Loralynn Kennakris 3: Asylum (50 page)

“That sounds delightful.”

There was that twinkle back the general’s eye. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up
that
much.”

Lannergris, The North Burins;
Outremeria, Outworlds Border Zone

Eddie’s wiggle, containing Nick’s request, wound its circuitous way from starport to starport and beyond. At Badgertown, on Barnard's World, it encountered one Dan Grady, who dropped what he was doing—the little shit wasn’t really worth the trouble anyway, and the bartender was looking cross—to answer it. Dan Grady was a huge rough-cut block of a man with a craggy, florid face formed on mirthful lines, and a booming voice that rolled out with the slow cadences of Little North Bear in the Outer Trifid. He moved with a heavy, ponderous gait, except in action, and his temper was slow as well, but would build and break like an avalanche if he were sufficiently provoked.

With him that evening and likewise deciding that Badgertown was no longer big enough for such as he was Tich Lytle, Dan’s long-standing comrade-in-arms, whom he referred to as his
mucker
, after the fashion of Royal Hesperian Marine Corps, or
marra
, as they said back home. Sinewy and closed-mouthed, he was Grady’s opposite in every way, which explained everything. When he did speak, it was in the thin, harsh tones of Rhiannon, and usually sarcastic. His saturnine disposition masked a deep loyalty to his mates and a surprisingly thoughtful mind. His specialty was interrogation, at which he excelled; his cold, dissecting eye and detached clinical manner often serving as well as the latest equipment.

Next, Stich Nixon, between jobs and luxuriating in Clerks Town on Maxwell, heard the call. Nixon was a small man—wary and quick. A blue-tanned native of Reveille, he was full of banter, had considerable charm when he chose to display it, a wicked laugh, and the deft hands of a pickpocket. An EW tech in the CEF marines, he’d talked his way into a colonial police force and there broadened his horizons to encompass a large swath of the bots and devices that made up the dark side of IT.

He forwarded the note to Adam Gale, who was passing through on his way home. Gale was a tall, pale, quiet man from Nazareth in the Methuselah Cluster, who mostly kept himself to himself. Sandy-haired and round-shouldered, he appeared unassuming, and in the mess he was unfailingly polite, but for sheer cold fury in combat, few had seen the like. His reserve wore off some in private, revealing a large store of compassion, very much at odds with the berserker on the battlefield. Receiving the missive, Gale changed his plans and caught a ship for Outremeria.

Duke, Gale’s particular friend, was relatively closer at Rattler Downs on Vistanovo, where he was collecting on an unpaid contract. Duke was something of an anomaly. No one pretended to know his real name or where he came from. He was tall, long-limbed and loosely built, with fine, fair skin, blue eyes and an easy smile. Most assumed he was a Homeworlder, though he never said one way or another. He was ‘whorehouse lucky’, which referred to his success with women in general, not his haunts. He had smooth manners and was invariably snide. Most everyone but Gale tended to dislike him, though none derided his skill at arms—as a sniper, he was among the best. Having secured payment, he also considered the time ripe to explore new environs, and did not dawdle in his departure.

Out on Lodestone Station, Wallace Smyth—Wattie, to most everyone—came up to Standerdown from Stillwell in response to an email from Dan Grady about the possibility of work. There he found Eddie’s missive waiting for him. Wattie was a younger man of middle height, compact and scruffy. A sapper and demolition expert, he was full of all the absent-minded disregard for danger of that breed. Once, he’d propped up a wobbling table with an antipersonnel mine—it was not discovered until weeks later that the thing was armed. He spoke in an uncertain tenor with a lighter version of Dan Grady’s Little North Bear accent and was forever losing things. He greeted most news, be it an announcement of the evening’s menu or impending Armageddon, with the same slow jog of his head and a drawling “Oh, aye. That’s ‘bout right, then”—pronouncing it
reet
. After briefly mulling over Eddie’s note, he went along.

Last to arrive was Shorty—he viewed this as a privilege to be jealously guarded. Where he’d been or how the message reached him, none knew or cared to know. Not quite five-foot in his ammunition boots, he’d never been called anything else, including (it was generally believed) by his mother, whose existence was debated. Rumor placed his origin on Warshov in the Hydra, but that might have been just a stab at finding some place that could offer no plausible denials. He was barrel-chested, bow-legged, short-tempered, foul-mouthed and notoriously savage. His bitching was legendary, he was never pleased, he was always on the scrounge. His usual approach was an aggressive whine of “ ‘Ey! [Inserting the victim’s name], give over!” and his watchwords were “Fuck it,” frequently combined with “I’ve ‘ad it, me!”—dropping his H’s when he was excited or when it suited him.

