Raw Justice Page 10

  “How long to go?” he asked.

  “Just over 20 hours.”

  “Good. Suit drills in 30 minutes. We'll use the loading bay. I got Thor to clear some space for us. Baz will meet us down there.” He finally noticed the lump of metal on the console. “What's that?”

  “The nebulus buffer,” I replied. “Or our 'ex' nebulus buffer.”

  “It's broken?”

  “It's dead. Jo discovered it earlier.”

  “How are we still moving then?” he asked.

  “Damned if I know. While we go looking around Sargon for a bunch of soldiers, Jo and Baz will have to locate and install a new one or this will be where our journey ends.”

  He looked the thing over and shook his head before turning to go. I got up, set the bridge controls to alert me to anything serious, and followed him out.

  “I've been reading up on the exo-shells,” he said as we walked. “There's some pretty serious hardware in them.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well you can see the plating material – that's some high-end armor. Light, flexible but able to withstand far more than even the FARGO units.”

  “So they claim.”

  “So I know,” he laughed. “I fired a HARG rifle at one. Didn't even scuff the finish.”

  “You fired it at your own suit?” I cried.

  “No, you idiot. That would be stupid.”

  “Good. That means you fired it at Baz's.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No damage?”

  “Nothing. I did 10 controlled shots, high yield. Same result.”

  We descended the staircase and found the air was cooler on the lower decks – an odd phenomenon.

  “What else?”

  “It has some clever features. The right or left gauntlet can be charged to deliver a high-frequency burst on impact. It will seriously deplete the cells each time but they say they're working on improving the power core for the next model.”

  “What about jump capability?”

  “Not included with ours but they're designing a lightweight booster that should replicate the FARGO jump pack. Again, early days I guess.”

  “So you're serious about investing in the company then?” I asked.

  “Deadly. I think this is the way forward, I really do. We'll have a majority share in the business which means we'll be able to push for our own designs and ideas. It'll be a damn good investment for us and TRIDENT. They got excited when I showed them the pilosite swords. They're looking into other melee options.”

  “Having a less bulky version would be a blessing.”

  We reached the loading bay and found Baz was already suited up and running through the basic exo-shell warm-up rituals. Now, with time to watch, I realized how impressive they looked. Their smooth operation and elegant design made FARGO look blocky and clunky. With the HARG rifles, they looked positively dangerous. I went to suit up myself.

  “Time to work up a sweat,” said Mason, grinning. “Wouldn't want to get rusty now, would we?”

  12

  Captain Argo's assessment of Sargon hadn't been exaggerated. As we docked it was clear from the masses of grey cloud that swamped our view of the planet that we were in for a soaking. Human beings are known for their ability to capitalize on unfortunate situations and orbital platform 'Theta Sanderson' was by no means exempt from this. We docked in the maintenance side of the rotating structure, left Baz and Jo to look for a new buffer and made our way to the sprawling shopping district that made two circuits of the platform. Our clothing wasn't designed for anything like the weather predicted inside Sargon City and we needed to change that.

  Mason and I strolled up and down, checking out the stalls and storefronts, looking firstly for anything in our size, and secondly for anything that wasn't overtly designed. The latter wasn't much of a challenge; it seemed like most of the planet's population wore long ankle-length coats made of synthetic leather and water-tight boots that came up to the knee. The temperature was known to vary throughout the year offering a rather unpleasant mix of high humidity one day and extreme cold the next. This leaned fashion towards a polymer that kept the body insulated but cool. How that worked was beyond me but it felt pretty good against the skin.

  We took our purchases back to the ship, changed and noticed that Baz and Jo hadn't returned yet. Thor and Jimmy were in the loading bay, sifting through the junk from Titan 5.

  “We're heading out now, Thor. Get ready,” I said. I wanted the bot with us. He would serve two important purposes, three if you thought about it. One, to provide a direct link to Angel's defense. Two, to hide light weapons inside while we passed through customs, and a third was physical protection. Nothing put off an attacker like a half-crazy construction bot with a hammer.

  “I'll be wiv you shortly,” he beamed. “I'll meet you on the platform. Got to get ready, you see.”

  “Okay but don't hang around. Each day that passes puts Angel at risk in that prison.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  The coat was a good fit and warm with a fur lining and a deep hood that almost hid my entire face from view. I adjusted it as Mason handed me a portable shield generator, clipping one to his own belt before we left the ship.

  “Same as always, four strikes and you're out,” he explained. “Though in this weather I expect it might only manage three.”

  “What are you stashing in the bot?” I asked.

  “Two of the Calimar-six plasma pistols. I've downgraded their output in favor of rapid fire. If we do get into a firefight I don't expect anyone will be shooting straight in the downpour. Accuracy through volume on this one.”

  “That's a habit we need to break.”

  “Blame Golan IV.”

  “I blame the fact that we haven't had a break since we got slammed with a D122.”

  “Maybe today we'll get that break.”

  “From a handful of 'advisors'? I doubt it, pal. More likely we'll be left with some corpses and a whole bunch of unanswered questions.”

  “That's the story of our lives.”

  “Ain't that the truth?”

