Gun Runner

by Larry Correia

  Fain could have just killed them all, but he needed someone alive to interrogate.

  Mion tossed something at him, then went for a gun.

  Regular humans seemed to move in slow motion to him now. Fain leapt away from what he assumed was a grenade, grabbed hold of a second-floor balcony, and clung there. Below him, the thing Mion had thrown exploded in a cloud of purple numb gas.

  The three ringleaders smiled, then the gas began to disperse, and they realized he wasn’t there. They looked around, confused.

  “Slow, slow, slow,” Fain said. “You guys have got to keep up.”

  The big man saw him and shouted. Mion raised his pistol.

  Fain dropped and rolled behind a garbage container.

  Mion’s gun rang out. Several bullets pierced the wall above Fain.

  Fain smiled. He could do this all night. But it was time to end this foolishness. He only needed one for torture. He sent a mental command. The targeting system on his motorcycle activated and relayed a visual to Fain’s brain. He put the sights on Mion’s head.

  Mion pulled another canister out of his coat and prepared to toss it back behind the garbage can. The man was a regular arsenal, but it was clear he hadn’t done his homework on Fain.

  Fain sent the command. The bike’s guns cracked. Mion went down in a spray of blood.

  Eberle snatched up the canister Mion had meant to throw and hurled it at the motorcycle. This one turned out to be a grenade, because the resulting explosion took out his ride.

  The wave of heat washed over him, and Fain smiled. He flipped the selector on his sidearm from less-lethal darts to fragmentation rounds, rolled out from behind the garbage container, and fired at Eberle’s thigh.

  Eberle cried out and went down.

  “Come on, Aus, they’re not so bad,” Fain said and moved back behind cover.

  Eberle and the stranger fired back, but the bullets struck the garbage container. And the ones that made it through were slowed down enough they just bounced off his armored skin.

  “Got to do better than that, Aus. This is just damn sloppy of you. You didn’t even come with full armor.” Fain had known that because in the first second he’d seen the trio, he’d done a full target scan, IR and magnetic, and noted that Eberle had ceramic armor hidden beneath his coat. But he had nothing covering his legs. And so Fain had shot him there. And a leg shot was perfectly acceptable because you didn’t need both legs for an interrogation. In fact, you didn’t need any legs at all. The medics could amputate all his limbs and Fain would just question what was left. So Fain leaned out, saw Eberle trying to stand to get a good angle, and shot him in the other leg too. And then Fain drew back behind cover. The whole thing had taken less than half a second.

  There was a thump as Eberle fell to the pavement, and then another set of rounds struck the garbage container. Fain had to admire the tenacity of the man, firing away with all the blood and pain.

  And then a shadow fell over Fain. He spun around, raising his gun, but the third man, the big one, smacked it away. He too was moving with superhuman speed.

  Good. A real challenge.

  Fain pulled his other gun, but the big man kicked him down, then stomped on his hand. It would have crushed normal bones if he’d still had any. However, Fain still had pain receptors, and Fain grunted. Then the big man reached down, grabbed Fain by the throat, and lifted him off his feet.

  “Aqui você morre cachorro,” he snarled.

  Fain’s assist immediately translated it. Here you die, dog.

  No, not today, Fain thought, and grinned.

  At that moment, a shadow dropped from the top of the building onto the big man, bearing him to the ground.

  The dissident tried to rise, but the grendel locked its mandibles around his throat and twisted. The man screamed and thrashed as it bit and clawed. Say what you will about Swindle, but the beasts that had evolved there were incredibly efficient killers. The grendel was one of the few that could be tamed…Not domesticated, mind you. But tamed. Briefly.

  Even though the big man must have had some strength and speed mods, he wasn’t quick enough. The terrifying surface creature wrenched, and the big man went limp. And then it savaged the man’s throat, blood splashing its muzzle.

  “Took you long enough,” Fain said to his companion, fingering his own throat where the rebel had tried to crush it. The grendel didn’t care. It had no pity or love. It just did what it was told.

