Earth Unaware (First Formic War) (36 page)

Benyawe raised her bottle and joined the toast, but she didn’t seem particularly agreeable to it.

“You shouldn’t toast me,” said Lem. “Our real thanks goes to the lovely Dr. Benyawe here, who tirelessly prepped the laser and conducted our field tests with aplomb. Without her brilliance, perseverance, and patience with her hot-tempered captain, we’d still be shooting pebbles out of the sky.”

“To Dr. Benyawe,” said Chubs.

Benyawe smiled at Lem. “Toasting me doesn’t make you any more tolerable,” she said.

“Of course not,” said Lem. “I barely tolerate myself.”

“And we would be wise to remember that our mission isn’t over until we return to Luna,” said Benyawe. “We’re months behind schedule, and there are many on the board who no doubt have written this mission off as a cataclysmic failure.”

Chub’s smile faded.

“I’m not trying to spoil our evening,” said Benyawe. “I’m merely reminding us all that we’re still a long way from home.”

“She’s right,” said Lem. “Perhaps we’re a little premature in our celebrations.” He raised his glass again. “Still, I’ll toast Benyawe again for being such a wise counselor and an expert party pooper.”

“Hear, hear,” said Chubs, raising his bottle.

Benyawe raised her own bottle and smiled.

“Lem Jukes.” The words came from the doorway.

Lem and the others turned to the entrance and saw a mountain of a man standing at the threshold. He was flanked by three other men, all rugged and dirty and not the least bit friendly looking.

“So you
are
Lem Jukes,” said the big man. “Mr. Lem Jukes himself. Son of the great Ukko Jukes, the richest man in the solar system. We’re practically in the presence of royalty.”

His three friends smiled.

“Can I do something for you, friend?” said Lem.

The man stepped into the room, ducking his head through the door frame as he entered. “I am Verbatov, Mr. Jukes. And we are not friends. Far from it.”

“What grievance do you have with me, Mr. Verbatov?”

“My friends and I were part of a Bulgarian clan working the Asteroid Belt four years back. Nine families in all. A Juke vessel took our claim and crippled our ship. Our family had no choice but to break up. Each of us went our separate ways, working what ships would take us on. The way I see it, Juke Limited owes us for damages. The value of our ship and all the hell we’ve been through since.”

A silence followed. Lem glanced at Chubs and chose his words carefully. “You were done an injustice, sir. And for that I am sorry. But your fight isn’t with me. We aren’t the people who took your claim or damaged your ship.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Verbatov. “You’re Juke Limited. The son of the president. You represent the company.”

“Our lawyers represent the company,” said Lem. “I’m about as far down the chain of command as you can get. If you have issue with how you’ve been treated, I suggest you take it to the courts.”

Verbatov laughed. “The courts near Mars or Luna, you mean? Billions of klicks from here? No. I’ll take an out-of-court settlement, thank you. And don’t bother telling me you don’t have the cash. I have it on good authority that you just came into a bit of money and have a sizable load on your ship.”

“Staggar is a friend of yours, I take it,” said Lem.

Verbatov smiled.

“What’s the agreement you two have?” asked Lem. “You get back his money for him, and he gives you a cut? I find that surprising, Mr. Verbatov. You don’t seem like the type of person who gives back much of anything.”

Verbatov chuckled. “Am I that transparent, Mr. Jukes?”

“You are indeed,” said Lem.

“Pay us what we rightly deserve,” said the man.

“The money isn’t mine to give,” said Lem. “It belongs to Juke Limited.”

“Which owes us,” said the man.

“Write a complaint,” said Chubs. “We’ll see that it gets to the right people.”

Verbatov’s smile faded. He motioned to one of his men behind him. “You’ll pay us what is rightfully ours, Mr. Jukes, or we’ll be forced to have more conversations with your crew.”

One of Verbatov’s men entered, pulling a weightless body behind him. It was Dr. Dublin. His face was bloody and swollen, but he was alive.

“Richard!” said Dr. Benyawe, starting to move to him.

Chubs grabbed Benyawe’s arm, stopping her.

Dr. Dublin looked dazed, unaware of his surroundings.

