Gun Runner

by Larry Correia

  “She’s one of a kind,” Jackson said.

  The woman nodded and pursed her lips.

  They were in a room that had been carved out of solid rock, some kind of granite shot through with blues and reds. There were a couple of tables, a display board, and three lights spaced evenly across the ceiling. There was an external wiring conduit that ran from the lights, down the wall, and to a junction box by the door.

  Jackson listened for sounds beyond the room but couldn’t hear anything except the electrical hum. Other than the pain in his back, he felt remarkably good. They must have given him some medical treatment. Even the bites from the black devils weren’t burning.

  “Where am I?”

  The woman’s face was a map of wrinkles, but her eyes were bright and penetrating enough to drill through rock. “How do you feel?”

  “I’d love some water.”

  “We can get you water.” She motioned her head at the man with the beard. He stepped forward with a water bag with a straw and offered it to Jackson.

  He sucked in the water and kept sucking because who knew when he’d get another drink? Plus he needed the delay to get his bearings. He used the slurping time to assess the situation. This crew was some kind of military unit. And he was still on Swindle. He could tell by the gravity. And since they hadn’t just killed him but were questioning him, they wanted something. Jackson looked at his arms and saw that something had been smeared on the bites from the black tree devils. His captors had treated him. Why? Maybe because the wounds would have killed or incapacitated him before they got what they were looking for.

  Plus, they had caught Fifi, which wasn’t an easy thing to do.

  When he was finished thinking, he took one last slurp and sat back. “Thanks.”

  The bearded man said nothing, just stepped to the side.

  The woman continued, “Why were you performing a search in the woods?”

  Jackson decided to try being earnest and honest. Captain always liked to say he had an honest face. “I’ll be happy to tell you, but how about first you tell me where I am and why you’re holding me?”

  “You’re on Swindle. We’re holding you because you were chasing one of us while armed with a pneumatic bolt rifle.”

  “Are you with the Originals?”

  She smiled. “If you want information, you need to give information.”

  Jackson nodded. Fair enough. “I was lost. One of those caliban things launched me. A nice tail shot. I tumbled, lost consciousness, then woke up and tried to find my way out. I was following a trail, then lost it after skirting a herd of something. I was still trying to find a way out when I saw that kid. I wasn’t chasing with the intent to do harm. I was trying to get help.”

  “Why aren’t you on the Big Town records?”

  “Because I’m not a citizen of Big Town.”

  “A mercenary?”

  “A trader.”

  “You were out with the Warlord as part of his personal guard.”

  “He invited us to go on a hunt.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “Yes, we know about his hunts. Being on one really doesn’t help your case.”

  Jackson looked at the other faces. The young boy was full of aggression, a desire to do harm. The others were stern, hard, maybe angry, but if so, they were good at keeping it check. “I didn’t know this was a trial.”

  “It’s not. We’re gathering information. That information will determine what we do.”

  “That sounds a lot like a trial. What are the options?”

  “What do you think the options are?”

  Jackson found himself wishing he was back in the woods with the pincer devils and kinsella. “If you’re some of the Originals and conclude I work for Warlord, you’ll want to get as much info from me as you can. Then you’ll kill me. If you’re not them, then maybe you’ll want to assess whether I’m worth anything and then sell me to them. Or if you decide I don’t work for Big Town, and I am just a trader, you’ll ransom me back to my ship for an exorbitant fee.”

  Her mouth smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Close, but if I decide you work for him, we wouldn’t kill you. We’d send you back as a gift.”

  “Okay…that sounds ominous.”

  “So we’ve established you’re not on Big Town’s rolls. Who are you then?”

  He was a pretty good liar, but the truth seemed like the best bet. Or at least a sanitized version of the truth. The question was whether he could get them to believe it. “I’m one of the crew of the Tar Heel, an independently owned freighter. We just sold Warlord mangoes and other necessities. He offered a hunt as entertainment. Kinsella. Which are super nasty, by the way. We were on our way back and ran into a skirmish. Our host said it was a group known as the Originals.”

  “And what did you think that meant?”

  “The way they were described, I thought they were some kind of gang. Now, from context, I understand that’s in reference to the original settlers. I didn’t realize that until later.”

  “Except you didn’t merely observe. You took up an overwatch position during the battle.”

  He nodded. She’d just revealed important information. They knew what had happened, which meant they’d participated, or at least watched. These were definitely Originals, or at least allied with them. “Yes, I did. Put yourself in my shoes. I’m on a sport hunt with a client. People we don’t know start shooting his employees. What else was there to do?”

  “You have military mods.”

  “I was a soldier once.”

  “A soldier merchant who happens to be on a patrol with the Warlord himself.”

  “Tell me what you want,” Jackson said.

  “We want to know who you are.”

  “I’m a crew member on the Tar Heel,” he insisted. “A trading ship. If I were a mercenary, do you think I would have gone out to fight rebels with a Wakal?”

  The old woman nodded, seeing the reasoning. “That leaves scout, plant, saboteur, or assassin.”

