by PP Corcoran
Back to business, thought Tim, as he resigned himself to being uncomfortable in the loose-fitting, one-piece garment, and instead turned his attention to the only other Human in the dropship’s personnel bay. Support Platoon’s corporal, Kofi Okoro, sat quietly in his seat by the cockpit hatch, retaining straps still secured, eyes closed, with the outward appearance of someone sleeping. However, he was far from asleep. If you looked closely, you could hardly fail to notice the constant motion of his eyes or the expensive, military-grade slate he held loosely in his lap. Kofi Okoro was a cyber warfare specialist, and right now he was hard at work penetrating Ralla Station’s security network. Hacking the security network remotely from back on the Glambring had been an option; however, Okoro had pointed out that whenever the dropship was secured into its berth on Ralla, it was standard procedure to automatically connect the little ship’s navigation systems to the space station’s Traffic Control system. The idea being that whenever the small ship launched again its pilots would have the most up-to-date data to plot their course through the busy shipping lanes which surrounded the station. What it also did was give the cyber warfare expert a back door into the station’s overarching computer core, one which he was now using to insert a ghost program into the facial recognition program of the security network, which, once complete, would cause the security network to automatically ignore any searches or alerts issued which matched the faces of two particular Humans. Alastair Sinclair and Tim Buchanan had, as far as the security computer of Ralla Station was concerned, become invisible.
Okoro’s eyes opened with a deep, gratifying sigh, and a sheepish grin spread across his face. “You are good to go, sir.”
“Outstanding work, Okoro,” said Alastair. “Shall we go pay Deeral a visit, Tim?”
“Ready when you are, sir,” replied Tim.
Side by side, the two men headed down the ramp, magnetic grips keeping them firmly attached to the metal deck with each step, preventing them from bouncing ignominiously away in the virtually non-existent gravity of the docking bay. It appeared Ralla Station was as busy as usual. Alastair counted five other small vessels in this berth, and it was only one of a dozen that serviced the space station. Ahead of them, the gaggle of elSha had already reached the bay doors and were waiting patiently while the station security system registered each into its database. Like many commercial stations spread throughout known space, Ralla Station was owned and maintained by a mix of interested parties ranging from the Merchant and Mercenary Guilds to the nearby planetary authority.
The stations came in all shapes and sizes and, like everything else in the Galactic Union, the state of repair was dependent on how much profit there was to be made from it. In Ralla’s case, being in a system which had a moderate-sized F11 refining capacity, it experienced a good amount of through traffic. And with traffic came profit and opportunity. Not every opportunity was a legal one.
A point in case being one Flatar who went by the name of Deeral. Over the years, the Flatar had been described as many things; however, the best fitting analogy the Humans had come up for them was one-foot-tall chipmunks. Their physical similarity to the stripe-furred rodent, prolific in North America and Asia, had caused the first Humans to encounter them to initially dismiss them. That was a mistake, and for many a Human merc, a fatal one. Flatar were highly intelligent, vicious creatures who enjoyed nothing more than a good fight, especially if they could do it riding high in the saddle of their life long companions—Tortantula. Looking like something from a B movie of the early cinematic film days of the mid-twentieth century, Tortantula just looked evil. Giant spiders who would kill you as quick as look at you, who, in a twist of Darwinism at its most humorous, bonded for life with their Flatar riders. Whatever the reasoning behind it, the combination of Flatar and Tortantula resulted in mercs from any race having an extremely bad day if they met them in combat.
Today though, Alastair and Tim had no intention of engaging in an armed struggle with Deeral. For this Flatar had a string to his bow which the two Scorpion troopers needed badly. Deeral had used his species’ guile and cunning to earn him a tidy fortune in another field entirely—the field of information gathering, which the furry little creature sold on to the highest bidder. If anybody knew the location of a covert Science Guild research and development facility that was being funded by General Peepo and her backers, the Flatar and his shiny black nose could dig it up. Given enough time and plenty of credits, of course.