He was ill-favored and unpopular—he and Duke were as close to mortal enemies as two men who’d often fought shoulder to shoulder (or shoulder to hip?) could well be—and ‘indifferent honest’. But in a pinch, he could lay his thick-fingered hands on most anything, anywhere, and once his mind was fixed on something, hell itself could not stand in his way.

These seven men were the metal from which Nick formed his team. They shared over two centuries of mixed work between them, and while some had not seen each other in five years or even longer, they had not entirely lost touch despite the shifting and unquiet times. Now, through Eddie’s good offices, they’d foregathered from the far corners of charted space to meet in a third-floor garret Nick had let in a disreputable quarter of Lannergris, the main starport, near the storage yards. He passed about some of the curious liquors for which Outremeria was famed and began to sketch the outlines of a plan in broad strokes, interrupted by frequent digressions into old things which had happened.

“Ya remember that drop we made on Pohjola on ‘08?” Nixon was saying in this vein. “How we told Steyn, ya
can’t
go outside to piss in this weather! It’s practically snowing fuckin’ nitrogen out there! He’s so
gawd
-damn drunk, he won’t listen. Out he goes! Damndest thing I ever saw!”

“He ever get it back?” asked Tich.

“I heard he did. I don’t think it was ever quite the same though.”

“Okay, enough with the old times.” Nick’s amused baritone cut through the bellow of laughter. “Let’s get down to cases.” He started unfolding sheets of plaspaper and spreading them on the small battered table they clustered around. “Okay. Shorty? You get to be the gun runner—”

“I don’t wanna be the gun runner.”

“What’dya wanna be?”

“I wanna be the contract killer with the spooky past.”

“
All
contract killers got a spooky past, Shorty. On account of they’re
contract killers
.”

“Get stuffed, Wattie. Y’know what I’m getting’ at.”

“Fine. Okay.” Nick dispersed the conversation with a wave before it could get even more out of hand. “You get to be the contract killer, then. Stich,
you’re
the gun runner. Duke, you’re the art dealer with the ritz’d-up client list . . .”

Hours later, still hunched about the little table that was now covered with a detailed map of Cathcar, courtesy of Antoine Rathor, horribly spotted and ringed with beer and
minachai
from their several mugs, Nick opened the floor for comments.

“Well, Sarge,” Dan Grady began, “‘T’all sounds right enough, but what about this here egret—”

“Egress,” muttered Duke, sipping tepid
minachai
.

“Ya say it ‘owever ya like, Duke. Now, I’m sure we can get things in a right stir, jus’ like ye said, and if Shorty ‘ere can keep ‘is mind on business—and not ‘is
sore
business—”

“Get fucked, Grady.”

“—this part of the port‘ll brew up nicely.” Here, he tapped the junction on the map that Antoine had identified as one of the starport’s critical vulnerabilities. “And our ride can drop in, with none the wiser. But what if they break out in a bad case ‘o brotherly love, all of a sudden?”

“Because that happens so often in the course of human affairs,” Duke interjected quietly into the recess of his mug.

“All I’m sayin’, Duke”—transfixing him with a darkling glare—“is we’re countin’ on those fookers down there to
act
like fookers. An’ supposin’ they don’t? Suppose they don’t get the wiggle? Our bollocks’ll be hangin’ out t’winder, and no mistake! That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Duke turned to address Nick. “As much as it pains me to say it, he has a point. The egress could be fragile. If they twig, we may not have quite the donnybrook we need to cover our exit. We might need to consider another contingency.”

Shorty sloshed the dregs of his beer into the far corner. “Ah, ye eddicated gits always give me a pain, thinkin’ you’re so damn clever. Blow the whole fuckin’ place to buggery, that’s what I’d do.”

“I think we’re all aware what
you’d
do, Shorty,” drawled Duke.

Shorty swiveled his large head to one side and spat, lapsing into ferocious silence.

“What d’ya say, Wattie?” Nick tapped the map.

Wattie leaned over, elbows on the table. It tilted and there was a general howl as the others barely preserved their drinks. “Sorry, that,” he muttered. Then: “What all this ‘ere?”—tracing his finger over the map. “Caverns? There’s tunnels between ‘em.”

“Old part of the settlement,” explained Nick.

“Wha’s in ‘em?”

“Scans don’t say exactly. Garbage? Debris?”

“Metal?”

“That’s a good bet. Looks like the tunnels have collapsed. The shoring probably gave out.”

“Aluminum, maybe. That’d rot quick in their soil—all the manganese oxide an’ iron in it. ‘Ow thick’s the permafrost ‘round ‘ere?” Wattie’s finger circled.

