by Chris Turner
Jennings bridled. “Maybe you aren’t a ‘do-gooder’, Regers, but I am and at least have a conscience.”
“Sit tight, you dumb fuck. Or I’ll sic Vincent on you.” He laughed. “He’s screaming to unleash a bashing on someone’s head. Look at him, wringing his wrists and eyeing you with those black killer eyes of his. We do things my way, Jiminy. You should be bending over kissing my ass, the way I see it. Rescuing your pansy ass from those tanks.”
Jennings snorted, but he glowered and shut up.
“We got a hock shop errand to run and it’s looming up fast,” Regers intoned.
Jennings’s ears perked up, jarred once more out of his listlessness. “Why? You still haven’t told us what this big ‘plan’ of yours is, Regers—”
“No need for it. Just pipe down and monitor those damn control gauges. I don’t want Xaromar crapping out on us any time soon. Clear avenue to Phallanor through the light drive tunnel. You and Ramra are our early bird sensors. Anything looks sour, like it’s going to bird shit, I want to know all about it well in advance. We’ve made it this far. Hell, we’ve even made it out of those bitching tanks—elevated to free rogues on our own personal starship. That’s quite a feat. It should go in some galactic record—”
“Are you about done? What about customs, authorities, jail time, that kind of thing—surely you—”
“There’s no worry here, Jiminy. We just ride through everything.” Regers pushed Jennings back down toward the console. “Keep your mouth shut and keep monitoring.”
Chapter 3
The next hours passed with the Jakru humming a dull tune. From the sounds of it, it was starting to drive Deakes out of his mind. “Could you please knock it off?” Deakes growled. “This ain’t no karaoke carousel.”
“Right.” Ramra licked his lips and mumbled dark words into his scanners.
Regers popped out of his reverie. “Listen. We get supplies, fuel up on food and beverages, get some meat on our bones. We gather us some weaponry and gear, then head out to pay good old Mathias a visit. I’ve got spoils coming to me.”
“That’s it?” said Vincent.
“What else to say, Vincent? Should there be more?”
Vincent frowned. “I guess it’ll all work out. Not sure about this Cyborg Core place though.”
“Cyber Corp. Simplest means is the direct one.”
Vincent blinked. Ramra threw up his hands.
“Trust me, I’m an old dog that follows his nose.” Regers grinned, a smile that quickly turned into a sour grimace. Yeah, and one that got you thrown into a fucking tank with fishy brutes nibbling at your arm. Regers, you’re a dumb ass. Don’t be too sure. He looked down yet again at his once-mangled wrist whose stringy flesh had somehow cauterized and healed over in the greenish brine. Damnedest thing. Could never figure out how those tanks worked their magic or where those locusts got the crazy idea to build such macabre briny prisons.
Salma always said he was a magnet for trouble. If she could only see him now… Regers grimaced. She’d never see him again though, as she was six feet under, wasted by those brutes out in Meslon he used to be affiliated with. Olg and his motherfucking gang. He stuck the memory of her deep down. And that spidery script of Olg’s, written in Salma’s own blood on a note pinned to her mangled corpse, the still-warm blood caking her glossy blond hair decked with flowers.
That life was over, a million miles away. A personal promise lingered deep in his gut that Olg would be the next to fall after Yul.
Phallanor came up on the holo nav. Xaromar dropped out of hyperdrive. The Varwol eased out of its monotonous hum, allowing the ship to settle into a high orbit around the industrial planet of Phallanor, a greenish-blue disc that glowed beneath the ship.
Creib eased the vessel in close to Baltar station on impulse thrust, the checkpoint for all offworld ships…also the center of customs which scanned each vessel’s drive codes and processed arrival craft for stolen machinery. Regers had long since overridden the drive codes of Xaromar’s registration with another. Automatic scan from the station searched for contraband. Not that they were carrying anything illegal, but just to be safe. No warning blared over the com’s general frequency. All smooth sailing.
“You and Creib hold the fort, Jiminy,” muttered Regers. “Deakes, you, Vincent, me and the Jakru will go down. I may need muscle, if Mathias turns out to be a little girl about things. The man’s a tricky son of a bitch. Cold as a snake. Rich fucker though. Probably owns half of the planet down there.”
