Jane aka Specter aka The Net Goddess of Death spoke via the comm link implanted in Jackson’s ear. “He just closed a billion-rupee deal here, and he’s eating a hot dog?”
Jane fascinated Jackson. On a regular basis he attempted to flirt with her. But Jane was like Medusa—beautiful and deadly. Instead of snakes, she surrounded herself with happy little robots of death. He was never quite sure if hitting on her would lead to tender moments or torture by bot, but the greater the risk, the greater the reward.
“If I’d just landed a billion in cash, I’d be eating one too. You haven’t tasted the sausages down here. They’re to die for.”
“It’s a hot dog.”
“Yeah, but made out of actual animals, that like graze and walk around and stuff, not vat meat. If you were down here, I’d treat you to one. Call it a dinner date.”
“You think stuffed intestine is every girl’s romantic dream?”
“It should be.”
Dwight took another bite, his white smile flashing in the sun.
Jackson was getting kind of hungry. Maybe he should pick some of those up and bring them back to the ship. Then Jane could see he did in fact have excellent taste.
“What security have you identified?” she asked.
Jackson hitched his backpack a bit higher on his shoulder as he discreetly made his way through the crowd. “One human. One walker. And it looks like three fliers.”
“That’s all I see as well.”
“I’m going to go for it.”
“You’re on your own down there. If you want to wait half an hour, I can get some of the crew there to watch your back.”
“That’s what I’ve got you for.”
“I’m several thousand klicks above you.”
“Close enough.” This sort of petty crime was how Jackson had spent most of his childhood, and despite the bodyguard, Dwight had the look of an easy mark. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay. The captain trusts your judgment…on this sort of thing at least. Prepare for Fifi.”
Fifi was one of Jane’s many minions. She was a very small bot, about the size of a large pea. Highly mobile and able to snip wiring, cords, and carotid arteries, Fifi was a real gem. Today it would be her job to climb into Dwight’s shiny blue suit and cut open the bottom of his inside breast pocket. When that happened, the medallion Dwight had placed there would fall out, and Jackson could pick it up and switch it for a fake. He would then immediately hail Dwight to let him know that he’d dropped something, which was precisely the sort of thing good citizens like Jackson did.
Jackson needed the medallion because Raycor had equipped their Citadel with multifactor user authentication. The end user could set it to require up to ten different factors. Since Splendid Ventures wasn’t expecting anybody to try and steal their fancy new Citadel, theirs had the minimal three. In this case, Dwight had set his controller’s account to utilize the signal from his personal ID that was implanted in his chest, a passphrase, and a medallion, which was just a fancy security key. The medallion’s shell was brass, one side was the imprint of a wolf, and the other had the Raycor logo. Inside was some solid-state hardware.
Jane was ready to spoof Dwight’s personal ID. They’d surveilled him with one of her bots and identified the passphrase. And so the medallion was the only thing left. Jane hadn’t been able to hack it remotely or find out much about its security protocols, so they had to retrieve it the old-fashioned way.
Dwight offered to buy his security detail a sausage. The man politely told him no thanks, and continued watching the street instead, demonstrating he was serious about his work. That meant he was going to make Jackson’s job a bit harder, but not impossible. Dwight shrugged, said something about it being his loss, and stopped at a bot selling the weird red beer that left an aftertaste of apples and licorice.
Jackson tailed them, stepping around a grandmother examining some used replacement parts for farm bots, weaving past a boy with a blue parrot on his shoulder, and then drew close to Dwight as he took another bite of sausage and a swig of the red beer.
Jane’s voice was in his ear. “Are the city’s bots still there?”
Jackson acted like a shopper and looked down to examine a table of flowers one might plant in a garden here. There were blue, pink, and white ones. The tags said they’d been genetically modified for the soil, temperature, and precipitation of this part of the planet. One sported pretty leaves like green lace. While feigning interest in the flowers, Jackson glanced up at the eaves along the street. There had been a mobile security camera at either end. Both were still there, watching. Either could move at any time.