“Dr. Dublin has been quite the chatterbox,” said Verbatov. “He told us all about this gravity laser you have on your ship. Turns rock into powder, he says. Very fascinating. Sounds like an entirely new way to mine rock. My brothers and I would appreciate a gift like that. That ought to cover our damages if Dr. Dublin was telling the truth, which I suspect he was, considering he broke a few of his fingers in the process.”

Lem said nothing.

Verbatov looked down at Dublin and patted the man’s head, gently pushing Dublin’s floating body down toward the floor. “Unless you and I reach an agreement, Mr. Jukes, Dr. Dublin may accidentally break his legs as well.”

The dart struck Verbatov in the throat, and for a moment Lem didn’t know what was happening. There was a series of pops, and the men with Verbatov each slightly recoiled as darts buried into their chests, faces, or throats. Lem was confused until Chubs launched from the table toward the door, the weapon in his hand. Chubs pushed past Verbatov and moved outside, sweeping his aim to the right and left, looking for stragglers. Verbatov’s eyes flickered and then closed. His shoulders slumped, but he stayed upright in zero gravity, his feet still held to the floor by his greaves. Chubs went back to him and put three more darts into his neck at point-blank range.

“What are you doing?” said Lem.

“My job,” said Chubs. He grabbed Dr. Dublin and pulled his body toward the exit. When he reached Verbatov, Chubs pushed the man’s upper body aside. Verbatov’s feet, like the trunk of a tree, didn’t move, but his torso bent to the side enough for Chubs to pull Dublin through the door and out into the hall. Lem and Benyawe followed.

Verbatov’s men stood motionless like their leader, shoulders sagged, eyes closed. Chubs checked the men’s necks for a pulse, clearly hoping not to find one.

“You killed them,” said Benyawe.

“You can thank me later,” said Chubs, pecking away at his handheld. “And I just sent an emergency command to every member of the crew on the station to get their butts back to the ship now.”

Lem’s own handheld at his hip vibrated as the message was received.

Chubs quickly pulled all the darts out of the men and deposited them into a small container.

“You killed them,” Benyawe repeated.

The owner of the Thai restaurant approached, shocked. Chubs instinctively raised his dart gun. Benyawe stepped between him and the restaurant owner. “Enough. We’re not killing innocent people.”

Chubs shrugged then turned to Lem. “We need to move. I’ll lead. You and Benyawe pull Dublin. Upright if you can. Not too fast. We don’t want to draw attention.”

Chubs put his hands in his coat pockets, concealing his weapon, and began walking quickly through the tunnels. They passed small pubs, kiosks, shops, and vendors. Everywhere they went they got looks from people—Dublin’s bloody face was hard to miss—and people stepped out of their way, giving them plenty of room. The closer they got to the ship, the more crewmen they encountered. Several joined them as they went, took one look at Dr. Dublin, and quickened their step.

They didn’t meet any resistance until they reached the docking tunnel. Staggar was blocking the way with four men. He carried a dart rifle draped across one arm. He saw the approaching crowd of Juke crewmen and smiled. “What’s the hurry, Mr. Jukes? Leaving so—”

A dart buried in Staggar’s chest, and an instant later his eyes closed. The rifle slipped from his grip and hovered in space in front of him.

The men with Staggar reached under their coats, but before they could extract anything, a cluster of darts embedded into their chests, necks, and faces. In seconds they were all silent and still.

Lem couldn’t believe what he was seeing. All around him seven or eight crewmen had their weapons out, having just fired. Lem hadn’t even known they had weapons.

“Are you out of your mind?” Benyawe shouted at Chubs.

Chubs turned to one of the crewmen, ignoring Benyawe. “I want every dart accounted for. No traces.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man and the other crewmen began removing the darts from the dead. Lem watched in amazement. No shock in their faces. No panic. Just quick unquestionable obedience. As if the crew had trained for moments such as these.

Benyawe stared at the standing corpses, then hurried to catch up to Chubs, who was moving for the ship. “You can’t just shoot people like that and expect there to be no consequences,” she said.

“The consequences of us staying here were far worse,” said Chubs.

“They will come looking for us,” said Benyawe.