  Warlord came on Fain’s commlink. “Did you get the instigators?”

  Fain walked over and looked down at Mion in his pool of blood. His eyes were flat, dead. He was useless. He looked back at his grendel savaging the big man’s face. That one was soon going to be dead as well. Eberle was still alive, though barely conscious. And yet he was still trying to reload his gun with blood-slick fingers, but Fain went over and stepped on his hand.

  The frag rounds had turned his legs to hamburger, and a cursory scan showed Eberle’s blood pressure was dropping rapidly. Fain’s scan warned that the medics would need to tourniquet him in the next two minutes if he was going to have anything to question.

  “I’ve got one we can interrogate,” Fain said. “Give me a second.” He sent an expedited request for an ambulance. When the request was confirmed, he said, “The gun runners were here.”

  “Holloway’s men? From the Tar Heel?”

  “Three of them at least. I’ll send you the recording. We can check the bracelets to see where they’ve been, and where the others were.”

  “They might have just been innocent bystanders.”

  “If I were a betting man, I’d bet on a double-cross.” Gun runners were so untrustworthy.

  Warlord sighed. “Well, you’ll find out, won’t you?”

  “I always do.”

  * * *

  Jackson followed Tui and Katze as they sprinted down a narrow road, through a tunnel, and then along a back alley that brought them out by the church with the names papering the front wall. Tui slowed to a walk and looked back the way they came. Jackson and Katze caught up to him and stopped as well.

  Jackson was breathing hard. The other two were fine. “So much for a relaxing evening walk.”

  “You okay, Jackson?” Katze asked. “You don’t look that good.”

  Of course, she was fine. Amon was a high-gravity world, Katze could probably run a marathon around this orbital and not break a sweat.

  “Give the kid a break, he’s still getting by on factory specs.”

  “Except my brain, Tui.” Jackson took a deep breath. “Everything except my brain.”

  A tiny van sped past in the direction of the riot with at least six cops in it.

  “If Grandma hears we were there, she’s going to kill us,” Katze said.

  “Who says she has to know?” Jackson asked.

  Tui held up his orange wrist band. “She’s going to find out.”

  “Maybe,” Jackson said.

  “Regardless, the quicker we get back to the hotel, the better.”

  Jackson agreed to that, and the trio walked at a brisk pace back to the hotel. It turned out sound really carried inside Big Town, because they could still hear the sirens and occasional gunshots for quite a while. The other neighborhoods were quiet though. It appeared the locals had retreated inside and were keeping their heads down. Nothing seemed amiss at the hotel, and they took the lift back to their floor. When they entered, the captain, Shade, and Bushey were there with inventory records up on a display.

  “You’re back early.” The captain looked up from his reports, sized them up, and immediately knew something was wrong. There was no lying to this man. “How was your night on the town?”

  Jackson tried anyway. “It was okay.”

  “Saw a church,” Katze said.

  Shade was looking out the window at the flashing lights in the distance. “What about all those sirens?”

  “Chief?” the captain asked. “Report.”

  Tui sighed. “There was an alterca
tion between the indigs. We observed but did not participate. Then exfiltrated the area in a most expedient manner.”

  You knew it was bad when Tui went all official.

  “Aw, hell. Out with it.”

  “Nothing much,” said Jackson. “Just security exos and mechs. Fires. Guns. Cops getting shot. Police cars getting flipped. You know. Normal stuff.”

  Shade looked up at the ceiling. “Jackson, I swear—”

  “We were not involved,” Tui insisted, and then he gave a very succinct report.

  Shade was still pissed. “He’s going to know you were there. He’s going to bring up the footage and see you three idiots right in the middle of it. Let’s hope you didn’t just scuttle our deal.”

  “More like scuttle our ship,” the captain said grimly.

  “You think he’ll still let me swim?” Bushey asked.