“What, and you’re just going to walk in there and make demands of him?” Jennings jeered.
Regers flashed him a dark gaze. “Mathias made a contract and has to honor it. By Jesus, I’m here, alive. I’ll hold him to it.”
Jennings’ eyes rolled. “And if he doesn’t want to pay out, he’s just going to lawyer up and loose his team of attorneys on you.”
Regers spat out a curse. “Yeah, and I’ll shit down his throat.”
Jennings shook his head with disgust. “That’ll surely work.”
“What else you got planned, boss?” Deakes asked.
“Just playing it by ear, Deakes. If Mathias doesn’t play ball, I’ll have to get more creative.” Regers gave a little laugh. Judging by the stony look on the Jakru’s face, he guessed horn head was not liking much the current turn of events.
“Relax, Ramra, you’re too tense.” Regers patted the Jakru on the back. “You’re like a buck with a hide full of buckshot. All bottled up like you got a corn cob up your ass. We need to get you out of your box. Get you laid, some nice piece of exotic ass. I’ll see to it, once I get some cash.” Regers chuckled. Vincent burst out in a peal of laughter.
Ramra only grinned.
Poor fool. Jakru boy didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into, signing up for Uncle Regers’ brigade. These bastards would all have to wisen up, recognize who was in charge. Ramra got it, in his formal oath of obedience kind of way, though he looked half stoned, still grinning like a languid sheep from his long spell dunked in a bug tank. Creib was shaping up, but slowly. Vincent and Deakes were fine; Jennings, of course, was a complete tight ass. If he didn’t get it, he’d get a caving in of his skull like that poor wanker down on Phebis, the one he’d had to put in his place. Spoke out of line once too often and got his head split for riling up the others. Too much sass. That wouldn’t do, especially to one in a position of command. A leader had to exercise authority. The juniors either had to join and fight, or die at the hands of fiends like those ugly Zikri squids. A lot of them already had died; his initial wedding party of ten had gotten mauled down to half by those everloving squids on Phebis. Busted up skulls, broken bones, guts popping out of space suits. Not a pretty sight.
Chapter 4
On Regers’ order, Xaromar touched down on the outskirts of the city in an abandoned service yard of a crating company.
“We rendezvous on the other side of town,” he said, “unless I radio in with different instructions. Clear?” He glared at Jennings. “And no cute stuff, Jiminy, like running to mommy, or getting on the horn and waxing on about squid injustice.” Jennings uttered a curse and Regers sneered at him. “Try it and you’ll see. The wrath of Uncle Regers’ll come down on your delicate hide. Watch over him, Creib. Stay glued to that damn com.”
Jennings gave no comment, just stared at him in stony silence.
Creib gave a lukewarm nod, a moony smile creeping over his chubby, pale face.
Regers stepped down from the cargo hold, his boots crunching on the gravel. Ramra stood beside him with Deakes, inhaling the dry, warm air. The sky shone a deep azure. To the east, a parade of mile high towers hung in balance in a light haze. Xaromar banked off and disappeared from sight into the cloudless sky.
Vincent stood blinking in the bright light beside Deakes. “You really got something rigged, boss?”
Regers elbowed him in the ribs. “What do you think?” He grinned. “Come on.” He tugged at Vincent’s arm. “We head to the
surplus shop, get our stuff, get this business over with. Mr. CEO’ll play, I know it.”
Deakes grunted and winced. “Sure.”
“Why out here?” Ramra asked.
“Best place to get quality stuff, Ramra, and cheap. Out in the boondocks. Downtown, twice as expensive, twice as monitored, and fifty times as busy.”
Ramra shrugged.
They trudged down the service road perhaps a mile past warehouses and various other outlets: plumbing fixtures, textiles—a real industrial wasteland, then to a rust-fenced yard, with an open gate. Chain and padlock hung off the mesh and a sign tilted over the warehouse’s front door.
“Here you are, see? Lenny’s Surplus.” Regers pointed.
