The Wolfe Marches 2

Benny died clawing at a desk drawer where, presumably, he’d kept a gun. His body wobbled, then fell across Kean’s legs. Kean had slid behind the heavy office desk before Benny’s door hit the opposite wall, gun in hand. Now, though, he was trapped under better than 200 pounds of dead club owner. He had seconds to tap his com to OPEN and hide his gun.

Unfriendly folk looked over the desk at him. Guns were pointed. Hands were raised.

“Guess you took out Benny,” Kean said. “He was a right son of a bitch. Cheated all of us, too.”

“No concern of ours,” said one of the gunmen, who leaned over to eclipse the swinging office light. His skull was mostly matte-black metal, his eyes set in burn-shiny flesh. “You’re one of the sonbitches who took down my brother.”

Kean swallowed. “We take down a lot of people. You’ll need to be–”

Shots rang out behind the group as Kean ducked his head. Hot splashes of blood fell on him as the gunmen fell. 

“People talkin’ when they should be shootin’,” Marta Lasher said as she checked on the dead, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe it.

Kean got to his feet as Lasher and 47 went through the dead men’s pockets for cash and anything else of worth. His clothing was already ridding itself of the blood.

“Benny okay?” 47 said in its almost monotone voice. Their sound systems had been damaged in a breakout months ago, and they still had not had them repaired. 

Kean shook his head. “Na. Sorry.” He inched his way around the desk as Lasher gave the desk a quick once-over. “These guys were looking for us. They knew me, at least, which means they probably have paid someone decent for intel.”

“Looking for us how?” Lasher said as she tested drawers. When she came to it, she pocketed Benny’s gun and a couple ammo magazines. 

“My guess? Someone at the port. I haven’t gotten any alerts our net has been peeped. I doubt Benny sold us out to this dude.”

“Benny would sell water to his mother in the desert, Kean. If there was cash in it, he’d have done it, no matter what kind of relationship you thought was goin’ on.” She wiped her brow, leaving it blood-streaked against her dark skin. She tossed the ID’s she’d stripped from the gumen to Kean. “Run these, see what you can come up with.”

Kean dropped the slivers in a pocket, then joined 47 at the door. Nothing stirred in the dark accesway. Sloping corridors led off to kitchen and stores, the back door, and back out into the bar area. 

“I have to settle up something here,” Lasher said and waved them out. Kean paused to pick up one of the hunter’s guns. As he held it, his palm extruded filaments into the gun’s ports, spoofing the smart-link systems and giving him access. Suddenly the gun was hot in his hand, and targeting reticles flickered in his modded vision. After it was imprinted to him, he slipped the gun under his jacket as he followed 47 back into the bar.

With the noise and music, no-one out here had heard the commotion though RJ the bartender gave both of them hard looks as they walked closer. He must have been on a private channel or network with Benny.

47 looked at him, flat colorless eyes barely visible behind his visor, then nodded as he broke away. “I need to finish up Lasher’s business,” he said, then slipped through the dancing crowd like an eel. 

Kean continued on towards the bar, and shook his head at RJ’s inquiring look. “Sorry, RJ, couldn’t stop them,” he said quietly as he leaned in. He took the beer RJ passed to him, an ice-cold Island Stream, and he cracked and drank down half of it. 

RJ wiped his brow and gave a slight smile. “You’re not a shooter, Key. Shit. I guess I just inherited a bar.” He looked around the dark place with narrowed eyes, then back to Kean. 

Kean took another pull from the bottle, then fished out the ID sliver he’d taken from Black Skull. He slipped the thumbnail-sized chip into one of his slots, cloned it, and handed RJ the fresh chip. “This was the dude that killed him. Said we pinched his brother, but didn’t say when or give names. Might be something good to know.”

RJ made the chip disappear, then handed Kean another Island Stream. “Might be. See you later,” he added, looking up and past Kean.

Kean turned to see 47 and Lasher near the door. He upended and drank down the last of the beer. “Might be some time before we come back this way,” Kean said as he walked away to join the others.

**

They made their way to a depot and caught a train headed back towards the port. Once they were underway again, Kean slotted the ID chips into his onboards, cleaned up the mess of malware surrounding them, then began to craft queries around them. Most were masked as emergency medical inquiry, as if from an EMT; others were more subtle.

[More stuff on shooters, little backstory for crew]

“OK, our guys were an enforcer team for Los Scorpiones, but were acting on their own. The guy with the metal skull, Hector Chavez, is brother to Emil Chavez. The money launderer you guys  pinched in one of the Saturn habs, ‘bought fifteen months ago. Before my time.” 

Lasher shook her head slightly. “Which is probably why they didn’t automatically shoot you. I remember him. Kept raving on about how his ‘Family’ would take us all out, our hours were numbered, etcetera.”

“They move slow for such close family,” 47 observed.