  Chapter 14

  Early the next morning they ate an aromatic breakfast loaf made out of cricket flour. The menu said it was loaded with fiber, which Bushey thought was splendid. He launched into a sermon about the value of being regular…until the captain ordered him to stop talking. They were also given small, sweet plums grown on one of Swindle’s farm platforms. It was a decent breakfast, and as soon as they finished, Frans and Lotte appeared to escort them back to the governor’s mansion.

  The sun globes were at the other end of the orbital, acting like early morning. There was a lot more security visible today. A couple of policemen on individual hoverbikes flew overhead. There were more cops down the street.

  Lotte motioned at two cars waiting for them. Jackson, Katze, and Bushey got in one car with Lotte. Frans and the rest got into the other car.

  “I hope you all slept well,” Lotte said.

  “Like a baby.” In actuality, Jackson had spent the night agitated and restless, because it took a while to come off the adrenaline rush of being in a riot. He didn’t know these people or their situation that well, but the stuff in that video from the surface had been messed up.

  The captain told them over their secure net, “Jane called to say the Tar Heel will be here shortly and we can start unloading.”

  “So he didn’t cancel the deal?” Tui asked.

  “Apparently not.”

  “And did you sleep well?” Jackson asked Lotte.

  “It was a very late night,” she said.

  Jackson imagined it must have been very late indeed, with a whole neighborhood rioting. Every cop on this station had probably put in some mandatory overtime last night.

  Shade began giving instructions. “We’re going to broach the subject of your evening walk first thing. Diffuse the tension. If the client asks you questions about the experience, just answer him straight up.”

  “Will do,” Jackson muttered.

  “What did you say?” Lotte asked.

  Jackson realized he’d spoken out loud and recovered himself. “A late night will do anyone in.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the drive to the mansion.

  Warlord was standing in the main room, watching a display of a ship at one of the docking stations. From the distinct shape, it was easy to pick out the Tar Heel. As agreed upon during yesterday’s negotiation, one of Big Town’s vessels had gone out to meet it for an initial inspection of the goods.

  “Friends!” He gave them that same politician smile. “I was just informed things are looking very good.”

  There were four guards in the room with carbines slung, muzzle down. They appeared to be relaxed. Of course, that could change any second.

  “We only bring the best,” the captain said.

  “That you do. That you do…I heard you had some excitement last night?”

  “So much for us broaching the subject first,” Katze’s brain texted.

  “I’m afraid so. Three of my crew went on an evening stroll, thought they’d found a street party, and landed in the middle of a riot.”

  “A most unfortunate breakdown of order caused by the worst sort of anarchists. It’s odd how your men blundered into this event though.” It was remarkable how the Warlord managed to convey both suspicion and menace, without ever changing his friendly tone. “You’d have to take just the right twists and turns to get there from your hotel.”

  “We were looking for beer,” Jackson said.

  “Was there not beer at the hotel?”

  “They wanted to see Big Town,” the captain said. “Can you blame them?”

  The Warlord nodded and smiled. “Show me James Overturf.”

  The wall suddenly switched to the face. Clean-shaven and bathed, Jackson almost didn’t recognize the man who had taken cover behind the bushes with the team last night. The one who had spoken a bunch of gibberish, and then attacked the cops. On the massive display his head was two meters tall.

  “That’s the guy who almost got us killed last night,” Jackson said.

  “And that was just his smell,” Tui said.

  Bushey cracked a smile, but nobody else did.

  “Do you know who this is?” Warlord asked.

  “Never seen him before last night, before he practically used me as a human shield and started shooting at your men.”

  “Mister Overturf is part of the Originals. A gang. Their actions have resulted in over eight hundred deaths this year. They agitate the citizens of Big Town and claim to represent the pioneering settlers…” For the first time Warlord allowed a little anger into his voice. “But in truth they’re working for Kalteri. Or possibly the Tri-Planet Alliance. Or the ISF. Trying to destabilize us. You know, I give good jobs to people wanting to escape terrible circumstances. I ship them here at my cost. I make sure they have housing. If they don’t like the work, they don’t have to renew their contracts. They can hop the next cargo ship that comes along. But the Originals don’t want good jobs. They want it all and will burn down anything they can’t have.”

