Authors: Graham Sharp Paul
“Got it.”
Taking a deep breath, Michael pulled his cap down, adjusted his gloves, and set off through the afternoon throng. Akuna followed 10 meters behind. Michael wondered how many of the locals he passed were security agents.
He found the telecom office without difficulty, a small building off the plaza. It was all but empty. Michael found himself a pinchcomm booth. He punched out the familiar digits and tried not to think about the obscene amount of money he was about to spend.
It took a lifetime to make the connection. The familiar voice of his father came as a shock when he answered.
“Andrew Helfort,” he said.
“No questions. Go secure. Use one-time code Blue-65-Kilo.”
“Blue-65-Kilo, going secure now.”
The voice in Michael’s ear turned to mush. Two seconds later his neuronics took over. The mush vanished. Michael put a simple acoustic vocoder to his face. It sealed off his mouth entirely. Then he jammed the vocoder into the mouthpiece on the handset. State Security would crack the encryption Michael was using, but they’d need at least twelve hours to do that, he hoped.
“Can you hear me?” he said.
“I can.”
“Good. Now write down these numbers.” Michael reeled off a long string of digits. “That’s a Kosmos Cash Express branch on Scobie’s World. I need you to send all the money in my trust fund to that account, and I mean every last cent, plus as much as you can scrape together. I need clear funds no later than twelve hours from now no matter how much it costs. Got all that?”
“Twelve hours. It’ll be done.”
“Last thing. Make the transfer payable to Larissa Roberts and the payment password ‘romantic’ in lowercase.”
“Understood. Anything else?”
The catch in his father’s voice tore at Michael’s soul. He forced himself to finish. “That’s it. Got to go. Love you; ’bye.”
Michael ripped off the vocoder and smacked the handset back into its cradle. He made his way back to the counter. “I’m done, thanks,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Ah,” the woman said, “a pinchcomm voice-only call to Federated Worlds. Hold on.”
Come on, come on, Michael wanted to scream as she dawdled her way to the answer. “Yes, that’ll be 3,500 k-dollars, thank you.”
Michael handed over his stored-value card. The woman took another lifetime to process the payment. The tension tore Michael’s nerves to shreds. Finally she was done, and Michael took his card back. “Thank you,” he said.
He forced himself to walk slowly out into the street. He scanned the passersby and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He let himself relax.
Akuna came up from behind him. “Follow me,” she hissed as she walked past. “Mitchell’s spotted two State Security mobibots, and they’re headed this way.”
• • •
“Fuck!” Michael said. He was more shaken up than he cared to admit. “That was way too close.”
“We were lucky,” Shinoda said as the rented mobibot eased itself out into the traffic, with a second vehicle carrying Mitchell and Akuna close behind. “Those State Security bastards were fast.”
“They were. I wasn’t on the line long, and they got there only minutes after I hung up.”
“Preplanned response to all pinchcomm calls to the Federated Worlds, I reckon. As soon as you punched in the numbers, the alarms would have gone off. Paranoid bunch of fucks,” Shinoda added dismissively.
“Anyway, it’s done.” Michael rubbed his face, stress ebbing away to leave him exhausted. “Now all we have to do is collect the money.”
“Yup.”
“I wonder how Spassky and Prodi did.”
Shinoda shook her head. “Haven’t heard from them yet, but if anyone can suborn that poor sucker from Matrix Shipping Lines, it’s those two.”
“I hope so. We are screwed without those control codes.”
“They’ll get them,” Shinoda said. Her voice left no room for doubt. Michael hoped her confidence was well founded. “Money gets you most things in life in my experience,” she went on. “Now, let’s see. It’s eleven hours to Franchette, so I suggest you get some sleep.”
“Try and stop me.”
Friday, June 18, 2404, UD
Franchette, Scobie’s World
“Any problems?” Michael said as the mobibot pulled away.
“Piece of cake, sir,” Marine Akuna said, her face still flushed with excitement. “I never knew it was so easy to get someone I’ve never met to hand over so much money. How good are those Kosmos Cash guys? I give them the name and password, they give me cash. They didn’t even ask for any ID.”
“You can thank the Hammers and their black economy for that. They love their cash. So how much do we have?”
“A shitload: 950,000 FedMarks, which converts to a bit over 2 million k-dollars.”
Michael blinked, taken aback. “Two million k-dollars? You sure?”