“Los Scorpiones. There’s no way we can make this right,” Kean said. “They are going to kill us all.” 

“Well, we’d better not move slow. Los Scorpiones boss for this zone is Alonso Mercado, over in Clarkesburg. He’ll be expecting an explanation for four dead shooters. Best not to keep him waiting,” Lasher said, the tiny beads in her hair rustling as she shook her head. “Kean, you go back to the Avaent and make her ready to get the hell out of Dodge.”

**

The Avaent sat back in it’s bay, probes and umbilicals connecting it to fuel, recharging, life support, and data among many other things. The manta-ray-shapedl cargo vessel was designed to be a tough independent ship that could roam at will for months at a time, seeking out new markets. It showed. Paint was scored right down the the metal in many places, and there were several spots where less friendly atmospheres had left their own kind of mark. The power plant and lightfold drive were relics best left to collectors and museums. 

There were advantages, though. It was missing several of the required safety interlocks now required on all Commerce Guild craft. It had none of the new style transponders that had way too many polity-level back doors to suit Lasher. As in, they existed at all. The fuel scoops and purification plant were frontier rated, meaning they could slurp up swamp water and turn it into pristine fuel without giving gimmicky new-fangled filters a headache.

Right now, many of the cargo bays sat open and waiting for modular freight containers to roll up and lock on,or were abuzz with drone and mover ‘bots shifting and weighing cargo. 

As per their main sideline, though, the back half of Deck C was given over to cells and secure suspend tubes for transporting a different kind of freight. Space was precious on a ship, so the area also served multiple duty: it was also the infirmary. It was Kean’s first stop when he came aboard through the back cargo bay.

The circular med bay had two tables, both currently stowed in the floor panels. Bright omnidirectional light made sure nothing could be overlooked. There were no prisoners in the cells, but below in the suspend well, two lucrative bounties slumbered away their time between stars, until they could be delivered to the proper authorities. Kean checked life signs, and adjusted their calorie intake. For this, he had to depend on LCY, the ship’s Mind, and the limited medical education they’d been able to install in her. As a medic went, he was a talented amateur. Considering that, he checked in on her data access. She’d been able to test on certs for blood work and trauma engineering in the short time they’d been here. They were cheaper, low-level certs but might count for something when they needed it. 

As he walked through the main bay, he let the ship systems come to the forefront of his mind. The engine dashboard, life support, fuel, power and fluid systems, the state of the shipnet; all this flooded into him and was dealt with in priority order. Fortunately, for once, there were only seven or eight minor problems to deal with. Docking fees were paid and tallied, cargo – what there was of it – was now shut tight and all the bots firmly in their charging cradles. At a command from Kean, the docking bay itself came to life as bots pulled coolant lines and power cables free. 

At last there was a heavy rumbling thunk throughout the shp as the massive fuel umbilicals disengaged. Minutes later, the lights flickered as they went from external to internal power. The air went from the musty smoky Bradbury mix to strained and filtered air, dry and cool. 

Twenty minutes later, as the Captain and 47 were entering the Clarkesburg outskirts, he sent the ready signal. “All clear for departure,” he sent. 

“Roger that,” Captain Lasher said as they exited the depot and caught a groundcar to take them to Hell.

**

Marta Lasher didn’t speak to 47 for the twenty minute car ride out to the Mercado compound. It was a good sign that the man was seeing them in his home. She told herself that made it somewhat less likely that he would simply kill them out of hand. 

The small autocar took them out of the city into dry ranch land, Flat plains stretched to the horizon, dotted with various food and product animals of various types, from various stars. The Mercado compound ambushed them from one side, a fold in the land concealing it until the last second from direct view from the roadway. The car slowed as it turned down the driveway. There were no gates or walls topped with razor wire and broken glass. Just a small guardpost with a single security bot that waved them through.

It was an impressive display that made Lasher’s tailbone want to climb up inside her body and hide. Mercado had no need of such things. His power on this world was so secure it was said he didn’t even bother with bodyguards when he went into town.

A woman, an actual human servant, met them at the driveway and walked them inside where she announced them. Lasher could see a quick distant look in the young woman’s eyes, an almost imperceptible nod as they passed a discrete security gate. This was one of the few times she wished she was as modded as Kean. Sometimes the kid seemed more machine than man, whereas all she had was the most basic of headware and a couple of control interfaces any ship captain would have. 

After a slight pause, the woman gestured. “Senor Mercado will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.” She walked the length of the main house, towards an office in the back.

[An impressive security setup,] 47 sent over their personal network. [They are more than reasonable secure, as you might imagine, but I can get snippets here and there. Some of the security personnel don’t shut off their comdots. The place is on alert. We’ve already passed three checkpoints. Power usage and hotspots in the walls indicate this entire corridor is a kill zone.]