Unfortunately, he also spotted a hornet’s nest.
Those were a fairly effective—and intimidating—law enforcement measure. Each one housed a little swarm of mechanical fliers that could chase, search for contraband, and inject chemicals designed to subdue their targets. The cameras patrolled. The hornets detained. Combine those with a couple other types of security bots, and one or two cops could patrol a huge area.
Jackson was close enough to Dwight’s security that he couldn’t risk answering Jane vocally. It was doubtful a professional bodyguard would assume he was talking to himself. Luckily, the crew of the Tar Heel had a system for quiet communication.
He blinked just right to pull up the image of a basic keyboard in his eye implant. Each key was pulsing at a slightly different frequency. All he needed to do was focus on the letter, his brain would automatically mimic that frequency, and that signal would get transmitted to Jane. It took a bit of practice to avoid typos and it was a little slower than just talking, but it made you feel darn near telepathic.
“Got a nest above.”
“Your call then.”
It was his choice as to whether he wanted to initiate the switch with so many eyes.
“Am I Gray?”
“That’s who they’ll see.”
Every human who set foot on this colony was required to wear some sort of passive ID chip that could be quick scanned by the security bots. Jackson’s was embedded by his clavicle, but Jane had set it to transmit a false identity. To the law, Jackson was currently a man by the name of Mufasa Gray, who had arrived on the passenger hauler Solomon yesterday. His paperwork was on file with the immigration office and Gray had already applied for a Nivaas work permit. The only truth to any of that was that the Solomon was a real ship currently docked. Jane had just added her imaginary passenger to their manifest. It was nice having a specter in the sky who could jigger such things.
Once the Citadel was reported stolen, the cops would search all the security video that Dwight’s tag showed up in to figure out how. They’d run Gray’s information down eventually, realize he was imaginary, and then try to figure out who he really was using facial recognition. So Jackson was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a beard, and prosthetic augments for his nose, cheeks, and brow. He wished he could have worn sunglasses, but nobody down here used them. Instead an eye film with loads of built-in tech, including the ability to automatically darken, was popular. To avoid sticking out, Jackson had done the same. Half the people on the street were wearing them. They looked like bugs.
Jackson considered all the security but figured he was unlikely to find any place in Sharmala that was any better. The market was loud, busy, and crowded. Plus the clock was ticking. The Citadel was at the freight yard and would be moved sometime in the next forty hours. Their only shot would be to intercept it before the transfer.
“It’s a go.”
Fifi was cupped in his hand and locked onto her target, and so Jackson simply walked past Dwight. As he did so, Fifi jumped like a flea from his hand to Dwight’s shiny blue slacks. She immediately sprang up and under his suitcoat.
Dwight didn’t seem to notice.
Jackson walked a bit farther down the sidewalk and stopped to look at an aquarium with blue and green fish in it. The sign said these had been modified and tested to thrive in the waters of Nivaas and provide t
he finest combination of protein, fat, and a whole list of other nutrients.
“The lady’s in place,” Jane said, the lady being Fifi.
The woman hawking the blue and green fish stepped over toward Jackson. She was far taller than Jackson, who was shorter than the average unaugmented human height, but she had that tall, lean look of someone who had grown up here. Nivaas gravity was lighter than standard. “Hello, young sir. Do you have a pond?”
“Not yet. Just arrived. I’m trying to decide between birds and fish.”
“You’ll want both. The quality of the fish meat is excellent, and you could survive nicely on that alone. But you have to think about more than food. What about the shang fly? It loves to bury itself in human flesh. Bots can help find the devils, but they’re so clunky. Why not set a flock of birds on them? I have some blue swallows that are a beauty to behold. A dozen of them will keep ten acres clean. And their eggs are delicious.”
Dwight and his companion passed behind Jackson, and he pretended not to notice. Instead, he asked the woman, “They’re layers then?”
