could hold them off long enough for hotel security to assist.” He nodded at the other men and women scattered around the room, burly and serious-looking, with commpieces in their ears.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Rourke stopped and turned to Roman. “Do you have a pen?”

  The bald guard reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced one. Rourke had assumed that he would: He might need to take notes for his boss, some people still found it faster to use a pen than a pad, and voice notes could be distracting or corrupted by background noise.

  Roman’s pen was sleek and grey, and made of some metal alloy. Rourke held it between her thumb and the first two fingers of her right hand, then looked Orlov in the eye.

  “I could kill you with this.”

  The crime boss smiled a little, as though uncertain if she was joking. “You mean if it contained some hidden blade?”

  “Certainly, but in this case, just because it’s a pen.” She extended the nib. “It’s a pointed metal object. I could stab this into your jugular or your windpipe and cause you some major problems. I might be able to get it through your pants and into your femoral artery, and then you’ve got about a minute and a half to live. I could go right through your eye socket with it and hit your brain: That might or might not kill you, depending, but you wouldn’t enjoy it much regardless.” She tapped the back of her neck. “Where your skull meets your neck, that’s brainstem territory. A stab wound there might damage all sorts of vital processes.”

  Orlov had been looking more and more uncomfortable as her list of targets lengthened, but now his expression was bordering on the incredulous. “You are suggesting that I should ban pens from my casino?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing of the sort,” Rourke told him, handing the pen back to Roman. “I’m just pointing out that there are an awful lot of ways you can die. Humans surround themselves with the methods to kill other humans all the time, but a combination of evolution and social conditioning means that we rarely even think about it, let alone act on it. What that means is that when someone deranged or determined enough does recognise those possibilities . . .” She shrugged. “Well, then bad things happen. So if you want to make yourself safer, you need to think about which possibilities you want to spend the most resources guarding against.”

  Orlov studied her, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he inhaled, nostrils flaring slightly. “I believe you may be correct. Do you have any suggestions?”

  Rourke deliberately suppressed a small smile. She might not be able to charm her way into someone’s good graces like Ichabod could, but when it cam
e down to logic and facts, she was on far more solid ground. For a moment she’d even had a flashback to those eight months she’d spent tutoring at the GIA academy before she’d decided that teaching definitely wasn’t for her.

  “I think your personnel would be a good place to start,” she told him. “Do you have anywhere I could assess all your people who you ever use as bodyguards?”

  SOME ALTERATIONS NEEDED

  “How did you do?” Drift asked urgently as the Changs walked up the ramp into the Jonah’s main cargo bay.

  “Let’s see,” Kuai replied, opening the nondescript canvas satchel he was holding.

  “You mean you didn’t check?!” Drift fought the impulse to put his head in his hands or, failing that, clip his mechanic about the ear. Still, at least they were back in one piece and hadn’t been arrested, or stabbed by genuine Triax thugs.

  “What were we going to do?” Kuai demanded. “Go back in and ask for a refund if we didn’t get what we wanted?” He pulled out a set of security blacks and held them up against himself. “Hey, that’s not a bad fit.”

  “What about mine?” his sister demanded. Kuai reached into the bag and retrieved another set of clothes, then whistled as he shoved the shirt none-too-gently against his sister.

  “Heh. Looks like you’ve got six days to get good with a needle and thread. That or gain about twenty pounds.”

  “That burger place round the corner looked good,” Jia said, turning on her heel. “I am on this shit.”

  NEW FRIENDS

  “That,” Larysa said in her native Russian as she accompanied Rourke away from the small conference room where they’d spent the last hour, “was highly entertaining.”

  Rourke looked sideways at the other woman. “You don’t think I made too many enemies?”

  “Oh, you certainly did that,” Larysa laughed, “but it was necessary. When you reached into Nicolai’s jacket and pulled the trigger on his gun before he even knew what you were doing, to prove that you could use it to shoot someone behind him? I thought he was going to die of embarrassment, but he needed to learn.”

  “Hmm.” Rourke had discovered what she’d expected from the impromptu session: that some of Orlov’s so-called bodyguards knew what they were about—Larysa and Roman, particularly—but the rest had more enthusiasm than proper training. They were tough, certainly, and knew how to use their weapons, but they had little idea of how to watch for threats or even prevent their own weapons from being used against them. “I have to say, this may take some time.”

  “The boss has stayed alive so far.” Larysa shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll be fine for a little while longer while you train us up.”

  “What brought you into this, anyway?” Rourke asked as they turned left towards one of the casino halls. A cross corridor brought her a whiff of food, and her stomach growled to remind her that she’d only had a protein bar that morning.

  “I’ve studied martial arts since I was a child,” Larysa said. “You know how it’s meant to promote discipline and self-control?”

  Rourke nodded.

  “Yeah, well, your mileage may vary,” Larysa said with a snorted laugh. “I was kind of a tearaway; I was just also a tearaway who happened to be very good at kicking people in the head. Which I didn’t do. Much. It was mainly theft, stuff like that.” She shrugged again. “When I got a bit older, I found that my history made it hard to get a job, so I thought I’d focus on what I was good at. Went and got actual training and qualifications in protecting other people, but the old convictions were still hanging over me. Of course, Mr. Orlov doesn’t mind too much about a criminal record.”

  “No, I imagine he doesn’t,” Rourke agreed, trying not to sniff the air too obviously.

  “Oh, are you hungry?” Larysa asked, apparently noticing. “Hang on a second.” She motioned Rourke to follow her, and cut back down the corridor they’d just passed, pushing her way through a pair of double doors and then turned off into an area marked STAFF ONLY. Rourke trailed behind her and inhaled deeply as they entered a room of polished steel surfaces and gleaming floor tiles that was clearly a kitchen. Several kitchen staff looked up as the two of them appeared, and a raw-boned man crossed his arms at Larysa.