[Happy days,] sent Lasher as they followed quickly behind. As they walked, Lasher picked up the faint strains of Intiago’s Silver Summer Nights Opus II coming from the upper floors. She allowed herself a tight little smile. There hadn’t been a gangster born yet that didn’t somehow think that old music and dark wood somehow translated into respectability.

At the office door, a bion took their weapons. Mercado might not like the idea of putting his human staff at risk. Something to think about, Lasher said to herself. 47 and she handed over their guns, stunners, and knives. Then they were shown in.

Mercado hadn’t met them alone, but he wasn’t boxed in by security like some bosses Lasher had seen. He was a man of moderate age, in that zone where it’s impossible to tell 40 from 90, but reports she considered reliable put him at only about 53. Young, to be a planetary (and, it was rumored, soon to be sector-wide) boss. He had the blended neo-cauc coloring and features that confirmed rumors he was from Terran colonial stock. He stood behind a shallow desk, itself more like a raised bench with (she could see as they got closer) recessed physical data screens. 

Lasher decided she was going to take it as a good omen that the man seemed to be as un-enhanced as she herself. 

At least he looks like he’s in a good mood, Lasher thought as 47 and she stopped a few feet in, then remained standing even though Mercado gestured towards seats closer to his desk.

Two women in understated dark suits stood discreetly behind Mercado, modded eyes like black slits in their calm pale faces. The muscle, Lasher figured. 

“Captain Marta Lasher of the Avaent, just in from New ChristChurch. I hear from Bradbury that we have business, you and I,” Mercado said after a few seconds spent perusing the screens. “Unexpected business. An associate of yours was injured by my team?”

[go back, injure Kaen, note his self-healing ability at least in that area]

“Overstated,” Lasher said. “He’s fine. Water under the bridge.”

A flicker of a smile on Mercado’s thin lips. “I’m gratified to hear it. However, three persons of a five man enforcer team are dead, at your hand.”

Shit, we did miss some, Lasher growled to herself. No matter what happens here, they’ll still be out for blood. More shit on a different day.

The large airy rooms suddenly seemed closer, and Lasher shifted on her feet. A slight tic of sound from behind Mercado, and Lasher saw the woman had shifted position as well, by inches. Readied, in case she tried something. 

He’s goading me, seeing if I’ll flinch. Well, fuck him. 

“How do you propose we proceed from this point?”

Lasher let her shoulders shift, as if she were feeling the weight of Mercado’s presence. “Five man team takes a lot of training and gear, and we don’t have either. Sure you’ve checked out the ship by now, you can see how close to the waterline we are. Supping that with bounties seems a good way to make money, and we ain’t doing so bad we can’t afford to pass over some jobs. This month.” She paused. “Look at the pistols your bion took at the door.”

Mercado’s expression darkened slightly, then he motioned towards the door. The bion came in, and laid the pistols on the desk. 

“Not your standard issue to your teams. Means they were coming on a personal vendetta, not in your name. They’d know not to use your iron.”

Mercado turned the pistols over in his big hands, pulled out the clips, otherwise inspected them. Finally he shrugged and called over his bion. “Inspect the smart ports. Who are the last people to use these?”

The bion extruded connectors into the ports on each pistol, and ran it’s diagnostics. “Match for Hector Chavez, Donald Ingia, and Paolo Martinez. Each have been fired within the last hour. All three indicate cessation of life signs while attached. Sudden drops in blood pressure and major organ disruption.”

Mercado looked less than pleased, but then he smiled. “Well. It is good then, that we have no problems. You’ve done the right thing, coming here personally. It shows respect. Still, the loss of a five man team is no small expense, regardless. But… we also have the case of the two who have not reported back to me. I would know the reason for this and, well, now I have two bounty hunters in my parlor. Find them, bring them to me alive, and I wipe your debt.”

Lasher started forward but a gentle brush on her hand from 47 stopped her. She took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose on a ten-count. She gave Mercado her best smile.

“I believe we are in business, then.” 

**
Kean was finishing the last engine tests when Lasher called. “We’re stayin’, much as it galls me. We’re working for Mercado, at least for now.”

“How—”

“Offer, couldn’t resist,” 47 said.

“Oh,” said Kean as he began the process to return the ship to dormancy. “Okay, then. What’s the deal?” He winced as Lasher went into detail.

“Well, cap’n, I can poke at the local net while you’re in transit. Someone in Bradbury gave up our location. How many people both knew we were in town and that Chavez would be interested in our whereabouts? Can’t be many.”

“Good deal,” Lasher said tersely, and clicked off.

Kean laid out the problem to LCY and set her to crawl through various public databases. It still amazed him how often people who were supposed to be laying low would post on public forums, let themselves be caught on friend’s public feeds, and more. Then again, if more smart people got into crime, they’d be eating Soyslush Plus for every meal.