Chubs stopped and faced her. “Who? The police? This is a weigh station, Doctor. We probably just did every store owner and trinket vendor the biggest service of their lives by killing off the thugs and criminals who have been pushing them around.” He gestured to the dead. “These men are bad men. That simple enough for you? Probably murderers. Did you see the restaurant owner’s face when Verbatov came in? The man was scared witless. There was a history there. By tomorrow, he and his store owner pals will be building a statue of us in our honor. Now, if you’d like to stay here and wait for the station security guard so you can apologize all formal like, be my guest. But this ship is leaving in six minutes or less, and I suggest you get on it.”

Chubs went to the scanner Staggar had used earlier and called into his handheld. “Podolski, get out here.”

In moments Podolski came out of the ship wearing the free-miner clothing Lem had purchased for him.

“Erase our existence,” said Chubs, motioning to the scanner. “Every trace of this ship and our visit to this place is to be deleted. You understand?”

Podolski looked uneasy. He noticed the dead men at the end of the docking tunnel. “What’s going on? What happened to those people?”

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” said Chubs. “Just do your job.”

Podolski nodded.

“Now,” said Chubs.

Podolski hopped to it, tapping at keys on the scanner.

Chubs turned to Lem. “You’ll excuse me if I’m overstepping my authority here, Lem. It should be you giving these orders, not me.”

Lem looked at Chubs, as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re more than a ship’s crewman for my father, aren’t you?”

Chubs grinned. “You could say that.”

“My father sent you on this mission to protect me. To keep me from getting myself killed.”

“Basically,” said Chubs.

Lem nodded. “Good. Keep it up.” Lem turned to the gathered crew and spoke loud enough for all to hear. “My apologies, everyone. Our stay here is cut short. But frankly, if your day on this dump was half as unpleasant as mine was, getting back on this ship probably feels like a good idea.”

Lem opened the airlock. Two of the crew went in first, carefully escorting Dr. Dublin inside. The other crew followed.

Podolski took another moment at the terminal then turned to Chubs. “Scanner’s clean. We were never here.”

Two crewmen came out of the ship wearing free-miner clothing.

“I took the liberty of choosing two of our best men,” said Chubs.

“Good,” said Lem.

Podolski looked frightened. “I’ve been thinking about this agreement we made,” he said. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea anymore. This place isn’t safe.”

Chubs slapped him on the arm good-naturedly. “You’ll be fine. Mangler and Wain here will provide all the security you need.”

Lem regarded the two men. They stood there expressionless, like two cold soldiers. No, not
like
soldiers; they
were
soldiers. Father had loaded this ship with security personnel and Lem hadn’t even known it.

“You can’t leave me here,” said Podolski. “What if these people think I’m responsible? What if they know I’m a corporate?”

Chubs and Lem joined Benyawe in the airlock.

“You’ll be fine,” said Chubs. “Think of this as a vacation.”

Podolski opened his mouth and shouted a response, but the airlock door was already closed. Lem watched the man through the small window. Podolski looked panicked and furious. The two security personnel stood behind, not moving. Farther down the tunnel, Staggar and the other corpses stood with their boot magnets stuck to the floor and their arms out loose beside them.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why we’re abandoning three of our crew,” said Benyawe.

“Couldn’t you tell?” said Chubs. “They wanted to stay.”

*   *   *

Edimar flew down the corridor on El Cavador without looking at anyone. There were people all around her, going about their business, brushing past her, hurrying along their way, but Edimar pretended not to notice them. She couldn’t bear to see their faces. Among them would be one or two people who still looked at her as if she were a fragile child. It had been months since Father’s and Alejandra’s deaths, yet there were still some in the family who always gave her that pitying look that said, “You poor thing. Your father and sister dead. You poor, poor child.”

I am
not
a child, Edimar wanted to scream at them. I do not need your pity. I do not want your sympathy. Stop professing that you “know” what I’m going through or that you “know” what it feels like it or that you “know” how hard this must be for me. You don’t know anything. Was it
your
father who was ripped open by an hormiga and left to bleed to death? Was it
your
sister who had likely been blown to bits or had the air sucked from her lungs? No, it wasn’t. So stop pretending that you’re some fountain of emotional wisdom who understands everyone’s grief and pain. Because you don’t. You don’t know a thing about me. And you can jump in a black hole, for all I care.

She didn’t mean it. Not that last part anyway. But she did hate the sympathetic looks and the mournful sighs they gave on her behalf, as if all life was hopeless now, as if nothing mattered in the world and she was resigned to spend the rest of her life wallowing in misery.