Tilted Axis

by David Ryker

  Ward did his best to ignore the disdain in his voice. There was no doubt in his mind that Klaymo would have blown his head off if Arza hadn’t spoken up when she did. He definitely wasn’t fond of humans, that much Ward was sure of.

  The M2.0 in the small of Ward’s back suddenly felt big. He’d kept it with him since his transfer to Eudaimonia — but that was because he didn’t like the standard issued Pettler .22 that the SB were furnished with. He cleared his throat. “They brought it with them, so what?”

  Klaymo cocked his head and stared at Ward. “You know how hard it is to get weapons onto the surface from outside without a permit, shipping manifests, OCA sign-off at every step of the journey?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Ward answered, struggling to keep a lid on his flippancy.

  Klaymo bared his old teeth. “I worked weapons seizure for fifteen years in the SB — rounding up shit-eating Humans trying to smuggle this stuff in using crates, food, hell, even up their asses.” He swore in Martian, made a spitting motion, and looked back at Ward. “You filthy humans, always shoving things up your ass — obsessions we’ll never understand.” He cast a look at Arza. She was staring at the mantle, keeping out of it. Despite making the introduction, she’d barely said a word since they’d arrived. Conveniently, she’d left out the fact that Klaymo was a human-hating gun toting lunatic.

  Ward said nothing, waiting for Klaymo to come back to the point. “Damn hard,” he said eventually. “It’s damn hard to get them onto the planet. But luckily, they’re easy to find once they’re here. If you know where to look.” He waggled a finger at Ward. “Just got to follow the money.” He sighed as if collecting his thoughts and then started up again, showing little sign of a coherent train of thought. “All civilian ships are X-rayed on arrival — spider drones are sent in after disembarkation to scour it for contraband, scan everything. It’s a tall order to hide something on a civilian vessel in this day and age — and plus you said your people didn’t come in via the proper channels, anyway, didn’t you? Shades, you said? Humph, probably just came in under false identities on a tourist ship — faked biometrics or facial recs. Just lax border control if you ask me.”

  Ward let the ‘your people’ part slide and nodded instead. He wasn’t really following what Klaymo was saying. It was tough. The old man was being intentionally obtuse, and the four whiskeys he’d slugged in the time Ward had drunk one wasn’t helping things either.

  “So,” he continued, “it’s a good bet the rifle came in through one of the cargo ships. Containers are inventoried and X-rayed before they’re loaded, and they’re X-rayed and inventoried after they land, too. But there’s a little time after that process happens, and before it happens again.” He shrugged and rolled his shoulders back and forth, filling his glass with more whiskey than he needed to tip him over from buzzed to loaded, and recorked the bottle with a squeak. “If you know the right people and money isn’t an issue…”

  Ward looked at Arza and then back at Klaymo. She’d turned back to face them now. “They definitely know the right people, and money isn’t a problem. We know that much from Ootooka’s — the SB firing on us like that?”

  Klaymo huffed and dipped his head at Ward. “Maybe they just didn’t like the look of this one.”

  Ward growled a little. “And what about the rifle?”

  Klaymo sighed loudly. “How the hell should I know? Could be a bunch of different ones. Without a slug, or a look at the entry wound, I don’t know how you expect me to know anything. You can bet it’s high caliber, probably Martian made.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He laughed. “You think a Human piece of junk could fire that far with that sort of accuracy? Cybered-up shooter or not.”

  “So who stocks them — who makes them? Where would they have gotten something like that?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” Klaymo said, slurring a little.

  “It’s sort of my job,” Ward grunted. “SB investigator and all.”

  “Ha — you’re not SB. Never will be. You’re window dressing,” he said, twiddling his fingers in front of him. Ward noticed that half the glass was drained already. “You’re a stunt to appease the Humans — make them feel like the treaty is worth a damn.”

  “Who stocks rifles of the sort of caliber that could make that shot?” Arza cut in, seeing Ward’s jaw twitching.