“Not like chickens, but frequently enough.”
He nodded. Swallow eggs. What where they—the size of thumbnails?
Jackson pretended to ponder over the idea of swallows designed to lust after shang flies.
And then Jane said, “She’s almost done.”
Jackson smiled at the tall woman. “Birds and fish sound good. But I need to talk to the other settlers I’m working with first. I’ll likely be back.” And then he excused himself and walked after his target.
Dwight had been drawn to three local yokels who had taken up a commanding position on an artsy sculpture made of blocks. They were making a lot of noise. The yokels were urging a gathering of small-claim owners to unite into some kind of co-op to compete with the ultrapowerful Splendid Ventures Corporation. Sadly, they didn’t know the fix was already in.
SVC’s advertising proclaimed that it was a company dedicated to the “responsible development of habitable real estate on many worlds.” Those ads usually featured smiling families in outfits directed at targeted ethnic groups. A recent one had featured sombreros.
But what SVC really did was vacuum up tracts of good land for rich investors, usually by bribing local governments after the expensive and risky terraforming and settling parts of the process were complete. Very frequently that meant using vast amounts of capital to stomp on the little guys in court. In this particular case, they were stomping a lot of little guys who owned various claims in an eleven-thousand-square-kilometer tract surrounding the settlement of Sharmala. The tract had originally been seen as almost worthless and gone for cheap to settlers who couldn’t afford anything better…until they’d discovered rare mineral deposits under it. Instead of the colonial equivalent to winning the lottery, they were getting eminent-domained by their government, paid a pittance, traded for other undeveloped plots, or evicted. SVC could move in and get the ore, the politicians would get massive kickbacks, and everybody wins. Except for the poor dumb settlers who had broken their backs to tame an unforgiving desert world obviously, but you could always get more of those from Earth.
To celebrate the deal, the SVC executives had just hosted an event with a few of their wealthiest investors and their corrupt local officials. Part of the activities had included taking their new Citadel for a spin and blowing apart some of the more aggressive fauna in a stretch of wilderness in the noncataloged areas. Everybody knew the real purpose of that little expedition was a show of force in case any of the settlers being forcibly relocated decided to get uppity.
SVC had done this sort of thing many times. The colonists might be willing to fight for their land, but will didn’t mean squat if they were pitted against heavy-duty, top-of-the-line, high-tech weapon systems.
Dwight stood there chewing his sausage and drinking his red beer, his obnoxious suit sparkling in the sun. He was smiling, enjoying the rabble-rouser’s speech. He seemed to find the exhortations the locals were making to the crowd the height of entertainment. Passion is great. Massive money transfers to morally flexible politicians were better.
Jackson slowly browsed his way over until he stood only a pace behind Dwight.
Dwight turned to his security man. “Who is the one on the right?”
The bodyguard must have had an eye implant too, because he looked like he was reading. “He’s a nobody.”
“I want a report on him when we get up in orbit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dwight turned and began to walk away. Jackson paused a few seconds, then followed.
“Ready?” Jane asked.
“Ready,” Jackson transmitted quietly.
A moment later the wolf’s head medallion dropped out of Dwight’s suitcoat. Fifi was clinging to one side, riding it down. The medallion clanged on the ground.
Jackson immediately reached down, grabbed and pocketed it, then held up the fake. “Excuse me.” He held the fake aloft.
Dwight’s security man turned. He had a camera hooked over his ear, a gun and some kind of bafflement spray—stuff to put a man to sleep—on his belt. He scowled.
“I think you dropped this.”
Dwight turned and saw the medallion. A look of confusion crossed his face. He patted his breast pocket and felt that it was empty. Then pulled open his suit jacket to look and make sure.
“Thanks,” Dwight said and took the medallion, his confusion deepening.