  “I thought I told you to stay out, glutton?”

  “Piss off, Tomas,” Larysa said easily. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating Rourke. “This is Tamara; she’s working for the boss now. Give her some food.”

  Tomas sighed, although Rourke got the impression from his manner that the animosity between them was nowhere near as pronounced as they were pretending. “Why you goons can’t find your food elsewhere I don’t know.” He twitched slightly, as though recalling something, then turned to address Rourke, looking slightly ashamed. “Pardon me, Tamara. I don’t mean anything personal to you. Just to this gorilla.” Here he jabbed Larysa with a nearby ladle. “And her cronies.”

  “Don’t make me throw you across your own kitchen, Tomas,” Larysa said levelly. “Or I could ask Tamara to do it. She’s been training us this morning. I’d wager she could tie me in knots if she wanted.”

  Rourke cast a sidelong glance at the other woman. She had faith in her own technique, but she still wouldn’t want to get into a grappling match with Larysa. Technique could only do so much against sheer brute strength, and that was without factoring in Larysa’s own training.

  Regardless of its truthfulness (or perhaps in spite of it), the statement seemed to impress Tomas. The cook raised his eyebrows, nodded to Tamara respectfully, and waved a hand. “My kitchen is yours.”

  It was mainly snack food, such as would be served in the casino rather than the hotel restaurant, but it was well-prepared and tasty. Rourke and Larysa each availed themselves of a plate before Tomas grew protective of his supplies once more, and chased them out.

  “Am I actually working for Mr. Orlov now?” Rourke asked as they wandered down the corridor, munching contentedly.

  “Officially? Probably not,” Larysa admitted, “but Tomas doesn’t need to know that. We get free food while we work on-site here, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t as well. The way I understand it, you will be working for the boss if you impress him, so you might as well get a taste of how it’ll be.”

  “Much appreciated,” Rourke said, nodding.

  “So, we’ve all heard the rumours,” Larysa said, popping something wrapped in pastry into her mouth, “but I’m dying to know: How did you escape from those three clowns and find your way into Mr. Orlov’s apartment?”

  “I could tell you,” Rourke replied, keeping her face smooth, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Larysa barked a short laugh around her pastry. “Like Sacha, you mean?”

  Rourke felt her stomach tighten. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Not directly, perhaps,” Larysa agreed, “but you’ve seen what happens to the people who severely disappoint the boss.” She lowered her voice a little, although there were no customers nearby. “He, Leon, and Andrei were dragged in a few hours ago. I understand Sacha won’t be leaving.”

  Rourke grimaced. Still, perhaps it was best for her. A scarred, vengeful Sacha might have caused her considerable problems down the road. The story tasted a little bitter in her mouth now she knew that Sacha had been made a fatal example of as a result of it, but she wanted to build on this budding camaraderie with Larysa. So she told it anyway. The other woman seemed friendly, and although Rourke suspected that Larysa had been told to pry, she really had nothing to hide.

  She did, however, leave out her past with the Galactic Intelligence Agency. She also didn’t mention everything she’d overheard with Orlov and his mistress. She didn’t think he’d appreciate any of those details being shared with his other staff.

  “Damn.” Larysa was looking at Rourke with even greater respect once she’d finished her tale. “That’s all true?”

  “My hand to any god you care to name,” Rourke replied, holding up the palm that wasn’t still supporting a plate.
>
  “Well, I’ve decided: I want to be like you when I grow up,” Larysa said with a smile. Rourke wasn’t particularly offended, since she estimated that the other woman was a good twenty years younger than her and the compliment seemed genuine anyway.

  “So what now?” she asked. They’d reached one of the casino’s main halls, which was a long way from crowded at this hour but still had a fair few gamblers scattered around.

  “Take a walk around; see what you think of the setup,” Larysa replied, waving an arm vaguely. She took Rourke’s empty plate from her. “I’ll get these back to Tomas before he goes spare. When you’ve finished taking a look, just ask one of the reds to give me a shout, and I’ll come to find you.” She gestured around, taking in the casino’s regular security staff who stood at intervals around the room in their pristine red jackets, looking like some cross between waiters and regimental guards. They were doubtless there to deal with the more mundane incidents of drunken or rowdy punters, rather than being specifically entrusted with the well-being of the casino’s owner.

  “I’ll do that,” Rourke assured her. She didn’t mention the fact that the Grand House’s interior was undoubtedly covered by surveillance cameras, and that someone, somewhere would surely know where she was at all times. This was probably another test, to see what she would do when left to her own devices.

  Well, she would do exactly what she was supposed to do: take a walk around and look at any obvious security risks. As to whether she’d tell anyone about what she found . . . well, that might depend on whether or not she thought she might need to exploit it at some point in the future.

  COUNCIL OF WAR

  It was 1100 hours on fourthday, Zhuchengshi local time. Drift was getting sick of this planet and its stupid day/night cycles, but at least he could try to adapt to it. Alim Muradov wasn’t so lucky: The Chief had an atomic timepiece set to the clock of Mecca, back on Old Earth, and observed his daily prayer routines in line with his religion’s holiest city. It was the only option, he’d explained seriously, since the prayer times were linked to the passage of a single sun across the sky over twenty-four hours. On a planet with two suns, or underground where the sun had no meaning like on Uragan, or in deep space where there were thousands of nearly identical stars, Muslims were forced to ignore their own experiences and follow the lead of their ancestral home planet.