  He turned to her slowly, softening instantly. “No one on Mars. The most anyone stocks is a seven-sixty-two, or six-point-five. Hunting caliber,” he added, for Ward, with the sort of expression that meant he thought Ward didn’t know what either of those things meant. “There’s no need for anything bigger, and it helps to stop things like this from happening.” Klaymo sighed. “When the treaty came in, they cleared all the rest up, got them all off the planet.”

  “You think any could be left over?” Arza asked, leaning forward.

  “No,” Klaymo said emphatically.

  “How can you be sure?” Ward said, eyeing the old drunk Martian in front of him.

  He hit himself in the chest with a balled fist, spilling some of his whiskey over his knee and the chair. He didn’t notice. “Because when they did, they called me back in to advise on the clean-up.”

  Ward had to stop himself from scoffing, the looking of scorn in Arza’s eyes burning into his cheek.

  “Thank you,” Arza said, standing up. “You’ve been a huge help. We’ll start at the port, look for anything out of place. If they brought the weapons in through there, we’ll find it.”

  “Where are you going?” Klaymo asked suddenly, staring up at her through bleary eyes.

  Arza looked at Ward, who was also on his feet, and then back at Klaymo. “It’s a long ride back, and it’s getting late.”

  He let out a long, whiskey-soaked breath. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

  “Really, Uncle Klaymo,” she said sweetly, “that’s kind of you, but we really shouldn’t.”

  “You think I’ll let you get on the back of a bike with a drunk Human? Ha, your father would string me up by my guts!”

  “I had one drink,” Ward said coldly, “and that’s because you forced it on me.”

  “Eh.” He waved Ward off. “You humans can’t hold your liquor. You’ll stay here tonight.” He smiled at Arza and then scowled at Ward. “Both of you, I suppose. Erica, you can have the guest-room, upstairs.” He turned to Ward. “And you—”

  “I’m fine with the couch.”

  “I was going to say that there’s a cot in the workshop.” Klaymo turned his lips into a grimace.

  “The couch will be fine,” Arza said. “It’ll be cold tonight. He could freeze to death out there.”

  Klaymo grumbled and pushed up, taking the bottle with him. “Suit yourselves,” he called, slurring more with each sour outburst. “The frailty of humans never ceases to amaze me.” He mounted the creaking stairs, bottle in hand, and disappeared without another word.

  The fire crackled, dwindling in the hearth and Arza let out a long sigh before smiling at Ward. “He’s a real…”

  Ward lifted a hand. “You don’t need to say anything,” he laughed. “Try and get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  Arza nodded. “Okay. Are you going to be okay down here?”

  “I’ve slept in worse places.”

  “I’m sure you have.” She flashed him a little grin and then took off after Klaymo.

  Ward sank back into the chair he was sitting in and reached for the glass, a thin layer of amber liquid still coating the bottom. He swilled it back into his mouth and set the tumbler down. Outside the windows, cicadas roared. In the distance, a hound was barking — a desert fox maybe, or a coyote — or at least their Martian counterparts.

  The fire died long into the night, and sometime before the last flame sputtered and coughed out, Ward was asleep, dreams of bullets and blood seizing him all at once.

  Sadler’s hands settled around his face, cradling his head through the
nightmares, her voice, talking of New York and brownstones, was soothing. Her fingers caressed his chin and moved over his jaw, lingering there for a second.

  And then she was gone, and a rough hand replaced it, slamming closed over his mouth. He jolted awake, feeling the weight of a man on his chest, an elbow pressed to his sternum, and swimming behind it in the pre-dawn gloom, a pair of panicked eyes.

  Klaymo’s finger was at his spit-flecked lips, shushing Ward. His voice was thin and harsh like a needle, his breath sour with the stink of the bottle. The words dripped from him with a tang of fear and his gaze swept upward to the window. Ward could see a rifle leaning against the arm of the chair next to his knee.

  He pulled Klaymo’s hand down, his voice an automatic whisper. “What’s wrong?”

  Klaymo was frozen, a statue in the darkness. He only said two words, but they made Ward’s blood run cold.

  “Someone’s here.”