The four pushed past the heavy swinging door and sauntered into Lenny’s. A subdued atmosphere greeted them: the spacious depot smelt of charcoal and old sweat, with traces of rubber, oilskin, and old engine parts, and a mixture of oil and lighter fluid. Large warehouse steel girders ran overhead. Guns ranged on the far wall on a rack behind glass cases, good stock—E1s to E4s, efficient instruments, arrayed with hand pistols, energy charge packs, scopes, infrared, even some compact grenades.
An attendant came bustling from behind a steel desk along the far wall. “Sirs, can I help you?”
Regers inclined his head. “You got any spinners?”
The man’s lips parted in surprise. He lowered his voice, eyes glinting like pearls. Then motioned to the back room. He sized up Regers, as if his mind churned over the level of commission he could get on a cash sale. “Come with me.” He hustled them behind the counter into a back room. No one else was browsing in the shop. At his heels, Regers saw him rummage in a lower, back cupboard then turned to lay three out on another counter. Silver nines. An activator came with them, a small hand remote with three settings—stun, high heat and kill. “Those are imported, manufactured offworld,” he said. “Contraband in Phallanor.”
“Like I could give a shit.” Regers examined the silver pellet, the size of his thumbnail, with a grunt of acknowledgement. Vincent craned his neck to get a better look. “Anything else I should be buying here?”
The man cleared his throat. Smoothing his small goatee, he gave a salesman’s nod. “There are poison pills over there. Heavy duty…if that’s what you’re looking for.” He eyed Regers with an inquisitive glare.
Regers dipped hands in an open crate, rummaged about. “I am. What of these thumb charges here? What’s the latency?”
The salesman paused before answering. “A second to two. On sale now. Army surplus. Probably a 1 in 50 chance one of them’s a dud so you’re better off taking two or more.”
Regers shrugged. “If I double my weapons with my boys here that halves the odds.”
“You know your business.” The man screwed up his eyes in a frown. “Can I ask—”
“No, you may not ask. Just play the dutiful salesman, please. Keep showing us the good stuff.” Regers turned his back on him, then continued to sift through the explosive stock at his leisure. He frowned at one oblong deformed piece and rejected others out of hand. “I’ll take five of these cadmium flares. Plus three poison pills. No, wait make that four and throw in a couple of sniffers.”
The vendor beamed with appreciation. “Good choice. How many spinners? This bag is on sale, four of them for fifty yols.
“We’ll take ’em all.”
“Shall I bag ’em up?”
“No need. We got hands here. Nobody around your grubby yard’s going to get wise to us.” He stuffed the bag in his pocket, distributed the excess flares to Deakes and Vincent. After paying the 212 yols, Regers, Vincent, and the others left.
They walked some more in the rising heat, another mile before Ramra huffed out a complaint. “Seems a waste of time, Regers. All this walking about. We’re going to hoof our way into town? It’s twenty miles. Isn’t there a better way?”
“You got something against a little exercise and fresh air, Ramra?”
“I mean—”
“There’s a method to this madness. I don’t want the ship anywhere near the city core. Too many damn gendarmes and cops, and I don’t know Phallanor well enough to know her rhythms. You got to be smart about this. We could hire an air car, but I don’t want a paper trail. We do it the simple way, and the slow and right way. Cash transactions. We take our time.”
Ramra grunted and gave a silent nod. “What’s the big deal, Regers? You’re going all cautious on us. Aren’t you just going to ask Mr. bigshot Cybercore for the payout and then scram? Why all the sneaking about?”
Deakes gave a coarse laugh. “Where’ve you been the last hour, Jakru? Head up your ass?”
Regers chuckled. “It’s always a big deal, Ramra—when Uncle Regers is on the job.”
They caught the first feeder tram heading into the city. Not much of a wait, half an hour, no more, but enough to keep Regers restless. By the time the four got closer to the city center, the traffic had thickened considerably.
The middle carriage was full, brimming with passengers, all at the height of the day’s kerfuffle. Folks of all denominations—rich, poor, loud, quiet—business people, chatty types, students, office employees and the odd blue collar worker taking a time out for a kebab or donut, whatever they ate on this tinsel-town world.
Magno trams raced everywhere, crisscrossing each other on levels up to eight stories high. Regers craned his neck to look through the tinted glass. Blue streaks of light whisked people off to their destinations. Always in a rush. Busy world with nobody having the time for anybody or anything. So unaware these people were of the menace lurking in the background, those perilous squids and bugs, waiting to ravage and enslave a privileged planet like this.