Alastair absentmindedly patted the breast pocket of his jump suit, feeling the reassuring outline of the Yack that rested there. Nestled in its integrated circuitry was access to enough credits to buy every vessel in the landing berth twice over. All courtesy of the Four Horsemen and some decidedly underhanded banking techniques.
Reaching the bay doors, Alastair and Tim halted among the babbling elSha while the security network’s cameras finished their scans of the station’s latest visitors. Burrowed deep in the programming matrix, Corporal Okoro’s subroutine intercepted the biometric data relating to Alastair and Tim, wiping it from the system while simultaneously sending a positive instruction to the bay doors to allow access to the main station. The bay doors opened with no sign of an alarm being raised, and Alastair and Tim exchanged a relieved glance as they followed the thigh high elSha into the bustling corridor beyond.
A pair of bored-looking Lumar dressed in the uniform of Ralla Station Security blatantly ignored the new arrivals as they immersed themselves in a Tri-V which, from the brief glimpse Alastair got as he went past them, was showing scenes from the brief battle the fleeing Human mercenary forces had had with General Peepo’s vastly superior ships high above Earth, as they fled the planet of their birth.
Tim had caught sight of what the Lumar had been watching also, and the telltale tensing of his muscles caused Alastair to nudge him none too gently. When Tim turned to face Alastair, the older merc could see the anger brewing just below the surface.
“Our time will come, Tim. For now, let’s get to Deeral and his pet spider.”
Tim gave the Lumar a last, scathing look—which they were totally unaware of—before giving Alastair a curt nod and speaking through gritted teeth, “Deeral has a spare parts shop on Level 3 spinward that he uses as a cover for his day to day work.” Tim used his pinplants to access the station’s chronometer. “If we hurry, we should just catch him before he closes for the night.”
* * *
Ralla Station may have been in a moderately wealthy system; however, every station that Alastair had ever been on, in his decades as a merc, had its equivalent to this station’s Level 3. Exiting the lift, his Human nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable smell of too many members of too many races living in close quarters. The corridor lighting, what there was of it, flickered and occasionally died totally, turning even the smallest of doorways or corridors into dark expanses which could hold anything or nothing.
“It’s about one hundred feet up on the left. Just beyond that group of Pushtal,” said Tim quietly. He didn’t use his hands because one of the locals might have taken it as an aggressive gesture.
Alastair, as casually as he could, turned his upper body in the direction Tim had indicated. Three aliens who resembled dwarf Bengal tigers with bandolier cross harnesses, from which hung high-intensity laser pistols, were in an animated conversation that looked as if, at any moment, it could turn nasty. Pushtal could get like that. Ever since they got their asses handed to them by the MinSha a couple of centuries back—losing their home planet in the process—they had floated around the galaxy like a bad smell. Some had formed into mediocre merc companies while the rest resorted to basic thuggery or piracy. Slightly beyond them, a gaudy blue and green sign indicated the entrance to Deeral’s nefarious establishment.
“No time to go the long way around if we want to speak to Deeral tonight, and I don’t feel like wasting a day waiting for him to open tomorrow.” Alastair scanned the corridor leading to the Flatar’s store entrance. “O
K, we don’t really have a choice but to go past those arguing Pushtal. We’ll cross to the opposite side of the corridor. That should give us a reasonably wide berth.”
Tim nodded his agreement before deftly threading his way between a pair of Lotar, haggling with a leather-faced Blevin, whose large six-fingered hands hovered near an impressive-looking short, but wide-barreled, weapon, which reminded Tim of a blunderbuss of old. Old, but lethal, Tim reminded himself, as he moved further along the corridor, managing to skirt the Pushtal whom were now all displaying razor sharp fangs and claws. Things were about to go south.
Alastair had caught the warning signs too, and with a final step he pushed the admittance chime located on the edge of Deeral’s door, keeping a wary eye on the Pushtal.
“Go away, we’re closed!” came a scratchy, impatient voice through the speaker grill.
“I have urgent business with the proprietor,” said Alastair.
A combination of a short roar/growls came from one of the Pushtal, while a second took a step back away from the two main agitators. Others in the corridor had now noticed the impending fight and had begun to clear a large area around the two tigers.
