by Thomas Webb
Hale nearly jumped. It caught them all by surprise. Hale didn’t recall the man ever raising his voice outside a firefight.
The Shemari glared at them. He clutched the edge of the desk in a tight grip. There was a loud crack as the wood split from the force of his grasp. Shane and Lima stood to either side of Hale, tensed and ready. Hale prepared himself for a fight. Would the Shemari mercenary yield? Would he fight? Or would he go for the pistol they knew was under his deck?
After long seconds, Tor Dagrostac exhaled. His shoulders slumped forward.
“Marty Steen,” he said. “The slimy little human’s name is Marty Steen.”
“Marty Steen,” Lima repeated, rolling the name over his tongue, like a predator catching a scent and savoring the taste of blood to come. “Thank you, Mr. Tor. You have been most helpful.”
“So what happens now?” Tor asked.
A deadly gleam lit Lima’s eye. “Now my people and I leave you alone. We have a new cage to rattle.”
-11-
Ramsey winced at the pain in his shoulder. The synthetic flesh was adhering well enough, but the areas where the pulse round blasted through the chink in his armor and partially serrated the shoulder were still tight. He’d added another set of peristeel pins in that shoulder, inserted where the blast had torn through flesh and bone, to an already too-long list of injuries.
Against medic’s orders, he’d chosen not to wear the arm support sling today. Instead, he’d opted to display strength to someone who was a little closer to ‘enemy’ than ‘friend’ on the spectrum of his allies. It was like his cadre back in Outer Colonies Special Forces selection had always said, there was no need to appear weak in front of the enemy. Especially if it was the asshole he was seeing today.
After the botched attack in Sao Paulo, he didn’t expect this meet to go well, but he’d deal with the consequences of that when the time came. The grav lift shot skyward on silent power, before opening up to the last finished floor of the new office building. Ramsey exited and took a left, heading toward the stairwell.
Two flights of duracrete stairs separated him from his destination. The building’s two top floors were still under construction, accessible only by stairwell. Ramey took the steps two at a time, hoping the brief burst of activity would get his blood circulating and flush out some of the pain in his shoulder. He realized that was a mistake when he emerged from the stairwell into the construction site and the throbbing had not subsided.
With this being one of the planet’s days equivalent to what most humans thought of as the weekend, the construction crew had left the place deserted. Dust, exposed peristeel beams, and piles of building materials lay strewn about the space. The floor hadn’t even been closed in, with two sides of the building still open to the elements and the clear pink of the late afternoon sky. A beautiful set of suns dipped toward planet Pogantu’s horizon, framing the scene out nicely. Ramsey studied the incomplete floor. There in the middle of the construction was a fully completed room. An entire office suite, situated right in the middle of a working construction site.
They’d told Ramsey where to go for the meet, and that some construction was ongoing. But he’d expected nothing to this level of detail. Ramsey approached the finished office door, complete with shining name plate and an old-fashioned brass knocker. He took the handle and wrapped it twice.
“Come,” a voice beckoned from a hidden audio projector.
Come. Ramsey snorted at that. What a toolbox, he thought.
Ramsey waited for the locks to retract before he twisted the door handle and walked inside. There wasn’t even a working grav lift to the 112th floor, but the completed office was freaking immaculate. It was as if they’d lifted some executives’ corner office from the ULS HQ and dropped it right in the middle of the half-completed floor. Ramsey shook his head. Leave it to Steen to demand premium digs before everyone else’s walls were even up.
Steen sat behind a peristeel desk, surrounded by a bank of holo screens. A panel behind him displayed the actual view outside the office walls. When all this was done, it would probably show a stunning and picturesque skyline. But right now the only things on the display were peristeel girders, construction debris, and tools.
Steen had a comm device attached to a diode implanted behind his ear. The exec held up the ‘wait one minute’ finger, then indicated Ramsey should sit. The former Outer Colonies soldier ignored the offer of a chair. Instead he took the opportunity to check his surroundings. Paneled walls, a table for coffee service, chairs for guests, a meeting space. . . regular executive-level office décor. He clocked a door off to the side leading, he guessed, to a private bathroom.
