by G J Ogden
Hallam leant in closer to the screen, but then almost fell off his chair. “He’s the new head of the Consortium?” he asked Dr. Rand, desperately hoping there had been some mistake.
Dr. Rand frowned and checked the image on the screen, but then nodded. “Yes, do you know him?”
Hallam ran his hands through his hair and leant back, squeezing his temples for fear that his brain might explode. “Yeah, I know him,” said Hallam, shaking his head. “That’s Dexter Stone, the head of the Consortium Security Force, or at least he was until I saw this.”
Dakota placed the last bit of her roll down on the paper plate and scowled at Hallam. Clearly Hallam’s admission that he knew the new head of the Consortium had been enough of a revelation to put her off her food.
“I know we’ve had our run-ins with the CSF, but is he really that bad?” asked Dakota.
Hallam sucked on his bottom lip then sighed through his nose, gathering the will to dredge up a part of his past he’d always tried – and failed – to forget.
“You remember how I told you that I got kicked out of the CSF advanced training academy?” said Hallam, glancing across to Dakota.
“Yeah, you laid out your commander for being a manipulative creep and sexual predator,” Dakota replied. Then her eyes suddenly grew wide as it dawned on her where Hallam was leading. “That’s him?” she said, almost yelling and pointing at the photo of the man’s square face and perfectly smooth-shaven head.
“Yeah, that’s him, alright…” said Hallam, casting his eyes back to the photo of Dexter Stone on Dr. Rand’s computer screen. The man’s face had aged and become more lined in the years since his run-in with him, but Stone’s narrow, deep set eyes were exactly as he remembered them. Cruel and conniving. “It’s just our luck that they replaced Doyle with the one other person in the galaxy who is a bigger asshole than he was.”
Dakota coughed while trying to disguise the words, “Cad Rikkard…” under her breath.
“Point conceded,” said Hallam, smiling. Then he looked back into Dr. Rand’s eyes. “But the point is, nothing will change while he’s in charge. I’ve tried to avoid anything about him over the years, but I haven’t been able to help myself from following his career. He hasn’t changed, and if anything, he’s even more hardline than Doyle was, with the added danger of being far less intelligent than he believes he is.”
The squeak of the rusty iron gate to the outside seating area opening then closing diverted Hallam’s attention. He looked over to see a group comprised of two men and one woman parade inside. Hallam sat back and glanced at Dakota, though her concerned expression suggested she’d spotted them too. Most of the people in the Flying Trotter Café were local ground or air freighter pilots. These folks were easy to spot from their thick accents and Carmentian clothing, which was heavily based on twentieth-century denim trucker outfits. The three that had just walked in wore Carmentian-style jackets over the top of well-worn, mis-matched combat gear. They were either low-rent private military or more likely one of the many outlaw bands of thugs.
“I think it’s time we left,” said Hallam, pushing his chair back and standing up. Then he suddenly remembered that he still didn’t know where they were going. “Assuming we have a destination, Doc?”
“Yes, we do,” Dr. Rand replied confidently. “I need a sophisticated laboratory in order to engineer an upgraded Shelby Drive instigator, and the Shelby Field inverter to repair the damaged bridges.”
Hallam waited, but when the answer wasn’t forthcoming, he was again forced to eke it out of the frustratingly secretive scientist.
“So where are we going?” said Hallam, still keeping half an eye on the three newcomers, who were already kicking up trouble by shaking down some of the other clientele.
“We need to travel to Vesta while there is still time,” said Dr. Rand, snapping Hallam’s full focus back to her calm eyes.
“Vesta?” said Hallam, sitting back down again.
“Vesta?” repeated Dakota, sounding equally gobsmacked. “After the anomaly hit it from the rogue world, that place is falling into its sun. The planets are already going haywire.”
Dr. Rand seemed to acknowledge this fact with a sort of half-shrug, half-nod. “It is decaying, I admit,” she conceded. “However, the system is in far better condition than the one we just left. There is still time to achieve what I need to do.”