Alastair was running out of time. “I have deep pockets if it is a matter of money, but if you don’t want my money I will take my business elsewhere. You decide, and decide now, so I can be on my way.” With a click, the door lock was released, and, with infuriating slowness, the door retracted to the side. As soon as it was open wide enough, Tim pushed Alastair through and back-handed the door close switch. The door had not quite closed when an enraged roar echoed up and down the corridor, immediately followed by the boom of a chemical-based weapon firing. The door sealed, leaving the events of outside to the imagination. Tim spun on his heel to be confronted by raised pedipalpi with sharp, jagged ridges at their ends. Tim’s eyes followed the pedipalpi up until they reached the gaping maw of a fully-grown Tortantula. Its multiple, dark as night eyes, fixed on him, unblinking.
Tim’s tongue darted between dry lips. “Hey, Zeorta, long time no see,” he managed to get out with more confidence than he felt.
From behind one of the Tortantula’s multi-segmented legs, a small, gray-and-black-furred head popped into view. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Tim Buchanan,” came a slightly high-pitched, squeaky voice. A body covered in the same fur as the head detached itself from behind the large Tortantula’s leg, the over-sized laser pistol loosely held in one hand still aimed in the general direction of Alastair, who was pinned to the wall by one of the Tortantula’s rear legs.
Tim managed to drag his eyes from the razor-sharp teeth which filled the giant spider’s mouth only a few feet from his face. Tilting his head to the side, he gave the Flatar a weak smile. “Hey, Deeral. Any chance you might call Zeorta off me and my friend here, so we can talk a little business?”
The Flatar let out a chattering laugh. “Now why would I do that, Captain Buchanan of Sinclair’s Scorpions and—” Deeral waved the pistol toward Alastair. “If I’m not mistaken, your companion would be none other than Colonel Alastair Sinclair, commander of the Scorpions. Tut, tut, tut. Don’t you know that you are supposed to have presented yourselves to face trial on Capital Planet by now?” Deeral looked from Tim to Alastair and back to Tim. “Nothing to say, Human? Oh well. Perhaps I shall just hand you over to General Peepo myself—I’m sure she has an ample reward posted for you by now.”
“What if I offered you twice as much to let us go?” said Alastair to Deeral’s back. “And twice as much again for information.”
The Flatar paused briefly before turning back to face Alastair. “And how do I know that you have such funds to hand? I don’t take credit, you know,” Deeral said with a wicked grin.
Now it was Alastair’s time to grin. Slowly, so as not to agitate the Tortantula who could easily squash him with one leg or the Flatar who could hole him with his laser pistol, he retrieved the Yack from his pocket and offered it out to Deeral. The Flatar took it from him and touched it to a slate which had appeared in his free hand. Seconds later the slate let out a gentle beep and Deeral’s mouth fell open. Without taking his eyes from the slate, he addressed his Tortantula. “Release our new friend, Zeorta.” The Tortantula removed its leg from Alastair’s chest, and Tim let out a small sigh of relief as the gaping mouth closed and the blades, which could easily slice him to pieces in one easy move, were retracted.
Deeral returned the Yack to Alastair with a flourish. “And how can this poor merchant be of assistance to you?” Alastair let the sarcasm slip.
“Tim tells me that when he last had dealings with you, you mentioned you had got wind of a rather odd rumor. The rumor was that the Mercenary Guild had commissioned the Science Guild to complete some mysterious project for them.”
“That is true, Colonel Sinclair. Rumor had it the Mercenary Guild wanted the Science Guild to develop a new, ultra-compact power source for them.”
Alastair and Tim exchanged a glance. So, it was true, thought Alastair. But what the hell did the Merc Guild want something like a miniature, super-powerful energy source for? Are they planning to bring the ancient Raknars back to life themselves? Or was it for another weapons system they had yet to reveal? Whatever, we must get our hands on it, if the Four Horsemen’s plans to kick Peepo’s ass are to come to fruition.
“Our employers are interested in knowing the location of the Science Guild’s new toy’s development facility,” said Tim.