“Forty, fifty feet at the shallowest. Up to about a hundred as you go north.”

“Ah, right. That’d ‘bout do, then. Maybe. Gotta ‘ave a
dekko
when we get there.”

“Gonna have us scroungin’ in’ta fuckin’ midden, he is!” exclaimed Shorty. “ ‘Ey, Wattie, ya got smokes. Give over, man.”

On approach;
Cathcar, Praesepe Cluster

That Cathcar was a city of midnight, abandoned wholly to the shades, was no mere poetic exaggeration, it was a literal fact. Tidally locked to its dim dwarf primary, and close enough to make the lit side disagreeable, it bloomed across the dark side of its host planet like a metastasis, rippled and spotted by the thin, garish illumination of many signs, proclaiming too much of gawd-knows-what under a sky perpetually black.

Like a tumor, the city was mostly underground, for the air was thin and the convection stirred up by the severe temperature gradient across the unmoving terminator made the weather treacherous. And—like a tumor—the disordered burrowing never stopped. Originally exploiting a far-reaching network of caverns, Cathcar had overflowed these natural abodes, and whole warrens, choked with their own detritus, had been pinched off and sealed away over the centuries, as the occupants hacked farther into the brittle soil, scarring the surface as they went, engaged in a never-ending,
laissez-faire
tortoise race with their own abundant filth. The starport, straddling the equator, was the only clean thing about the settlement, or relatively so, and then only clean in the sense that a greasy floor keeps the dust down. Brimming with sutlers and ship-fitters, casual fuel dumps, suspicious eateries, counterfeit magnificence, a few real comforts and a great deal of ill-gotten wealth, it smelled of over-familiar air and perfumed desperation. The slavers who made the place what it was paraded in gross splendor with their painted bitches in tow, the hot lights that spilled out onto the ferrocrete paving sparkling off their tattooed grins as they talked loud, while the semi-naked whores in the well-lit brothel fronts, some owned and some not, but all slaves to the city, glowed.

Seen from orbit, the whole vast labyrinthine mess looked not so much spidery, as spiders often have a keen geometric sense, but more like the work of several lace makers, half blind, mostly drunk, and all at odds with one another. It was also, from a certain point of view, quite lovely.

Or so it seemed to Nick Taliaferro, loafing on the small afterthought of an observation deck on a tramp freighter out of Rimmon, the skipper of which was waiting with a certain molar-grinding patience for clearance to land. To say the skipper, whose name was Pascale Leblond (but would not have that widely known), thought little of Nick was metaphorically accurate and factually untrue. He thought of Nick, and his seven companions, constantly and longed to be rid of them. Some men, shopkeepers and bureaucrats especially, take on their places of business as part of their identity, so much so that meeting them by chance out of doors, on a thoroughfare or waiting in line for an entertainment, they are almost unrecognizable. Others carry their professions wherever they go, wearing them (as it were) like a half-invisible cloak of deeds, more sensed than seen.

Nick and his fellows were of this stamp. It proclaimed their nature more loudly than the battered, travel-grimed jackets, the baggy trousers bloused loosely over scarred boots, and the short one’s anachronistic habit of picking his teeth, which seemed to make everything his beady, unreflecting eye touched on a candidate meal. Such men raise visible tremors in good folk, but make men like the skipper, whose goodness was in direct proportion to the quality of his circumstances, quake internally, which is less comfortable.

When the long-awaited clearance came, reinforced by an energetic crackle on the line and a blinking green light, the little freighter pitched like a swan (which it in no other sense resembled), and cut the air at 46-degrees south latitude. Alighting on the waiting cradle of Docking Bay 94 in the port’s Upper South Wing G, the skipper hurried aft, to favor his passengers with a toothy smile.

“You fellas need a hand at all?” he asked, eager to do anything that might expedite the proceedings. He had fifty crates of ‘machine parts’ in his hold he was to deliver—the real reason for his trip here—and getting them off his boat and into the escrow agent’s storage unit was almost as big a concern as seeing the backs of this surly lot.

“We got it” was all the gruff reply he received as two of them hefted the massy crate the skipper had accepted on board without comment but not without consternation. Squeezing aside so as not to be run down, he gave them sketchy nods as they filed past.

“On second thought,” Nick added, bringing up the rear, “we’re looking for a place to stay. Any recommendations?”

“I hear Perdido Station ain’t so bad,” the skipper offered with a glad hand and a nervous smirk.

“Perdido Station,” echoed Nick, assessing both and then ignoring them. “Yep. That sounds ‘bout right.”