Hallam rubbed his stubbled face. He’d been unable to shave, since the luxurious Flying Trotter Motel next door had run out of toiletries. Then he again glanced at Dakota, but she merely copied Dr. Rand’s half-shrug, half-nod.
“At least there won’t be any half-crazed alien warbots on Vesta,” said Dakota, offering Hallam a weak smile.
“That is by no means certain,” said Dr. Rand, slamming them down to earth again with the force of a building collapsing. “But, hopefully, it is unlikely.”
A commotion several tables over from where they were sitting drew their attention back to the thugs. The three recent arrivals were forcing people to hand over money, while the café’s owner was trying to encourage them to leave. However, Hallam knew the face of a bully when he saw one, and he knew things were about to get a lot worse.
“Come on; let’s go before this whole place turns into a warzone,” said Hallam, standing up again, and this time, the others followed suit.
“Stay on your toes, Hal,” said Dakota, walking close by his side, with Dr. Rand out in front. “Those three are trouble.”
Dakota had barely finished speaking before the female in the group of outlaws spotted them making a bee-line for the exit and nudged the other two thugs. Hallam cursed, realizing that they weren’t going to get away from the café, or from Carmentis, without a fight.
21
Hallam watched the three gang members out of the corner of his eye and saw them quicken their approach. He had still held out hope that they were just off to shake down another breakfast table, but the lead woman’s focus was now firmly zoned in on them. He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles, mentally preparing himself for the fight that now seemed certain.
“I wish I’d come to breakfast wearing my power armor, instead of this renegade gear,” said Hallam as the thugs cut ahead of them on the path leading to the gate. “It might have helped me to crack open that rock-hard biscuit you gave me too.”
Dakota scowled at him. “I think rock-hard biscuits are the least of our concerns right now.”
The leader of the outlaw group blocked Hallam’s path and folded her arms, sizing him up with her mud-brown eyes.
“Where d’ya think you’re going, fancy pants?” said the woman. She was probably in her early forties, Hallam guessed, but her straggly dirty-blonde hair and numerous missing teeth made her appear older, and more than a little haggard. “You have to pay the toll first, pal.”
“Get lost,” snapped Dakota, placing a hand on Hallam’s back to make sure he didn’t stop moving.
Dr. Rand tried to open the gate to leave, but one of the two men darted forward and slammed it shut again. Both of the woman’s accomplices were younger and also in considerably better physical condition than the haggard outlaw.
“Well excuse me, missy! That weren’t very polite, were it?” the woman replied, pulling open her jacket to reveal a pistol. Hallam could see that it was a CSF-issue sidearm, likely taken from an enforcer that had met an unfortunate end at her dirt-stained hands. He then glanced over at the two men and saw similar weapons concealed underneath their clothing. “Just fer that, your toll is double. Three hundred, fer each of ya, or we start takin’ fingers.”
The café owner then ran over, looking flustered and panicky. “Look, I’ll pay your toll,” the man said, holding his palms out to the woman while pleading with her. “Just don’t harass the customers. They’ll stop coming if they know you’ll take from them too. That was the agreement we had, right?”
The woman shrugged then rested her hand on the grip of her pistol. “Yeah, it were. But the worlds are going to he
ll in a handbasket, mate. It’s soon gonna be every man and woman fer themselves. So I’m takin’ what I can, while I can.”
“I’ll pay you the extra; just leave the customers alone, please,” the café owner implored. His knees were bent slightly to lower his lanky frame below the woman’s head-height, to the point where he was almost begging at her feet.
The woman sniffed then sighed obviously, making a show of pretending to be merciful. “Alright then, just ‘cos I’m nice. An extra fifty percent this week should do it. And get us a round of full breakfasts while you’re at it. We’re starving.”
The café owner winced, as if the sting of being ripped off was physically as well as emotionally painful, but he didn’t complain, and instead hurriedly backed away.
“Go on then, you three, sod off,” the woman said to Dakota while hooking a thumb toward the exit. Then she looked Hallam up and down again and smiled a crooked smile. “Unless you want to buy me breakfast, handsome?”
“Some other time, perhaps,” said Hallam as politely as he could manage in that moment. He could see Dakota shaking her head in his peripheral vision.