  “Or plain old crew on a freighter. It’s clear you have people up on Big Town. Ask them to look out the window. My ship’s really big. They can’t miss it. They’ll verify that there were four of us down here hunting, celebrating a big transaction. One of us was left behind. My name is Jackson Rook. Their search will confirm that. And if you could help me get back, I would be very grateful. I’m sure my captain would be happy to pay for my safe return.”

  The one with the beard sighed impatiently. The woman held up a hand for him to keep quiet.

  “What was that name again?”

  “Jackson Rook.” He even spelled it out.

  “That doesn’t match your RFID.”

  No, it didn’t. He’d forgotten and cursed himself. “That should read unknown. We were getting it reset.”

  The old woman clearly knew that law-abiding citizens didn’t get resets, but she turned to the woman with the buzz cut and said, “Make the check.”

  The soldier nodded and exited the room.

  The tough old bird turned back to him. “I hope your story checks out.”

  Jackson hoped it did too. And he hoped their sources weren’t in possession of many details beyond what he’d shared because it wouldn’t do for her to know that the Tar Heel had sold Warlord an arsenal that could be used against these people. It was one thing to sell mangoes to the enemy. It was quite another to be selling killer robots.

  She tilted her head. “Something’s bothering me and I can’t put my finger on it. You look familiar, Jackson Rook. Have we met?”

  Jackson shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He would have remembered this woman.

  “I know we’ve met.”

  “It’s probably because I’m so dang good looking.”

  The old gal almost cracked a smile, a real one that time.

  Jackson grinned. It was a start.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Gloss.”

  “Gloss?” she asked, surprised. “I’m fro
m Gloss.”

  “I thought I heard a Cullum accent,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m from Cullum Province. Iverness.”

  “Well, maybe we ran into each other there.” Nothing like having lived in the same place when trying to build a rapport. It wasn’t too odd running into a Glossian on another world. Millions of natives had fled as the political situation on Gloss had gotten worse, and there had been a mass exodus when the Collective government had come into power. Jackson’s family had been one of the stubborn ones.

  “What hab are you from, Jackson?”

  “Covington.”

  “Huh,” she grunted. “The one that got bombed?”

  “Sadly, yeah. Nuked into oblivion.”

  “Never been there. But your face. It will come. It will come.”

  “Did you arrive here with the first settlers?” he asked.

  “Yes, the ones with the first and only legitimate claims.”

  “Seems like the land rights here are in a tangled-up situation,” Jackson said, putting a nice dose of sympathy in his voice.

  “No, not really. We own the land. Warlord thinks he can steal it.”

  Jackson nodded. Not much to say to that. “If you were one of the original settlers, then we can’t have met on Gloss.” He knew it was good to try and humanize yourself with your captors, because if they thought of you as a person, it was harder to execute you. “I was just a little kid when your colony ships got here.”

  “I suppose you would have been a wee lad…but still, there’s something.”

  “Maybe you met my dad. I’m told I look a lot like him when he was my age. He was a writer and a professor at Covington University, until the Collectivists murdered him for speaking out against them.” He tossed that in there, because surely if she were a proud Cullum girl, she’d still have a burning hatred for the Collective.

  “All that bloody business happened after I left, I’m afraid. I’ve had a different murderous bastard tyrant to worry about.”

  It was pretty obvious that his attempt at being relatable had failed. So they sat there in silence for a few moments, them looking at him and him looking back. Then Jackson brightened his expression like the good, nonthreatening trader he was and said, “Hey, there are five of us here. Perfect number for a game of poker. You could release my bonds, give me my pants. I could let you win a couple hands. What do you say?” Who could resist such a friendly challenge?

  “Or we could just tie you to a tree and let the sabolar devour you,” the angry young man snapped.

  “So that’s a no on cards?”

  “We will wait,” the old woman said.

  A few minutes later the female with the buzz cut returned. “He’s Jackson Rook. The Tar Heel is a Multipurpose Supply Vessel and is still docked at Big Town. They are traders that did indeed bring mangoes and tech.”

  “There you go,” Jackson said. He might get out of here yet.

  “And weapons,” Buzz Cut finished. “Lots of weapons.”

  Jackson kept his face calm, like that was no big thing, but his heart started beating a bit quicker.

  “What kind of weapons?” the old woman asked.

  Here we go, he thought.

  Buzz Cut said, “Guns, rockets, all sorts of munitions, something for a laser system. Lots of other crates. And our man on the dock did not see for sure, but one very large container that possibly holds a mecha or other vehicle.”

  The old gal looked at him with those rock-drilling eyes. “You didn’t mention weapons, Jackson.”

  “It was just part of the whole order. I don’t know a government that doesn’t buy guns and ammo.”

  “But not every trader sells them.”

  The man with the beard spoke up, “He’s ex-military. The other three with him were obviously upgraded. Think about it. They just delivered a load of black-market weapons despite the sanctions. And then they came down to the surface. Why?”

  Beard Man had an accent. German, Jackson thought. Or maybe Dutch. More importantly, his assessment of the situation was a dangerous one, that made the crew look really bad. “I already said, because we got invited to go hunting, and my boss said to say yes, because we didn’t want to hurt our client’s feelings.”