  We left the Hikane and stepped onto the platform, our new boots creaking as we broke them in. The maintenance platform was busy, frantically busy to be more accurate but there was less people traffic which worked in our favor. After a few minutes, the loading bay door opened and Thor finally appeared. Mason stifled his mirth.

  “I told you,” I said once I'd seen him. “Didn't I tell you this back on Titan 5?”

  “Yes, I'll give you that. You said this would happen.”

  “I'm not even surprised,” I laughed. “That's how bad things have got. I'm not shocked by him now. It's just the norm.”

  Thor, coming down the platform, greeted us with a kind of courteous, conspiratorial nod. He was much smaller, having shed most of his bulk using the body he'd begun building on our journey home. Now he only stood two feet above Mason and perhaps twice as wide. But that wasn't what struck us first. What failed to surprise us was the trench coat, the trilby and the newspaper under his mechanical arm.

  “Good-evenin', gentlemen,” he whispered. “Is the game afoot, as they say?” I sighed.

  “I see you're dressed for the part.”

  “Of course,” he said without a single atom of humor. “We're investigating the setup, sir. The fix. The frame-up of one of our own, sir. We need to be on the low, the QT, the-”

  “Okay, we understand,” I said, cutting him short. “Let's go.”

  “Aye sir,” he said, trying to doff his hat. “Let's go.”

  We took the shuttle down to Sargon City West, the nearest landing pad to where Argo told us that a contact of his would meet us. I couldn't say that I was overjoyed with the idea; contacts were for spooks and Earth Government 'advisors' and I had a deep loathing for all things clandestine. Perhaps there was a role for it to play in the exercising of power for the sake of democracy, but beneath that, I wondered if the means didn't justify the ends. No good
could come of lying to both yourself and everyone else.

  When we landed, we walked out onto the street, keenly aware that even so late in the day, the streets were tightly packed with people and business. Street pedlars and hawkers of gaudy gifts roamed up and down the wide pavements, speaking in strange and often hypnotic languages. The towering skyscrapers acted like great walls, hemming everyone in at their feet but casting a mystical neon glow all about. The air stank of ozone, of sweat and of misery. People shopped and people came and went to work, but no one could be mistaken in believing that the people of Sargon City were actually happy. A funk of dark mood pervaded every corner, every side alley and even down to the cracks in the slate grey paving slabs and once it took hold it was hard to shake off. Three streets later and the rain began, coming down in a great wash that beat us down, sending us deeper into our hooded coats.

  “This is nice,” said Mason, lacing the comment with sarcasm the same way a cheated wife might murder her wayward husband. “Why do people live here again?”

  “Two reasons,” I replied. “Molanium and soft-core midget porn.”

  “Eh?” said Thor. “Midgets, sir?”

  “That's right. Just above the planet's core are rich deposits of molanium, the most used metal in prosthetics. That keeps the mines outside of the city running night and day but molanium miners are prone to exposure to fumes that cause them to be attracted to the smaller person.”

  “Really?” laughed Mason but Thor was genuinely interested.

  “Yeah. It's said that if you receive a molanium part it'll bleed the same chemical into your bloodstream and the next thing you know, you're getting hard-ons for people of a vertically challenged nature.”

  “That's incredible, sir,” remarked Thor. “I never knew this.”

  “Neither did Mason but I've seen the way he's been looking at Baz recently.”

  The next thing I knew Mason's hand was coming straight at me, open palmed and directly at my chest. I felt it hit with full force and I barely remained standing.

  “That's for being a dick,” he said as I stumbled upright again. I tried to suck air back into my lungs but it refused.

  “What kind of attack was that Mr. Mason?” asked the bot.

  “It's called a Ric Flair,” he explained. “Very handy against people you really don't like.”

  “I see, sir. I’ll make a men’al note to find out who this hero was, sir. Was ‘e on Mars, sir?”

  “If only,” laughed Mason.

  We walked on, following both the ebb and flow of the traffic and the directions given by my personal comms unit. It was leading us towards Precinct 6 in the business district eight kilometers from city hall. Here, according to Argo, we'd find his contact.

  “How's that pistol feel?” asked Mason at an intersection.

  “Like a brick on my hip,” I replied. “But I'm happier for it being there. Look at that guy.”

  Ahead, leaning against the doorway of a closed laundrette, was a man with folded arms who wore the expected long coat but sported a bald scalp, various scars on his ashen face and an expression of fixed concentration on those who walked by. He stood out and that was exactly his intention.

  “Where's the real tracker?” I asked. Mason looked around discreetly.

  “There,” he said. “On your two, just examining the comms unit store.”

  The rain continued to fall, reducing visibility to a few feet. Everyone seemed to shrink, to bunch their shoulders and dip their heads as it fell on their backs. It made us stand out, walking as we had done since our first days on the parade ground. There was no point trying to blend in. As a spook had once pointed out to me, military or former military had a uniform of their own and you couldn't take it off. Even if you tried, you just looked like a soldier trying not to look like a soldier.

  “He's moving,” said Mason. “Nothing hostile just yet.”

  “But they used a decoy. That's not conventional.”

  “But it fits with Special Forces SOP.”

  “True.”