The older woman shrugged. “Your loss, fancy pants,” she countered, then rejoined her companions.
The two younger men stepped away from the gate and sat down at a nearby table, brushing dirty mugs and crockery off the surface with their muscular forearms. The plates and mugs smashed with an ear-splitting sharpness that made everyone in the café jump. The older woman sat down next to her companions, lifting her scuffed boots onto the table. She picked up a half-chewed corner of toast and gnawed on it like it was a bone.
Hallam sighed and turned to Dakota, who was biting her bottom lip, clearly trying to hold from speaking her mind. He knew what she was thinking because he was thinking the exact same thing, which was that these thugs needed teaching a lesson. Hallam and Dakota both turned to Dr. Rand, who read their intent in an instant. She rolled her eyes then pushed open the squeaking gate.
“Just don’t take too long,” the scientist said, as if she were addressing her teenage children who were about to enter a shopping mall. “And don’t get killed or badly maimed. Remember that I am a scientific doctor by profession, not a medical one.” And with that, she exited the café and began walking back toward their stolen fighter, parked on the landing lot a few hundred meters away.
Hallam turned back to Dakota and raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“You’re the one who taught me about standing up to bullies, isn’t that right, fancy pants?” Dakota replied, straight-faced.
“Sure, and look at what that got me,” said Hallam, looking at his pants and wondering what it was about them the outlaw considered so fancy.
“If I recall, it got you and me together,” replied Dakota with a mischievous little shrug. “So I’d say it turned out pretty okay, so far anyway.”
“Sure, that’s sort of a silver lining, I guess…” said Hallam, echoing Dakota’s mischievousness and getting a nudge in the ribs for his trouble. He then considered the wisdom of taking on three armed thugs on their own, without any weapons, puckering his lips into a sort of meditative pout as he did so. However, he couldn’t just walk away, even if that was the smart thing to do. “Okay, let’s do this,” he added, glancing over to the outlaw’s table. “Do you want to take down the wicked witch, or shall I?”
“Oh, she’s mine,” said Dakota with relish. “You start with the other two meat-heads.”
Hallam nodded, then saw the café owner coming out of the door with two plates of fried breakfasts. “Hold that thought…” he said to Dakota. He then strode off to intercept the proprietor of the Flying Trotter Café.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take those for you,” Hallam said to the confused-looking owner while taking the plates out of his hands. He then carried them to the table where the outlaw thugs had sat down, drawing bemused looks from all three of them, and also from Dakota, who was standing close by, hands on hips.
“Two fried breakfasts?” said Hallam as the younger men frowned at him, then at each other. However, before they could get a word out in response, Hallam had smashed the plates into their faces, like a clown throwing cream pies at a circus. The two men screeched and clawed at their faces as the hot grease burned their skin. The older woman then shot out of her seat and went for her weapon. However, the woman’s hand had barely reached the grip of the pistol before Dakota had hammered her in the face with a fierce roundhouse kick. The older woman was sent tumbling over the top of another table, knocking more plates and mugs to the floor.
Hallam advanced on the two younger men, who were still blinded from the hot food that was dripping off their faces. One was swinging wild haymakers into the air, while the other was struggling to draw his pistol. Hallam smashed a thumping right hand into the face of the thug who was reaching, hearing the crunch of bone. The man dropped hard to the gravel floor.
“Huh, glass jaw…” said Hallam, bending down to take the fallen man’s weapon. However, before his fingers had curled around the grip, he was kicked in the side by the thug’s companion, who was still wiping egg from his eyes. Hallam’s renegade armor spared him from the full effects of the strike, and he rose quickly, but by then the thug was on him like a rash. Hallam blocked two hard punches, which still hurt like hell, before countering to the body, but it was like hitting a sack of wet flour. Before he knew it, the man’s hands were around his throat with a grip so forceful that it felt like the thug was wearing power armor. Hallam thrashed punches at the thug’s body to no avail, then suddenly, the man released his hold and dropped faster than Damien Doyle’s share prices. Hallam slumped to his knees, coughing and holding his throat. A shadow crept over him and he looked up to see Dakota standing in front of him.