“Sorry about that,” Steen said, disconnecting from the wave. He grinned. “Work is never done. Excuse the mess. ULS is still working on the rest of the floor.” Steen stood and waddled from behind his holo cocoon, moving to a smaller table in the corner. He dropped down into the chair with a groan. “Please,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his. “Have a seat.”
Alarms went off in Ramsey’s brain. Marty Steen was all smiles today. Something seemed wrong about that, especially given the considerable loss of blood and treasure that his company had just taken in Sao Paulo. Ramsey slid the chair over next to Steen, so he had a view of both the entry and the bathroom door.
Steen noticed the action and laughed. “Oh-right. Need to sit with your back to the wall, huh? I forgot you military types are always so paranoid. Can I offer you a drink?”
Ramsey shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Sure. Right to business then.” Steen stared at him, as if waiting for him to start. Ramsey recalled hearing someplace that a corporate negotiating rule of thumb was “first one to make a move was the loser,” or some such garbage. Corporate bullshit, if you asked him. He wasn’t going to play that game. Instead Ramsey waited Steen out, staring him down the entire time.
Steen chuckled. “Ok—not falling for that one, huh? Sure. I’ll go first.” Steen steepled his hands on the desk, leaning in as though he were really interested in what Ramsey had to say. “Why don’t you give me the run down on what happened in Sao Paulo?”
“Sao Paulo was a clusterfuck,” Ramsey replied.
Steen nodded knowingly. “On that much we agree. But the board and I will need a little more explanation than that. You had all the firepower you asked for. The element of surprise. Even extra troops from Ares Corp. So what went wrong?”
For one thing, no one had figured on Shane Mallory showing up in a frigging orbital-level gunship. But the other was much more prominent, and the blame was solely at the feet of United Les Space.
“Simple,” Ramsey said. “ULS resources screwed up during the hit. Your Ares troops went in too hard, and you supplied none of the recon I requested. None of your fancy sat beams or intelligence assets picked up on Mallory coming in with that AC-260. We never trained for that, and had no contingency plan for it. It changed the entire scenario.”
Steen nodded. “So you’re saying that this is on ULS?”
“In a word?” Ramsey said. “Yeah.”
Jordan Ramsey had been giving things some serious thought of late. He’d found himself wondering if maybe being in bed with ULS was more harmful than helpful to the cause. More than once, he’d asked himself if maybe his faction wouldn’t be better off on their own. He thought back to the young Andarian girl he’d left with Marty Steen in the ultra-private Atwood Club several months ago. The one he’d left to the mercy of Steen’s sick appetites. The one whose eyes he couldn’t shake.
Steen did that depreciating half-chuckle thing he was so good at. “I’m not sure the board of directors will like that answer, pal.”
Ramsey smiled. “You know what?’ He said. “You can tell the board of directors to go fuck themselves.”
Steen’s demeanor cracked with an eye twitch, the sole tell of his displeasure. It lasted only a millisecond before he recovered. “I don’t think you know what you’re saying here, Jordan. I have to tell you, the b
oard was afraid you’d react this way.”
Ramsey adjusted his position in the seat, ready to move if he needed to. “The board’s been a little hard to find, last I heard. Everyone on an extended vacation or something?” Ramsey couldn’t blame them. If he had Silvio Lima, Lima’s people, and probably the UNIA’s full array of resources gunning for him, he’d probably go on vacation, too. “That’s a shitload of ‘out of the office’ messages.”
“Ok,” Steen said, cracking a smile. “I get it. You think we don’t have a backup plan, is that it?” Steen shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jordan. I mean—look around.” Steen indicated the office. “United Les Space just bought this entire floor to set up shop in. We’re expanding operations to have an HQ here on Pogantu. This is some of the most expensive real estate on the planet that we just acquired. Does that sound like a company that’s running scared?”
“No,” Ramsey said, not particularly caring. These corporate types were so vain, they thought they were pulse round proof. “It doesn’t.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Steen spat. “We got resources you and your people never even dreamed of. That doesn’t sound like an organization you want to screw with, does it?”
