by Thomas Webb
She looked up at him with a mix of anger, sadness, and regret.
“Do it,” she said.
He looked down at her for a time, before tossing the blade away. “Nah,” he said, shaking his head.
Hale collapsed onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “That ain’t my style.”
-27-
Lima leaned back in his office chair and surveyed the damage.
“Meu Deus,” he swore to himself.
A holo screen full of files floated before him. Invoices for repairs, case files for prosecuting United Les Space, and a mountain of legal and government minutiae. Lima stared at enough warrants and manhunts to keep a platoon of operatives from all the intergalactic alphabet agencies busy for a decade.
Hearings for the ULS execs they’d managed to locate were set to begin any day now. Several of the most prominent members of the company’s board of directors were already in custody. Each of them faced a full docket of war crimes charges, from both the UN and the Allied Planets. It seemed that double-jeopardy didn’t always apply outside of Earth controlled space. That wasn’t even considering the Outer Colonies planets, already lining up to extract their own pound of flesh.
And for the ones they couldn’t reach through legal means, there were still plenty of black bag jobs to be carried out. A smaller sub file contained wet work files, for ‘prosecuting’ those outside the reach of interplanetary law. There was no shortage of soldiers who had lost friends in the Wars, and who would jump at the chance to get some real payback by doing those jobs.
Cleaning up after ULS would be no easy task.
Lima shouldn’t have been too displeased, he supposed. All things considered, things had turned out quite well for him and his people. The United Les Space fortress on Kratos was history. What was left of their corporate leadership that wasn’t in custody was on the run. Soluções Avançadas Incorporadas had even received a nice bonus from the UNIA for successfully completing the contract. An action that, to Cynthia Brenforth’s point, he would have carried out anyway.
But as with everything, there had been a price. Several pilots lost. Several more ground troops KIA. All had been patriots to their planet. Lima, like so many others, vowed they would not be forgotten.
Nor had they died in vain. Now they had all the ULS intelligence recovered from Kratos to sift through. A fair amount of which floated in front of Lima now. United Les Space would pay, and pay dearly for the lives they’d taken. It would still not be enough. In Lima’s opinion, it would never be enough.
Lima stared out his window at the newly repaired flight deck and the jungles beyond. The evening lights of Sao Paulo shone in the distance.
The Separatist Wars had been prolonged for God knew how long, propped up and extended solely by the greed of United Les Space. As of this moment, the UN and the Separatist factions of the Outer Colonies were technically still at war. Lima shook his head. All the lives lost and destroyed. All the carnage across star systems. All the blood and treasure. How many years had they let it drag out? What was a fitting punishment for an entity responsible for something like that?
Lima tore himself away from the view outside the hangar. He switched his holo files from the recently acquired intelligence to something else. An image of a Yurnai woman in an orange prison-asteroid jumpsuit, looking none too happy, appeared.
Kaizen, the assassin.
Now there was an enigma. ‘Assassin’ was a tricky word. Although his own official job title had been case officer, Lima himself had been an assassin for the UNIA, once upon a time. Was Kaizen much different than him? She was a pule pistol for hire, with her own set of morals. Her own code. She’d simply been fulfilling a contract. Not much different than what he and his people did now. The only real difference was that ASI was sanctioned by a government.
The Yurnai had almost done what ULS had been unable to achieve—the destruction of Lima and his team. Fortunately for them, Shane had noticed X37’s glitch and demanded a full diagnostic. The result had been the discovery of Kaizen’s infiltration. Even with their advance notice and preparation she had nearly killed Trace Hale, one of the most capable operators Lima had ever met. Had she gotten past Hale, the rest of the team would have been next.
The team. Despite the best efforts of some immensely powerful and dangerous adversaries, they’d remained intact. It wasn’t the first time they’d had a target on their backs. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. Especially if they continued to be as effective as Lima thought they were. That type of celebrity made for a lot of enemies.
Lima caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the polished peristeel of his desk. Was that more gray in his hair than he’d seen a month—a week—before? Another wrinkle?
Lima sighed. “Perhaps it is time for a vacation,” he said aloud.
He permitted himself to pull up an image of the mountainous slopes of Nyria-7. After living in tropical Brazil for his entire childhood and adolescence, cold weather climes were what he craved when it was time for an escape. Skiing on the planet with its blue snow, slightly lower gravity, and beautiful views of the triple moons tempted him. The gorgeous resort planet offered the best skiing within the nearest five jump gates. He pictured himself enjoying the days on the slopes, and the nights in a luxury suite in the company of someone lovely. Lima entertained the thought for all of a few seconds before there was a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
No. A vacation was not in the cards for him.
Not while there was real evil out there. Not while the profitable contracts were rolling in.
Strike while the iron is hot, he thought. While the opportunity existed.
Given the way things were going now, the Separatist Wars, and the lucrative contracts that accompanied them, might be over soon. A loss of income, to be sure . . . but absolutely the most preferable of outcomes.
An incoming holo file caught his eye. He grabbed it from the air, expanding it with his hand and reading the preliminary description. An upper level ULS exec, supposedly holding out on a backwater planet in the far reaches of the known worlds. There would be lots of these types of contracts, but the price on this particular one was what got his attention. The more he read, the more promising it sounded.