  Shade asked, “Are you sure they’re not agents of Redcor? Destabilization and then capitalizing on the chaos is their trademark strategy.”

  Jackson knew Redcor was a megacorporation run by a trillionaire tech baron named Graf, but he’d not known they were in the conquering business.

  Warlord gave their broker a curious look. “So you are familiar with that vile organization. I guess it makes sense, considering your family’s business. As for Redcor meddling, it’s possible. Every year we have thousands immigrate here. And all you need are one or two to saboteurs to slip in. Last year someone tried to poison one of our farm platforms.”

  “I hope you caught him,” the captain said.

  “There were three of them. We caught two. A man and a woman. We gave them a standing ovation execution.”

  “And the third?”

  The Warlord shrugged. “Still at large.”

  That would be a little unnerving, Jackson thought. An orbital was no place for a terrorist.

  “Such things keep me up at night. The safety of a quarter million lives is in my hands…Which is why I must know, what you were doing associating with a wanted criminal?”

  As the Warlord said that, Jackson noticed that the guards seemed more alert. Their fingers were off the triggers, but they looked ready to move. Even though there had been three Tar Heelers at the party, Warlord focused on Jackson. Maybe he was appealing to Jackson’s sense of honor, since they both came from an elite brotherhood of mech pilots…but more than likely, it was because he thought the youngest member of the crew would be the easiest to intimidate.

  “I told you, we didn’t know who he was. We took cover because we were trying not to get shot, gassed, or stung to death by that hornet swarm your men turned lose on that crowd.”

  “You’re lucky. Twelve people died last night, including our good friend Overturf.” He nodded toward the big display. “We’ve been hunting him for a long time. It’s curious that he just happened to join you there. A crew from outside.”

  “I bet you got video of the whole thing,” Ja
ckson said.

  “Some,” Warlord admitted. “Unfortunately, the ruffians in that district like to vandalize our cameras.”

  “Then I’m sure whatever you do have confirms what I’m saying. We were just trying to keep our heads down. I thought your terrorist was a homeless guy talking gibberish, until he started shooting people.”

  Warlord was quiet for a really long time. One of the four guard’s finger moved onto the trigger of his carbine.

  Tui sent a message. “From right to left. Katze, one. Bushey two. Jackson three. Captain, four. I’ve got Warlord.”

  The captain sighed. “Hold on, now. Are you insinuating that my crew are in contact with these Originals?”

  “Are you?”

  “No. Nor any of their agents. Or anyone involved with them. This is the first I’ve ever heard of them. It was coincidence. And here’s how you know that to be true. If my people were wanting some clandestine meeting, would they go with their tracking devices on? And don’t insult me by pretending they’re not trackers. You have a visual and audio record of them all the way from the hotel and back again. If they were going to meet some crazy guy in the bushes, I guaran-damn-tee that my crew wouldn’t be sloppy enough to get caught doing it.”

  “A valid point, Captain Holloway. A crew which makes its living through subtle deceit would never be so clumsy…Yet I must be very careful. A great many people depend upon my vigilance.”

  “Stay ready.” Tui looked at guard number four and smiled.

  “When you find the troublemakers, I hope you make good use of the airlock.”

  “Puff and fry,” Bushey said. “Sometimes that’s the only way.”

  “That is our traditional method for dealing with criminals here. Yes, that is an apt description. The body expands. An incredibly painful process. The air rushes from your lungs. Bubbles form in your blood. In the agonizing minutes before death, the unfiltered rays of the sun burn beyond all comprehension.” Warlord motioned at Bushey. “The swimmer’s right. Sometimes it is the only way.”

  The threat hung in the air.

  Jackson looked Warlord square in the eyes and stated, “I did not know that asshole.”