“Here’s the proof, sir.” Akuna handed Michael four cash cards. They were anonymous and untraceable, each a testament to the prodigious rivers of cash that underwrote Scobie’s World. Its economy was wholly dependent on the corruption endemic to the Hammer Worlds, to the point where Scobie’s World had long since abandoned its own currency in favor of the Kraa-dollar. “There’s 500,000 k-dollars on each of those puppies,” she said.
Michael sat back, frowning. Thanks to the tireless efforts of his agent, Mitesh—the AI had been spectacularly successful suing the trashpress after the Devastation Reef fiasco—his trust fund had held close to half a million FedMarks, which meant his father had somehow found an extra 450,000. “Right, then; we need to get you off-planet,” he said to Akuna after a while.
“Not so fast, sir,” Akuna said. “I’ve been thinking.”
Shinoda turned around to look at Akuna. “We’ve been through this,” she said, not unkindly. “Listen up, Nugget.”
Michael had to smile. Akuna’s given name was Precious; applying the obscure logic that all marines used to generate nicknames, gold was precious, hence Nugget.
“Your cover has been blown. State Security will eventually track down the withdrawal, and when they do, they’ll come after you. If we don’t get you off-planet fast, you’ll never get off, and we can’t let DocSec get their hands on you, okay?”
“I understand all that, sarge,” Akuna said, “but I’ve been thinking.”
Shinoda rolled her eyes. “Give me strength,” she muttered, “a marine who thinks. Go on, then.”
“You can get me off-planet the same way we got Lieutenant Helfort off Terranova. It worked for him. Why wouldn’t it work for me?”
Michael looked at Shinoda; she shrugged her shoulders. “Why didn’t we think of that?” he asked.
“Too much else going on,” Shinoda said. She looked at Michael. He nodded. “Okay, then. It worked before, so we can do it again.”
“Good,” Michael replied. “We need all the marines we can get.”
“Thank you, sir,” Akuna said.
“Wait until you’ve been dirtside on Commitment for a few months before you thank anyone,” Shinoda muttered, turning back to watch the road ahead.
Saturday, June 19, 2404, UD
New Dublin, Scobie’s World
“Five hundred thousand k-dollars?”
Spassky nodded. “That’s what Jakob Kalkuz is saying,” he said.
Michael swore under his breath. That was a quarter of his fighting fund, and if he’d learned anything during his short stay on Scobie’s, it was that there was no such thing as a done deal. Only that morning, Max Pinczewski had been in touch; he had “forgotten” to add the war risk premium to the charter, an omission that had taken another big slice out of his stash. “Does he mean it?” he asked.
Spassky glanced at Prodi, who nodded. “We think so,” he said. “Kalkuz is taking a huge risk.”
“Can we trust him?”
“No more than any crook on the take, sir.”
Michael paused to think the problem through. They had to do a deal with Kalkuz, and time was running out fast. “If he gives us what we need,” he said at last, “then I don’t have a problem paying him what he wants, but how do we know he hasn’t double-crossed us?”
“By giving us the wrong codes, you mean?” Spassky asked.
“Exactly.”
Spassky looked at Prodi again. “Stick and I were talking about that, sir. We think it would be best if our Mister Kalkuz came along for the ride. That way—”
“Hold on a sec.” Michael turned to Shinoda. “We can do that?” he said. “Kidnap the man and smuggle him aboard the ship?”
“It’s an added complication we don’t need,” Shinoda said, “but I agree with the guys. We won’t be here to cut his balls off if he fucks with us, so that means he’s got to come along for the ride.”
“Fine. So be it.” Michael looked at the two marines. “Set up another meeting for tomorrow with Kalkuz,” he said. “Tell him he’s got a deal but we want him at the spaceport an hour before we leave. He’ll get his money when he gives you the codes. Okay?”
“Sir,” Spassky and Prodi said as one.
“So now we’re smuggling two bodies off-planet.” Michael looked at the three marines around the table. “Akuna’s not going to be a problem, but Kalkuz is.”
“I was just thinking the same thing, sir,” Shinoda said. “I don’t see how we can kidnap Kalkuz and box him up, not at New Dublin spaceport. It’ll be as busy as all hell. There’ll be people and security everywhere.”
Prodi broke the long silence that followed. “Private shuttle?” she asked.
“That’d work,” Shinoda said after a moment’s thought. She looked at Michael. “Can we afford one?”
“I can’t think of any other way of taking Kalkuz with us,” Michael said, “so we’ll just have to. I’ll talk to Max Pinczewski, see what it will cost us.” He took a deep breath. “Right, guys,” he said to Spassky and Prodi. “Thanks for all that. Good work.”