“X37,” Lima said.
A tone chimed, indicating X37 was online. “Here, Mr. Lima,” the AI’s disembodied voice said.
“How are you feeling?” Lima asked.
“Fine, sir. All systems check green. How may I assist you?”
Lima peered at the face of the man in the contract. He smiled. He tapped the file twice to copy it, then slid it into the aether. “Please get me everything you can on the man in the file I just sent you.”
The slopes of Nyria weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. They could wait. But for now?
It was on to the next job.
-28-
“That’ll be thirty credits sir,” the Banite transport driver said.
Ramsey keyed an amount into the holo. A look of what passed for confusion crossed the small grey creature’s face. “It appears you’ve overpaid me, sir.”
Ramsey shook his head. “Keep the change,” he said.
The driver’s large black eyes grew. “Thank you, sir! That is most generous of you. Please enjoy your stay here on Deigantu.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Ramsey grabbed his travel bag and anti-grav suitcase and slipped from the transport. One of the biggest rules of this game was never draw attention to yourself. The driver’s sizeable tip went directly against that, but to hell with it. Ramsey was, for once, in a surprisingly good mood.
He crossed the duracrete sidewalk in a few strides, weaving through the busy crowd of excited tourists. Ramsey wore slacks, casual athletic shoes, a blazer, solar glasses, and a wig. To the people around him he was simply a successful young human, probably in town for one of the many conferences the planet hosted each cycle.
Getting through customs and security had been a breeze. He had to admit
that going legit, not to mention aligning yourself with a high-ranking general who sat on the Outer Colonies council, had its perks. He was less willing to admit to that the peace talks themselves might have had something to do with it.
All the systems seemed to breath easier when reports of the upcoming talks hit the news feeds. Even though many of the known worlds had little to do with the Separatist Wars, the violence and destruction they’d wrought always hummed in the background. It was as if there existed something on a subconscious level, constantly reminding you that elsewhere in the universe things were very wrong. It was a sense of menace. A tension always there, just beneath the surface, like the tune of a song you couldn’t quite name.
With news of the talks came a palpable relaxation of that tension. Now there was an air of, what? Hope?
It would be some time before he grew comfortable with even the idea of hope. Much less peace. But it was nice not being on the Allied Planet’s watch lists anymore.
Ramsey strolled into the lobby of the hotel, taking in the environment. White marble columns, plush carpet, gilded ceilings—first class all the way, with not a detail out of place. It was just Steen’s style.
He navigated the space, passing a group of businesspeople headed, he presumed, to lunch. He stepped onto the anti-grav lift as soon as space allowed. An Andarian woman wearing a tight dress looked him up and down. She smiled at him as she exited. Ramsey, still in character, brushed a strand of wig hair from his face and looked away sheepishly. Lots of people on the planet were looking for a good time. But Jordan Ramsey was here strictly on business.
He keyed in the number of the floor from memory. The scent of the Andarian woman’s perfume lingered. Canned lift music played softly in the background, while the gentle vibration of the anti-grav generators hummed in the background.
He reached the 58th floor—the penthouse suites—in no time at all. The lift emitted a gentle ding as it floated to a stop.
“Please stand by for verification,” a pleasant AI voice told him. Ramsey waited a beat, grinning up at the noncorporeal, artificial intelligence as it scanned him.
“Identification verified,” it said. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Smith.”
“You do the same,” Ramsey replied.
Yeah. . . being on the right side of interplanetary law certainly had its advantages.
He checked left and right as he stepped from the lift. As he scanned the hallway, Ramsey considered all that was happening. Sure, the Outer Colonies were still in a bind under the UN’s heel. But now they had a shot, their first real shot, at independence. If they didn’t get outright freedom out of this, he was confident they would at least achieve something very much like it. He and his people were no longer in bed with United Les Space.
The conglomerate was all but defunct now. The company was being sold off in pieces, its leadership was scattered. Many had strong intergalactic cases against them and were staring down lengthy sentences. Most were either in custody or on the run. And those they couldn’t build cases against?
Well, that was the main reason he was here today.
Ramsey headed left out of the lift and down the corridor. He walked by an android cleaning bot. The machine offered him a prerecorded greeting, probably triggered by a proximity sensor. Ramsey greeted it back. A few more steps carried him to the door of the room he was looking for—room 5813.
The man he was after had checked in under a fake name, but he’d been positively ID’d by at least two United Nations agencies and a third from the Outer Colonies. No matter. Ramsey would know him the second he laid eyes on the bastard.
Ramsey had little concern about potential security. They’d had eyes on the guy as soon as his transport broke atmo, and his protection was deemed a manageable threat. That was the odd thing about men like this—they could be brilliant in one area, but lacking common sense in others. Still, Ramsey understood the logic. Hiding out was a tricky business. It never paid to depend solely on a new name and distance between you and your enemies to keep you alive, but too much security would draw attention, too.
The natural compromise was a small, highly trained protection team. So far, that wasn’t what the intel told him was here. He was expecting only two of them, but still. . . you could never be too careful.