  Part III

  The Catch

  Historical Archive Information

  Extract Retrieved From:

  Prof. Mathias Argyle’s “The Solar Sail Revolution”

  Published October 2271

  What was perhaps most embarrassing was that the Martians, despite being several thousand years younger than us as a species — in evolutionary terms, at least — had managed to press forward with technological development at a much faster pace. This is likely owed to the distinct lack of theistic dissonance that their species faced in comparison to ours.

  Secondly, and nearly as embarrassing, they decided that ecology and efficiency were more important than sheer output and thrust, and as such, invested developmental time in solar travel when we were still trying to perfect what was ultimately a terrible form of propulsion to begin with. What’s worse is that we’d already decided solar sail technology wasn’t the right choice for space travel — at least not on a large scale.

  Their mastery of solar sails, using a graphene and aluminum laminate that was far more conductive, as well as being lighter and stronger than what we’d crafted, used in coincidence with photon generators, provided them with the ability to move on and of the surface of planets with relative ease, and travel great distances with very little energy wastage.

  We, of course, saw the benefits when they pointed them out to us, and thankfully, traditional engines now exist mostly in museums and memory.

  11

  Ward pushed Klaymo off, his knobbled hand stinking of vomit.

  He was lined and drawn in the darkness, his eyes sunken. Ward didn’t think he’d slept.

  Klaymo snatched up the rifle, still slapping his jagged lips with his finger.

  On reflex, Ward’s M2.0 was in his hand, the barrel snapping back.

  The round windows were pale against the black walls, the thin curtains hanging limply off the frame. The sky was dark, devoid of a moon, but the stars overhead were bright and cast a dim light on the plains.

  Ward held his breath between his teeth, staring at the one to his left, waiting for a body to flash past it, or for some noise to seep in. But there wasn’t anything. The night was as still as a graveyard.

  “What did you—” he started whispering before Klaymo rounded on him, eyes like fire opals.

  “Shh,” he urged.

  “Did you see someone?” Ward was on his feet now, moving quickly toward the wall. He flattened himself against it, peeking through the gap between the curtain.

  The window faced out of the side of the house. Beyond was a rough courtyard, the line of solar-buggies and then nothing for about five hundred clicks. Nothing was moving out there and dawn was still a little way off. There was barely anything in the way of cover. The open-topped buggies wouldn’t be a bad spot, but it was a twenty-meter run to the nearest neighboring cover, and there was no point of access into the house from that side. The one window was small, too, and didn’t offer much of a viewpoint into the house, a narrow field of vision — you couldn’t see the kitchen door, and most of the room would be obscured to the left.

  Ward turned back to the old man. “Klaymo,” he whispered. “What did you see?”

  “Someone’s out there.” Klaymo nodded vigorously and stumbled toward Ward. “I know it.”

  Ward narrowed his eyes at him. He definitely hadn’t slept. He was jittery — an adrenaline dump, no food, plenty of whiskey. “What did you see?”

  “The workshop, maybe.”

  “Klaymo,” Ward urged. “Did you see anything?”

  “I heard them.”

  “Them? More than one?” Ward’s heart was humming now, the dregs of sleep long gone. He was focused and sharp.

  Klaymo twitched and looked at Ward. “I don’t know.”

  “Klaymo,” Ward said sternly. “I need you to tell me what you saw.”

  “I didn’t see anything,” he muttered after a few seconds. “I but I heard them.”

  “Where? The workshop?”

  Klaymo nodded. “Yes, the workshop. They’ve come for you?”

  Ward didn’t answer. Whoever they were, they probably had. Klaymo no doubt had some enemies he’d accrued over his career at the SB, but for them to show up on the same night that Ward and Arza were there? No. Coincidence wasn’t an option.

  Klaymo’s ranch would be the perfect place to knock them off the board, too. It would be a thirty-minute scramble for the SB to get there. Gunfire wouldn’t carry back to the city, either. If someone was going to kill them, this would be the place to do it. Follow them out, wait until dark, check out the ranch, make sure no one was hiding around, and then move in on the house.