“This isn’t a sparring contest, Hal,” Dakota said, hands on hips again. “Next time, just kick in him the balls, like I just did.”
A wild, barely human screech snapped them both to attention. Hallam spun around and saw the older woman, who was back on her feet. One arm was resting on a chair for support, while the other aimed a pistol at Dakota.
“I’ll kill yer!” the woman squawked, trying to steady her wavering aim before firing a shot that sailed wild and high. “I’ll kill yer both!” she screeched again, still struggling to aim.
Hallam looked around for one of the other pistols, but the man in front of him had collapsed onto his, and Hallam didn’t have the strength to flip his mammoth frame. The other thug’s weapon had fallen too far out of reach. Improvising, Hallam picked up a plate that had been scattered during the fight and flung it toward the woman like a frisbee. Time seemed to slow down as the egg-stained white saucer cut through the air then struck the leader of the outlaw band directly on the forehead. A sweet-sounding ceramic chime filled the air and the woman was bowled over, toppling through yet another table. The plate smashed on top of her, along with three others, covering her with broken crockery and greasy café food.
Hallam blew out a heavy breath then rolled over the winded man, who was still clutching his privates and whimpering like a puppy. He took the thug’s weapon then stood up. Meanwhile, Dakota had recovered the other pistol from beside the body of the thug’s companion, who was still out cold from Hallam’s earlier knock-out punch. The café owner, who had been watching the scene unfold in rapt silence, then picked up the third weapon from beside the older woman’s unconscious body and shoved it down the waistband of his pants.
“Who the hell are you guys?” said the owner. The man was now looking and sounding much more assured, now that the older woman was flat out with egg literally on her face.
Hallam was about to answer, when the thug who Dakota had low-blowed climbed to his knees, groaning and red faced. Hallam pushed the barrel of the pistol under the thug’s nose and lifted his head so that the outlaw was forced to meet his eyes.
“We’re the Darkspace Renegades,” Hallam said, addressing the thug, but speaking loudly enough so tha
t everyone in the café could hear. “And contrary to what you might have heard, we’re here to help. Even if that means helping to take out the trash.” Hallam kicked the man in the chest, flattening him to the gravel again. He then held the gate open and waited for the thug to crawl out on his hands and knees, like a baby.
“Don’t believe the crap about us that you hear on the Consortium-owned networks,” said Dakota, addressing the occupants of the café directly. “Listen to Falken on the BridgeNet. We’re on your side. We’re here to stop the bridges from collapsing. So spread the word.”
Dakota then turned and joined Hallam before the two members of the Wolf Squadron passed through the gate and headed back to their fighter, walking side-by-side.
22
Dakota maneuvered the mercenary fighter, turning to make a second pass around the laboratory complex, double-checking for any signs of life. However, like much of the rest of the Vesta system, it already appeared abandoned. Hallam didn’t consider this to be at all surprising. The surface gravity was already more than twenty-five percent above normal. And where the laboratory was located, on a remote island in the eastern equatorial region of Vesta’s southern hemisphere, the temperature was thirty degrees above the seasonal average.
Despite all this, Dr. Rand had assured Hallam and Dakota that they had been lucky with the laboratory’s location. Others parts of Vesta were already dangerously hot, to the point where nothing living could survive. It wasn’t nearly as extreme as the wild swings they’d seen on the alien homeworld. However, unlike that unique planet, Vesta was not destined to move into a new, stable orbit, even one that defied physics. Its decay would continue until the planet inevitably strayed too close to the Vestan star and burned up like a meteor.
That they had managed to enter the Vesta system at all was only because of their unique self-bridging drive system. The main bridge entry points to Vesta were now blockaded by squadrons of CSF fighters, each led by a single larger cruiser. No ships were allowed into the system without express permission from Dexter Stone himself. Almost all of the vessels that had been permitted entry were passenger transports and converted super-freighters, many of which had been brought out of mothballs to conduct the titanic planetary evacuation mission. The population of Vesta and its moon was comparatively small, due to its unique, privately-owned status, but there were still over a million people in need of transportation.