Where was the tough guy act coming from, Ramsey wondered? He did a quick check around the room. There had to be some hidden muscle around here somewhere. As he searched, Steen must have mistaken his silence for fear.
“Yeah,” Marty Steen sneered. “I didn’t think so. We’re not running scared. As a matter of fact, we’re locked up tight as an interstellar freight hull here. We’ve got contingency plans, escape plans, hidden accounts. . . we have procedures in place that will allow us to pull back to any number of non-extradition systems. Meanwhile the execs who somehow might be exposed? We’ve got a whole contingent of lawyers for that. It’ll take the United Nations and the Planetary Alliance years just to wade through all the legalese. And if all that still doesn’t work for some reason? Well, hell-we’ve got an entire freakin’ army ready . . . just in case things go south.”
Ramsey sighed. He’d heard about enough from this jerkwad. More than enough, if he were being honest with himself. Memories of Sao Paulo bubbled to the surface. Him coughing from his collapsed lung. Tarloc, minus two of his six arms. The two of them half-carrying half-dragging each other off the battlefield and barly making it back to the drop ships and escaping.
As Ramsey reflected, a truth dawned on him. One he’d been resistant to fully admit to himself until this very second. If the Separatist cause was to persevere, he and his people would need to further it in their own way. The time for their deal with the devil—with ULS—was at an end.
Ramsey stood. “I’m done.”
“Done with what?” Steen asked. “With ULS, you mean?” He laughed. “Man. . . the board was right on the money about you.”
Steen picked up some sort of stress toy and began squeezing it. Ramsey hadn’t noticed that on the desk before. “I’m sorry to hear that,” the executive said. “I really am. I’m even more sorry to tell you that you quitting us is a no-can-do, my friend. You know too much, about too many of our operations. You know something else? When we first met, I figured one day it would come down to this. Obviously there’s no way I can let you walk out of here still breathing.”
Now it was Ramsey’s turn to laugh. “Really? And who’s going to stop me? You? Now that’s something I’d really like to see.”
Steen had the decency to actually look sad. “We’ve never been what I’d call friends, Ramsey. But you had to know the board saw this coming? I told you—they have a contingency plan for everything.”
Ramsey didn’t know if Steen had hit some kind of a panic button or what, but the door to the bathroom suddenly opened. A humanoid female, clad head to toe in form-fitting dark grey armor, stepped out. She carried a pulse pistol on her hip. The hilt of a blade stood out over her right shoulder.
Ramsey shifted in his chair.
Shit.
Steen’s people really did have a backup plan. A serious one. The female was a Yurnai. Cybernetic warriors from a planet called Dravis, in the Qourvis system. They were not to be trifled with. Better to take on a half-dozen hired ULS goons than a single Yurnai.
“I take it this is my replacement?” Ramsey asked, hoping some talk would at least buy him a little time.
“Something like that,” Steen answered. “We brought her in just in case you and your people couldn’t get the job done. Which, as it turns out, you couldn’t. Kaizen here will be taking care of the ASI part of our problem. And Ares Corp will help us with the rest.” Steen looked at Ramsey. “Your services at ULS will no longer be needed, Mr. Ramsey.” Steen turned to the Yurnai and pointed back at Ramsey. “You mind taking care of this for me?”
The Yurnai shook her head. “Sorry. But my contract was only for the former UNIA operative and his employees. This man’s sanction was not included in our original agreement.”
Ramsey’s heart leapt at that. With the Yurnai out of the mix, his odds of leaving here alive improved greatly.
“Are you kidding me?” Steen asked.
Ramsey got ready.
“I am not kidding you,” the Yurnai said through her cybernetic helmet’s voice amplifier. “A contract is a contract.”
That was all Ramsey needed to hear. In one smooth motion, he drew the concealed pistol from his appendix carry and sighted in. A trigger squeeze put one to Steen’s forehead. Two more followed to his chest. To Ramsey’s disappointment, Steen flickered and reformed, leaving three perfect holes in the chair.