  Ward’s hand flexed around his M2.0. If they’d brought a few guys, armed, he didn’t know if they had enough firepower to fight back. He’d have to make a move first, gauge their numbers, their capabilities, take a few of them out, even the odds before they knew what was happening.

  “Klaymo,” Ward said quietly, “let’s move, take them quickly.”

  “What?” Klaymo sounded terrified. “We can’t just… I mean—”

  “Listen, this is your ranch — you know your way around. We go in fast and we surprise them. Hit them before they know we’re coming.”

  “No — no, I can’t.” He was unsure all of a sudden.

  Ward took another look at him — he was still drunk, shaking like a leaf. “Get Erica,” he said, steadying his breathing. “Wake her up, and take up a defensive position. Which way does her window face?”

  “What?”

  “Which way, Klaymo? Which side of the house?”

  “Left — left side — the other side.”

  Ward nodded. “Okay, I’ll bring them around, put one down, draw the rest. You take them out when you see them. Can you shoot that thing?” He looked down at the rifle in Klaymo’s hands — an antique hunting rifle by the look of it. Reasonable caliber, short scope. Not bad for a medium-range engagement, if he could shoot straight. “Klaymo!”

  The old man snapped to attention, in a world of his own. “Yes.” The gruff leathery gun-nut that had slurped down half a bottle of whiskey was gone, and in his place was a scared old man. Time hadn’t been kind to him — but at least Arza was sharp. Still, Ward hadn’t seen her in a firefight either. With some luck, between the two of them, they might be able to get off a few decent shots. With some luck.

  Ward grabbed Klaymo by the arm and marched him across the room, pushing him toward the stairs as he took off through the kitchen. The back door led out to the side of the house he’d checked on earlier.

  He took a breath and pushed through the door, strafing low across the unlit courtyard toward the closest buggy.

  He slid in the soft earth and rolled behind the wheel, tweaking his ears for any movement. He couldn’t hear any.

  His breath misted in front of his face as he pushed sideways, the night air cool on his skin. His jacket rubbed down the side of the buggy as he moved to the back, peering out toward the workshop, the dim security light hanging like a teardrop over the double doors.

&n
bsp; The cicadas roared as he scanned the open space for any sign of enemies. He couldn’t see any. But then again, they could be just there in the darkness, waiting for him.

  He sat for a full two minutes, watching and waiting, before he made his move.

  A low, wooden-posted fence ran in a rough circle around the ranch, keeping the grazing animals from the plains out of Klaymo’s courtyard. Ward hurdled it and plunged further into the tall grass, sinking low and taking a wide arc toward the workshop.

  The back wall opened right onto the fields, a single wooden door locked from the inside. Ward wouldn’t be able to get it open, nor did he want to.

  He approached slowly and reached out with his left hand, touching his fingers to it. His right didn’t have the sort of fine-feedback he was looking for.

  He quietened himself and waited, closing his eyes. He couldn’t feel anything, no vibrations from footsteps, no voices, hushed or otherwise. Klaymo was old-school, no cameras. He’d never needed them — until now.

  Ward stepped closer and pressed his ear to the flaking wood. He kept it there, breath held, listening.

  There was nothing.

  He circled around to the corner and stepped back over the fence, keeping his eyes on the courtyard. When he was satisfied there wasn’t anyone with crosshairs on him — mostly because nobody had squeezed off a shot in his direction — he headed for the door.

  He did a count in his head and then put his shoulder through the door.

  It burst open, clattering into the stop, and Ward slid in low, pistol raised, swinging across an empty room.

  A single light dangled from a wooden rafter, a wide workbench sprawled across the back, a reloading press mounted halfway along. Brass casings sat in a clear plastic box behind and jars of gunpowder and other chemicals were lined up on shelves.

  But, for all the things that were in the workshop, there wasn’t anyone else in there.

  The floor was covered in wood shavings and sawdust — Klaymo was an amateur carpenter by the look of it. A half-finished chair was sitting in the corner, the edges ragged, an empty bottle of whiskey sitting next to it, the cork half wedged in.