Deeral rubbed at his snout slowly. “It’s not cheap. The Merc Guild are playing this one pretty close to their chests, but I think I can help you out.” Deeral gave the two Humans a sly grin. “For a price, of course.”
Alastair took the slate from Deeral and tapped the Yack to it before tapping the screen and handing it back to the Flatar. “Is this a sufficient down payment?”
The slate nearly slipped from Deeral’s fingers as his brain registered the number highlighted on the slate’s screen. Recovering quickly, he mimicked tipping his hat to Alastair. “I believe that figure is sufficient, Colonel Sinclair.”
“And how quickly can you obtain the information I require?” asked Alastair.
“Station security is a joke here, Colonel. However, I am still subject to the occasional random inspection, so I keep my more—shall we say, ‘sensitive?’—information elsewhere, and I must physically recover it. Why don’t you return tomorrow at this time and we can conclude our business?”
“I look forward to it, Deeral,” said Alastair.
“You should leave by the rear entrance,” said Zeorta, indicating the Tri-V which displayed the footage from the surveillance camera on the store’s main entrance corridor. A group of Lumar security forces were gathered around the motionless body of a Pushtal. Blood splatter coated the walls and floor around the fallen alien. Of the other Pushtal there was no sign. The Lumar were stopping and interrogating any onlookers or passers-by.
“Zeorta is right. I don’t think we need any undue attention from security,” agreed Tim.
Deeral approached a section of wall which looked the same as any other in the cluttered store. As he laid his flattened palm on it, the concealed biometric reader confirmed his identity, and a crack in the wall expanded until it became a narrow doorway.
“Follow the passage to the end, and it will bring you out near the elevators.”
“Till tomorrow, Deeral,” said Alastair.
“Till tomorrow, Colonel Sinclair,” replied Deeral.
* * *
The emergence point two thousand miles sunward of Ralla Station, was empty one second, but for a few scattered hydrogen atoms, and the next filled by the sleek lines of an expensive space yacht transiting back to normal space. Carrying almost no delta-v, it gave the most spartan nudge of its attitude jets to orient itself before activating its ion drive and setting course for the floating space station. Ralla Station Traffic Control interrogated the yacht’s transponder, which identified it as the play thing of a ridiculously rich Wathayat trader. Tra
ffic Control wasted no time in assigning one of the private landing berths and was just as swiftly rewarded by an electronic payment securing the berth for a week. Satisfied everything was in order, the staff of Traffic Control cleared down their screens awaiting their next arrival—an inbound mile-wide mega-ton freighter which would require their full attention.
Aboard the yacht, a distinctly feline-like creature gave a slow blink of amusement. Kitta of the Depik had arrived in Ralla, and the life span of her target could now be counted in hours.
* * *
Charlie Sinclair let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, as the merchant ship Tla’koz passed through the stargate and entered hyperspace, leaving the Tal system in its wake. Ten days of skulking around the various bars and dives of Tal Station, and a shit load of credits—all in cash of course—had secured Charlie and the Scorpion troopers of Gamma Company passage on what could best be described as a bucket of bolts held together by spit and twine.
No matter, thought Charlie, the Tla’koz’s captain, a weasel-like Zuparti who recognized a good deal when he saw one, had agreed to take them as far as the Elo system in the Cimaron arm, where Charlie would have to source another ride.
Elo may not have been in the right direction for Earth; however, as Charlie had pointed out to his ranking officers, Torey McDonald and Stacey Kamala, Human merc companies were now considered fair game, and he would rather spend time going the long way around and get home safely than fight every alien merc out to make a quick credit by bringing a few Human scalps into the Merc Guild.
Charlie released his restraints as the freighter’s gravity deck extended out from the main hull and began its steady rotation until gravity had settled on a steady one G. Rolling his shoulders and flexing his legs to release the pent-up energy that the anxiousness of the past few days had brought on, he thought about his wife, Mhairi, and the kids before admonishing himself. Snap out of it, Charlie! You can bet next month’s pay that Mhairi and the kids are sitting comfortably at the Lodge or playing in the cool waters of Loch Ness, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mythical monster.