A hologram.
Steen laughed from wherever he was. “You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to really show up with you alone, did you Ramsey? Like I said-contingencies for everything.” No wonder he’d acted so tough. Steen’s hologram turned to the Yurnai. “If you won’t do the job, then I guess we’ll just have to finish it up the old-fashioned way.” He took a last look at Ramsey. “So long, Ramsey. Don’t guess I’ll be seeing you around.” Steen’s image flickered again, then flashed out, leaving Ramsey alone with the Yurnai.
“Are you a hologram too?” Ramsey asked.
“No,” she replied. “I am here.”
“Are you going to try to kill me?”
The Yurnai—Kaizen—laughed. “I like how you said ‘try.’ That was cute. No, I am not. Steen asked me to be here and transported me out.” She shrugged, far too relaxed in the presence of an armed and trained Separatist operator for Ramsey’s comfort. “Who was I to turn down a free trip to the capital city of Pogantu? At least now I understand why Steen asked me here.”
“So what happens now?” Ramsey asked.
“With the two of us?” Kaizen replied. “Nothing. But my sensors read several armed beings headed up the stairwell. They might have different plans.”
Ramsey nodded. She’d thrown him a bone. He recalled his earlier thought about the half-dozen goons versus the one Yurnai. Sometimes you had to be careful what you wished for. But under the circumstances? He’d take it.
Ramsey dropped his pulse mag and checked the charge level before giving the other two magazines hidden inside his belt a reassuring pat. He shoved the mag back home and moved toward the stairwell. A thought occurred to him mid-stalk. He paused and turned back to the Yurnai. “So are you gonna help me?” he asked.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But more importantly, I am not going to hurt you, either.” She stood, then moved to the chair with the pulse round holes. She sat down, crossing her shapely legs. “What I am going to do is sit back and enjoy the show. Judging from the way you drew and double-tapped that hologram, I think it should be a good one. Even with that shoulder injury of yours.” He would swear she was smiling behind that electronic voice.
“Fair enough,” he said. Ramsey shifted behind cover and gripped the pistol tight, sighting in as the stairwell door burst open.
-12-
“Right this way, Mr. Souza.”
The Velusian ho
st bowed, his tentacles curling beneath him. He pointed Silvio Lima toward the interior of the building. “If you will please follow me, your reservation is ready.”
Lima followed as the host shuffled along, leading him past the bar to the restaurant’s private back rooms. The place boasted an exclusive clientele, its guest list filled with some of the most powerful beings in all the known worlds. Elected officials, military and business leaders from the United Nations, the Allied Planets, as well as the Outer Colonies, numbered themselves among the restaurant’s patrons. As did interstellar royalty, the wealthy, and the elite from all recognized space. Sufficient power or credits would purchase the access necessary to rub shoulders here, which was exactly how Lima had scored a reservation.
Today he was going with one of his NOC’s, or non-official covers. This time he’d selected the false identity of Ronaldo Souza—wealthy arms dealer and interstellar narcotics trafficker, as his ‘in.’ Lima wore a tailored charcoal grey suit, white shirt open at the collar, and a set of very special dark-rimmed glasses.
The exclusive restaurant’s specialty was local Velusian cuisine. The décor reflected the watery planet, complete with entire walls of aquariums, and creatures native to Velus lounging in tanks. Inside one tank, a young Velusian woman danced, her tentacles swaying gracefully with the movement of the water. Blue lighting undulated softly, mimicking the waves of the watery planet and completing the effect.
“Here you are sir,” the host said, leading Lima to a quiet section of the restaurant. “Your server will be right with you. Is there anything I can get for you while you wait?”
Lima unbuttoned his jacket and slid into a cozy corner booth, making himself comfortable. All types of seafood were available, comprising a vast array of menu choices. As delightful as it all was, Lima wasn’t here for the cuisine.
“Velusian spirits,” he told the server. “Neat.”
The server bowed. “An excellent choice, sir. Please make yourself comfortable and your drink will arrive shortly.”