  On we walked, stopping only to investigate a coffee shop and give some attention to the cakes on display there. It gave us a chance to spot our tail again, this time on our side of the street, walking slowly behind and avoiding the oncoming people traffic.

  “They'll change their man in the next thirty minutes,” I said. “We'll grab a coffee then and sit for a while inside.”

  “I'd agree with that,” said Mason. “I could do with some cake. I didn't notice anyone at the orbital platform or the customs gate.”

  “Neither did I but that doesn't mean there wasn't one.”

  We waited. The rain beat down and gave the pavement a glossy sheen, reflecting some of the pedestrians back at us. It was soothing in a strange way, kind of like white noise, drowning out the chatter and clamor of a hectic part of the city. People walked by, looking pretty much the same as us though slightly smaller. Some stopped to examine the cakes, others just walked on, heads down, probably wondering why they got themselves born on the wettest planet under Earth Government rule.

  “Let's eat.”

  We went inside and Thor, ducking down a little, was able to join us. I noticed then that the shops all had tiled flooring with stainless steel grating to drain off the rainfall brought in by the customers.

  “My shout,” said Mason. “What are you having?”

  “Double espresso; I feel sluggish.”

  He went to the counter and Thor stood idle, looking back out through the entrance. People looked at him but didn't dwell too long on his intimidating frame. Thankfully there were several servant bots on the streets and his newly constructed chassis helped him to blend in with them, though his outfit perhaps offset that.

  “Are you expectin' trouble, sir?” he asked as I took a seat near the back. There was a marked fire exit through the kitchen, a possible escape route.

  “You should always expect it,” I said. “Then you won't be shocked when it happens.”

  “But we've never been 'ere before, sir. Who knows us?”

  “That's what we're here to find out.”

  Mason returned with a tray straining with cake and coffee. I took my cup, drained it in one go and tucked into a slice of something gooey and chocolate coated.

  “A recipe known only on Sargon,” he explained, spooning a piece into his mouth while absent-mindedly scratching his chest. “Tastes a bit like sticky toffee pudding.”

  “It's moist enough, like this bloody planet. Seems apt.”

  We ate and watched the door. People moved past the windows which hadn't steamed up at all and given the nature of Sargon I guessed that the glass was specially made for that purpose. We could see through it just fine and when the first slice was gone and we started on some small squares of something both bitter and sweet, we saw the decoy stroll by.

  “This isn't about us,” said Mason. “We've just caught their eye.”

  “They're paranoid?” He nodded. “Still? After all this time?”

  “Argo's contact was on to them. Maybe it stirred the hornet's nest.”

  “We're speculating again.”

  “What else should we do?”

  “Carry on and improvise. I hate making micro-plans; you know that the first thing to go when the fighting starts is the plan.”

  “You're expecting a fight?”

  “You're the one who insisted on these.” I patted my hip.

  He finished his cake and drank some of his coffee. I had respect for Mason for many reasons but near to the top of that list was his love for straight-up coffee with far too much sugar. Unlike Baz who drank fancy things with so much science in them that they had to be sponsored by CHERICA-AUTO. I was suddenly and very sharply reminded of the bitter taste of Angel's preferred drink, lemon tea.

  We waited some more. The pungent aroma of freshly ground coffee was more than pleasant given that the last couple of days had given me only new carpet and hot metal scents to dine on. I scraped the crumbs from my plate with my f
ork and considered ordering more when a figure came walking into the cafe, shaking off the rain from his hood and looking around. He was gaunt with a head of unkempt brown hair and a mouth whose corners turned downwards in a kind of permanent grimace. His eyes were deep blue but reduced almost to pinpoints on an ocean of white and I could already see the snaking tendrils of scar tissue from the base of his skull creeping around his neck. He wore a long, battered coat and gloves of the same black synthetic leather and his boots made a creaking sound as he came towards us.

  “That isn't a soldier,” said Mason. “Looks more like a cop.”

  “Still,” I replied, parting the buttons of my coat to give me an easy pull on the pistol. “You can never be sure.”

  The man stopped a couple of meters from our table and nodded once.

  “Eldritch,” he said with a faint tinge of the local accent. “I was told you were coming.”

  “...told that we were coming to you, not the other way around,” I replied.

  “True. But Sargon isn't the kind of city it appears to be. When a luxury ship docks at Theta and two soldier-types get off, Sargon PD tends to take notice. Especially given our mutual... interests.”

  I stood up and the man took a step forward, his hand outstretched and trembling slightly.

  “My name is Malcolm,” he said.

  “Carter. And this is Mason and our... friend, Thor.”

  Eldritch greeted them both in the same way before gesturing to the empty seat at our table. I agreed and he sat down, taking out a small pill bottle from his pocket, shaking out a couple of pink discs.

  “It says to take with food,” he said. “How's the cake today?”

  “Nice,” said Mason.

  “I'll order a slice then. I try not to drink coffee, but old habits die hard, they say.”

  A waitress came over, addressed him by name and went off to fill his request.

  “How long were you in?” I asked. Eldritch looked sideways at me. “I saw the scar.”

  “25 under, 6 over.”

  “A lifer then?”

  “Something like that.”