  “No. It’s clear what they were doing,” he said. “They were down here to get a firsthand look at the challenges Warlord faces in this terrain, make recommendations, and bid to supply whatever he needed to finish us once and for all. Or maybe they already won the bid and were looking at helping with the deployment.”

  “It was a sport hunt,” Jackson said.

  “Do you know what we’re fighting for down here?” the woman asked. “Do you know what you’re aiding and abetting?”

  Jackson said, “No. I don’t. We get an order, we fill it. If you’d given us an order, we would have delivered to you too. We’re traders. We don’t choose sides.”

  “Like hell you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re not some cabbage and tomato man, selling innocuous goods. One does not defy ISF sanctions and risk imprisonment for just anyone. Which means you did your homework. You must know what manner of beast Warlord is. You knew exactly what was going on down here. But you looked at your potential profit and decided helping him to massacre us was in the best interests of lining your pockets.”

  What was there to say to that? That Shade, who was thorough with her research, was the one who dug into such details, not him. Jackson was pretty sure she didn’t want to hear from him that this was just business. “That’s not how it is. I don’t know the deals or make them.”

  “He’s paying you with CX, isn’t he?” the woman asked.

  “Credits through a broker,” Jackson said.

  “No, he isn’t. He can’t pay you in credits because his assets are frozen.”

  “Apparently the Djinn don’t care.”

  “Lies. So you’ll receive a payment in CX. Our CX. The CX he kills our sons and daughters for.”

  It was possible Shade had decided these folks were terrorists as Warlord claimed. Everyone on every side of every war felt they were justified, including the worst of the worst. But Jackson knew there was always two sides of the story. And he began to wonder if maybe he hadn’t heard the full report.

  “Look, lady, my captain defies the ISF because he thinks they’re a bunch of control-freak goons who hate freedom. He goes out of his way to arm the people they keep helpless. If he cut a deal with Big Town, it’s because he thought their harvesters were getting eaten by caliban and kaiju and weren’t allowed to defend themselves. That’s it. I never even heard of the Originals until we got here, and even then, Warlord made it out to us like you were just some kind of gang.”

  “A gang?” said Buzz Cut. “How dare you?”

  “Don’t blame me. Blame the guy who controls all the information that comes out of this system. I’m just a mech pilot.”

  And then some realization dawned on the old woman’s face. It was like a big old lightbulb had just lit up in her head. “You…” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You. Of all people.”

  “Me?” he said, not sure what she was referring to.

  “Gloss. The Union. You fought for the Union.”

  “I did.”

  “Get him up,” she said. Angry now.

  Beard Man and Buzz Cut shared a look of knowing satisfaction.

  “I’m just a crew member!”

  “Don’t,” the old woman said. “I don’t want to hear your lies.”

  Had he already lost this sale? He hadn’t even made his offer. But their faces were full of accusation and condemnation. They were surely thinking it would be a good idea to whack him.

  “Kill me, and what have you got?” Jackson pleaded. “A dead body. I can give you more than that.”

  “Get him in restraints,” the old woman said.

  Beard Man and the Buzz Cut were good at what they did. They didn’t release him and then try to restrain him again, giving him a chance to fight for freedom. Instead they ran some tough
carbon cord through his cuffs and secured them to the restraint belt at his waist. So Jackson’s hands were in front of him, but he couldn’t really do much with them. They chained Jackson’s ankle cuffs together with the same type of cord, making it so he wouldn’t be able to much more than shuffle. When they finished, they released him from the chair.

  “Fifi,” Jackson sent over the net.

  But there was no reply.

  “Up,” the man said.

  “Fifi?”

  Fifi didn’t move. Had they killed Fifi?

  Jackson got up, testing his restraints, but they were secure. Tui would have been able to break them just through muscle power, but Jackson’s mods were mental, not physical.

  “Follow me,” the old woman said.

  Yeah. Follow her right to my execution. He wondered if they were the beheading types. Or maybe their deal was torture. Or maybe they had pet caliban that they liked to feed fresh enemy for breakfast. Because he just wasn’t getting the vibe that he’d be lucky enough to get a quick and painless method.

  Jackson sighed. Bushey was right—they should have all stayed up in orbit and gone swimming. Surely Warlord could have sported them some blow-up floats.

  Chapter 21

  They led Jackson out into a tunnel, and he shuffled along in his socks and underwear. The tunnel was carved through solid rock, as he suspected this whole lair was, like the ranger base had been.

  A wide strip of luminescent paint ran along both walls the length of the hallway. Smart. It could soak up the light, then give it back in a glow when the power went out. Also, after going straight a bit, the tunnel jogged left, then back again. And he suspected they’d done that on purpose to prevent intruders from being able to shoot down the full length. They passed closed doors, a kitchen, and a wide area with practice mats on the floor. They turned a corner and came to an open area with stone pillars and a lot of hubbub. There were a couple dozen beds inside and a lot of medical equipment. There was what looked like a play area. There were a few adults, but a bunch of children.

  Most of them turned to see who had arrived. Some looked hopeful. Some looked down in disappointment. A good many of them wore bandages or braces of some type or other.