“Okay then, marines,” Shinoda said. “What you waiting for? A medal? Akuna and Mitchell need relieving, so get your asses out there.”
“Sarge,” the two chorused.
“It’s coming together,’ Michael said to Shinoda when the pair had gone, “but we still have a serious problem on our hands.”
“How to get down to Commitment without getting our butts shot off?”
“Yeah.”
“We know the solution to that problem, sir,” Shinoda said, breaking the silence that followed.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Michael said, “but even if we had Fed gear and the time to train, it would still be way too risky. I can’t order anyone to do it.”
“Look at it this way. Not to be too melodramatic, but Admiral Moussawi has to take his ships right into the jaws of hell. Meanwhile, if we trash
our
mission, we’ll be doing what exactly? Sitting on our asses, that’s what. So what you’re saying is bullshit … with all due respect, sir.”
“I hate it when people say ‘with all due respect.’”
“So glad you worked out what I really meant, sir,” Shinoda said, her voice laced with sarcasm and anger.
“Take it easy, Sergeant Shinoda,” Michael said quietly. “I know all about ordering people to risk their lives, and it’s not something I’ve ever done lightly.”
“That’s as may be, sir, but we have a decision to make and not much time to make it. So decide, sir. Do we scrub the mission, or do we do what we have to do?”
“You’ve talked to your guys about this?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“They know the risks, and they know the importance of the mission. They’ll obey orders, sir, just like I will.”
“Like it’s that easy,” Michael muttered. He sat back. “How do we minimize the risks?” he asked. “No point doing this if we all end up splattered across Commitment.”
“The local club has a sim package we can upload into our neuronics. If we spend every hour we can practicing drops, at least we won’t all die.”
Michael looked into Shinoda’s eyes. “Some will, though,” he said. “Our special forces guys spend months training before they do their first live drop, and they still lose one or two guys a year.”
“It can’t be helped, sir. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s the business we’re in.”
Michael nodded. Shinoda was right. The question wasn’t whether they could afford to take the risk. It was whether they could afford not to, the same question already asked of—and answered by—Admiral Moussawi. “Right, then,” he said, wondering who among them would not make it. “Unless there are any better suggestions, we’ll do it.”
“That’s a good call, sir.”
“Don’t patronize me, sergeant,” Michael snapped, “and don’t confuse debate with indecision. We might be pressed for time, but I won’t order you and your marines to do something this dangerous without talking it through first.”
Shinoda put her hands up in apology. “I was out of line, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Forget it. Now, moving on. What’s left to do?”
“Let me see. Mitchell and Prodi need to make sure the next safe house is clear. Spassky and Akuna have to meet our man Kalkuz, so that leaves us to go talk to the drop club lunatics.”
“Don’t knock it,” Michael said. “Who knows? It might be fun.”
“I doubt that,” Shinoda said, grim-faced.
Monday, June 21, 2404, UD
New Dublin, Scobie’s World
The cargobot rolled to a stop just short of the tousled-haired man. “Hi, guys,” he said as Michael and Shinoda stepped out. “I’m Marco Chang.”
You don’t look like a crazy to me
, Michael thought, looking at the man. If anything, he looked very ordinary. “Alan Fels,” he said to Chang. Thanks to the vocalization reprogramming in his neuronics, his voice was thick with the crushed vowels of a native-born Hammer. “This is Suzie.”
“Hi, Marco,” Shinoda said.
“So,” Chang said, “you said you wanted some drop shells?”
“Yeah, we do,” Michael replied. “Ours are back on Commitment, and since we’re stuck here until the shipping lines reopen—and Kraa knows how long it’ll be before that happens—we thought we’d do some drops. Not much else we fancy doing.”
“First time I’ve heard a Hammer say that about this place,” Chang said. They set off toward a large shed. A sign over its door declared it to be the headquarters of the New Dublin Drop Club. “Scobie’s only claim to fame is that we have everything anyone could ever want … for a price.”
You’re not kidding
, Michael thought.
Chang pushed his hand into a reader to open the door. Michael and Shinoda followed him inside. The room looked like a million other club rooms across humanspace: a small bar, a collection of old chairs and tables, and wall-mounted holovids paging through pix of members doing what members did. Michael frowned when he spotted an old-fashioned wooden board sporting a list of names and dates in gold paint with the words “In Memoriam” across the top. It was a depressingly long list that did nothing to improve Michael’s spirits.