Dwight’s security man narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Jackson. No doubt right now he was receiving a report on Mufasa Gray, a technician who specialized in sewer and waste. SVC’s data people wouldn’t be as good as Jane, but they wouldn’t be chumps either. They’d be hacking the fake records from the Solomon in no time, but those fake files were boring as could be.
“Have a good day,” Jackson said in a helpful citizen fashion and began casually walking away.
“Dwight’s watching you, talking to his man,” Jane said.
Jackson moseyed on, prepared to run, but playing it cool.
“They’re moving on.”
Fantastic. Jackson just kept on walking away with everything they needed to unlock and drive the Citadel.
Then a male voice came on the line. “That was well done, Mr. Rook.”
“Easy as pie, Captain. How are things up there?”
“Gloriously boring, son, just how I like it.” Captain Holloway was old school, former Earth Bloc Navy, with that peculiar accent that came from the southeastern half of its United States. “The Splendid Ventures morons are sending the goods back up to their ship soon. It’s all neatly packaged in a container waiting in line at the taco bar. No ETA on its launch time yet so we’ve got at least a day. Come back up here. Tui and his boys will be ready to grab the container as soon as it breaks atmo, and then you can park a shiny new Citadel in my cargo bay.”
He’d been enjoying the feel of real natural gravity and hadn’t been in a hurry to go home. “Swapping crates in low orbit should be a milk run. Even if you needed to just steal it out of the container, you know you’ve got two or three other crew aboard qualified to fly a mech, right?”
“I do? So that’s why I sign all these paychecks. But we both know there’s a big old difference between just driving a mech and being an actual mech pilot. You’re the least likely one to scratch the paint on my fancy new mech. Now get a move on in case something goes sideways, Pilot.”
“Roger that, Captain.” Truth be told, he really wanted to fly that Citadel anyway. It was light-years ahead of the mechs he’d grown up on.
“Tar Heel out.”
Back to the port then to catch a hopper back to the ship. Except on the way Jackson saw another of the little bots selling sausages and caught that delightful aroma. Why not? No guts, no glory, no luscious Jane lips. He walked over to the bot and purchased two of them. One for him. One for her. Jackson was a mech jock, smooth-talking smuggler, and once upon a time on a world very far away…a war hero. He wasn’t
used to being rejected by women. Surely this magic sausage would be able to pave the way where so many other ploys had failed before. As he got the food sealed in a to-go bag, he noticed some shady types walking around the corner.
You live a life of crime, you get really good at recognizing other criminals, especially when they weren’t trying to hide the look. The ones giving him that vibe were only a few meters away, three men and a dog. One was a big brute, the other was smaller, but equally nasty. Only it was the one in the lead with the dog on a leash that really caused his instincts to twitch.
Jackson suddenly got a bad feeling because there was something familiar about that one. The leader was surveying the street. He was shorter than Jackson but double the mass, bald, with a close-cropped white beard. The dog next to him was a fat pit bull. A dog that needed less eating and more running. A dog that had a cyborg eye.
“Ah, hell,” Jackson said, lowering his head and trying not to be noticed, though he was afraid it was too late. He started walking away. “Come in, Tar Heel.”
“What’s wrong?” Jane asked.
“Prunkard’s here with his mangy pooch.”
“Who?”
Jackson kept his head down and pushed through the crowd. “You remember the gig where we stole that Orion about two years ago? The one with the goats?”
“The livestock ship? Ugh. How could I ever forget?”
That job had been one of the first Jackson had pulled after joining his current crew, and one of their favorites. A client had wanted an Orion-class freighter. Grandma had found one for them to boost, but it had been filled with goats. They could have jettisoned the animals into space, but the captain had said they were too valuable to waste. And even though the goats were tranquilized and stacked, they still pissed. And shat. Endlessly. And the bearded-polygamist billy goats stank like nobody’s business. The crew had spent days attaching and reattaching the waste vacuums that were supposed to catch the goat pee and turds but constantly broke down instead. That had been loads of fun in zero G.
Gun Runner Page 3