At Armington station they debarked and emerged into Monastria’s bustling square with four stone statues commemorating the planet’s ‘terra-forming-fathers’ in some distant century. Regers gave a devil-may-care shrug and herded Ramra and the others on. They had taken no firearms with them. Useless. They’d never get past Cyber Corp security anyway. He had other plans in mind. The sniffers and spinners could come in handy. Then again they might not. He’d memorized the city’s layout, essentially a dense grid with a wide oval roundabout sweeping the central core around the tallest buildings.
The mile-high sky towers soared above like things of fantasy. Past the inner circle down a few side streets, they strode, pushing past milling folks, then to an old brick and steel building, showing its signs of age. Part of the old quarter. More heritage shops and apartments rose overtop. The magno trams continued to rumble overhead.
Aside from the brief heritage architecture, the streets were cold, sterile, and clean. Lots of activity here but everybody just going through the motions, blinking, speaking, gesturing like a mechanical horde of robots. He guessed this conformity is what cities bred and birthed these days. Good old Regers’d take a starship with a working light drive and the open universe any day.
The impossibly high sky towers glinted in the harsh sunlight: chrome, glass, plexicene. One of those massive towers had a sprawling green and white logo pasted to its side, that of an eagle and robot with a bright yellow halo over them. Cyber Corp.
Regers exhaled a sharp breath. How long had he waited for this moment?
He motioned his men inside the lobby of the giant corporate headquarters. Exotic plants with leafy ferns ranged around the octagon, some twined around poles running a hundred feet up into the sun-dazzled glass cathedral ceilings of the atrium. Marble floors, men in suits, some of the women in business skirts walking around in important poses, dark blue, plain brown or plain white. A tight ship here.
Regers sauntered up to the main desk and flashed the pretty receptionist his most disarming smile.
“Sir, may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to speak to Mathias.”
She blinked, coughed, as if such were the most outrageous request today. “Sir, Mr. Mathias is indisposed. Are you sure you wish Mr. Mathias? He’s the CEO.
You’ll need an appointment and he’s booked months in advance.”
Regers flashed another shark-toothed smile. “I know he’s the CEO, miss prissy pants. Do I look like an imbecile? We’re just wanting a few minutes of Mr. Mathias’s time. I think he’ll make an exception. You need only mention the name, ‘Regers’.”
The woman scowled. She consulted a register. Busy fingers. She spoke into a com, a private line with a red receiver, tapping the rim of a holo screen.
“Sir, a Mr. Regers to see Mr. Mathias.”
There was a long pause before a voice replied.
“Bring him to the office—immediately.”
“Very well.” She motioned Regers and his men on. “Down the hall to the elevators. Third floor. You can’t miss the signs.”
Regers saluted her and winked at Deakes. “See, that easy.”
Vincent and Ramra blinked. Deakes only smiled.
They all got off on the third floor and entered a lush office with plush carpet. Regers’ heart beat with anticipation. How to play it? Cool? Smarmy? Come on like gangbusters? With fists flying? No, kid stuff like that wouldn’t work here. He’d have to play this one more subtly, with a heavy emphasis on ‘impromptu’. He leveled a toothy glare at Vincent, then one at Deakes, warning them to keep their mouths shut.
They stepped past an auburn-haired secretary toward a mahogany door labeled ‘CEO Mathias’. She leapt up. “Sirs, you can’t go in there. Wait here, please.” She pushed past Regers and his nose caught the whiff of styerethelene and new plastic. Something odd about this woman. The eyes too glazed. Hair too perfect, like a doll’s. A female bot? With stiff ceremony she ushered them into the CEO’s private chambers only to saunter briskly out, busy butt wagging, closing the door behind her. Regers shook his head in bafflement.
A man jerked himself up from behind a desk. He had a round, red-cheeked face with wispy, straw-colored hair, the color of old sea oats. Blue suit and tie encased a portly body and thickset neck. The man looked more used to being in a lab surrounded by high-tech equipment than in an office. Though he looked familiar, Regers couldn’t quite place him.