Ramsey checked the corridor for guests and holo cams. Seeing neither, he drew his pulse pistol and screwed on the sonic suppressor. He gripped it tight to his chest with one hand and pulled a master keycard with the other. He waved the card over the door, hearing the lock retract with a muted thunk.
Ramsey extended the barrel as he stepped into the suite. The first of the two bodyguards, a Velusian, was sitting on the couch in the living area. She didn’t even get the chance to draw before Ramsey landed a trifecta—two to the chest cavity, one to the head. The shots were less than quiet thanks to the sonic wave suppressor, a state-of-the-art piece of tech purchased as part of the last business transaction between the OC militia and ULS. Ironic, when he thought about it, how the company’s tech was now being used to eliminate its executives.
Ramsey was on the move before the Velusian’s green blood leaked onto the plush white sofa. The second half of the protection detail was in the kitchen. This one was an android. One of the less expensive models. If two-hundred thousand credits could be considered ‘less expensive,’ that was.
It must have been executing a sweep of the hotel suite. Ramsey caught it mid-turn. He aimed for the processing unit at the back of the bot’s neck. Ramsey put three through the faceless android’s ‘throat,’ destroying the processing mechanism and shutting the machine down in an instant. He stepped forward to catch the body before it toppled forward and crashed to the floor.
Ramsey caught it with an exhaled oof. The damned things were heavy, but it wouldn’t do to let it clank to the floor. No need to spook the quarry. Ramsey performed a squat, smoothly letting the peristeel body down to rest on polished marble.
With his preliminary wet work in the front of the suite done he continued on, clearing the space as he went. There was a balcony, the remainder of the living space, and a closet off to the side. . . all were clear. No further signs of life showed, biological or artificial. That left only the bedroom.
Ramsey crept up to the side of the door. Keeping his barrel leveled with one hand, he clasped the door handle with the other. He eased it open.
Muffled sounds came from around the corner of the darkened bedroom. A light shone from the bathroom to his left. He cleared it before turning the corner that separated the entryway from the bed—no sense rushing in and getting whacked from behind.
The sight of a plump, synth-leather clad Salusian backside greeted him. A female. She held a tiny Y-shaped chain, the opposite ends attached to the nipples of a chubby human male. . . the nipples of one Martin J. Steen, or “Marty” to his friends.
Ramsey lowered his pistol. “Funny, Marty. Never had you pegged as a submissive?”
The Salusian girl gave a yip of surprise at the sound of Ramsey’s voice. She turned. Her eyes filled with terror at the sight of the pulse pistol. She clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling a scream.
Steen stood spread-eagled on top of the bed, his wrists cuffed to either bedpost. Other than some kind of harness get-up, he was as naked as the day he was born. His eyes went wide at the sight of Ramsey. His mouth seemed to have a hard time catching up with his brain. Several seconds passed before any sound came out.
“H-how,” he stammered. “How did you. . .?”
Ramsey waved it off. “I don’t know if that’s something you should be concerned with right now, Marty.” Ramsey looked to the Salusian girl, whimpering and cowering at the edge of the bed. He nodded toward the door. “Hey sweet cheeks—how about you grab your shit and get outta here?”
The girl wasted no time, covering herself with the rumpled remains of her dress. She grabbed a tiny purse and matching shoes and ran as best she could from the room.
“I’m guessing I don’t have to
tell you what happens if anyone hears about this?” Ramsey called behind her. He didn’t hear a response but listened for the clack as the front door closed and locked shut.
With the girl gone and the security neutralized, Ramsey turned his attention back to Steen. Ramsey took in the suite, the bed, the heavy drapes shut against prying eyes. “So What’d this room run you?” he asked.
“Fi-Five thousand a night.” Steen replied.
Ramsey raised an eyebrow “No kidding? I bet that’s way more than that cut-rate security you hired.” He studied the walls. “Even sprung for the soundproofing and everything, huh? What about that Salusian escort?” he asked. “What’d she cost you?”
“Ten thousand,” Steen said, more clearly this time. He seemed to gain some measure of confidence talking numbers. As if he was back in his corner office, brokering a deal. Like maybe he could negotiate his way out of this.
“Ten thousand credits a night?” Ramsey said. He whistled.
Should have spent those credits on your security, he thought.
Ramsey took in Steen’s synth-leather getup, his gaze pointedly avoiding the man’s crotch. He noticed the new growth on Steen’s face. “I do like how the beard’s coming in. Not sure about the rest of your, uh. . .” he shook his head. “Whatever the hell that thing is you’re wearing.”
“How’d you find me?” Steen asked. His fur-covered cuffs tinkled with the movement of his wrists.
“Still on that, huh?” Ramsey chuckled. “The UN gave you up, of all things.”
“The UN?”
“Yeah,” Ramsey said. He sat down, making himself comfortable in a chair at the foot of the bed. “Funny thing about peace negotiations. It’s all above my pay grade, but apparently the negotiating parties will sometimes throw each other a few bones. You know—just to keep things copacetic. In this case, one of those bones was you.”