111 Souls (Infinite Universe) Page 2

  “It was easy money,” he whispered to the mirror. “How did it all go so wrong?”

  Chapter 2

  1

  Several hours earlier…

  Captain Matthew Jennings had seen the potential in the opportunity immediately when the message had flashed into his Nucleus inbox. He and his ship, the Melody Tryst, were already in the Proxima Centauri system and the fugitive request was being posted by Terran Interplanetary Security’s field office on Mariador, the largest planet in the Proxima Centauri system. The fugitive was one Ciarin O’Sullivan, an accused Resistance supporter, wanted for suspicion of terrorism and murder. The reward was twenty-five thousand dollars, easily enough to keep the Melody Tryst in repair and her crew paid and happy for a few months.

  Generally, Jennings did not like working for the Gael’s puppet human government, but the money was right and more importantly, he did not care for the Resistance. He certainly may have agreed with their politics. They demanded that the Gael remove themselves from Terran space; that the Terran Federation Government be allowed to reform; that the Terran Gael Force and Terran Autonomous Region Ruling Council be disbanded; and they called for free elections once again. All of which were things Jennings wanted to see happen himself. As a veteran of the Gael War, he wanted to see the Gael’s butts kicked all the way back to their home system as well. However, the Resistance carried out their little war by bombing civilian targets, hoping to hit Gael officers or human collaborators. They did not care about the humans who got caught in the crossfire or the collateral damage that ensued. O’Sullivan had helped plan a bombing attack on Firefall a few months previously, killing three hundred civilians. Jennings would be only happy to bring him in.

  “You sure about dis, mon ami?” Lafayette asked, his Cajun patois coming through with more severity whenever he was nervous.

  “Sure about twenty-five thousand dollars, hells yeah,” Jennings replied.

  An imperial harrumph escaped the Cajun’s throat, and Jennings turned an eye to his first officer. Remy Emmanuel Lafayette was a middle-aged man that had let himself go slightly since his military days (taking plasma shots to both legs toward the tail end of the war had not helped), but still packed a decent bit of muscle under the gut he had formed. He had blue eyes and a receding hairline that was more gray than its original black.

  Lafayette had been at Jennings’ side for twelve years, ever since Jennings was churned through T-Fed Army officer training at the tender age of sixteen. By that point in the war, the T-Fed Army was fleeing before the Gael advance and taking volunteers as young as fifteen to defend Earth. Already ten years and two wars his senior, Sergeant Lafayette had expected to despise the little twerp that was technically his superior officer. It did not take Jennings long to earn the “sirs” from Lafayette and his men however. Natural tactical brilliance combined with pure guts and a genuine compassion for the men under his command had impressed Lafayette in a way no commissioned officer ever had. They fought together so well and so long during the Gael War that when Jennings said that he was getting a ship after the decommissioning of the T-Fed Army, it never even occurred to Lafayette not to come along, even if Jennings still insisted on calling him Marquis.

  “I don’t like working for TIS,” he clarified.

  “You think I do?” Jennings countered. “Terran Interplanetary Security is yet another Gael puppet factory, but at least it’s slightly better than the TGF. Besides, we need to find something; otherwise, Mariador is going to be the final destination of the Tryst.”

  “Je comprends, mon capitaine,” he nodded. “I don’t have another idea, but we should be on our guard when dealing with dem.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Jennings replied, flashing his winning smile. “Besides, Frank still owes us a favor.”

  “Mon Dieux, not Frank,” Lafayette protested, but Jennings merely grinned and swung the Melody Tryst down into the atmosphere of Mariador.

  2

  Francis Xavier Barlow watched the Olympus-class shuttle screaming in toward him with a sense of wry amusement. He was standing outside a rusted square of metal sheeting pieces nailed together over plywood that he called a home. A small sign hanging from the roof of the hover-port swung in the breeze. Barlow’s Best was stenciled on it in crude red letters. Behind the building, there was a huge mass of small starship hulls, junk parts, piles of metal scraps and even some complete ships that looked like they had seen better days.

  One could argue the same about Barlow himself, although he would scarcely admit to it. The fifty-something with the large beer gut, gray beard tucked into his belt, and the large pink Hawaiian shirt wrapped over a stained undershirt was dead certain he was the sexiest thing alive, and he was damned determined to prove it to the cute Frenchman that Jennings was always dragging around with him. The shuttle set down and Barlow waved a friendly arm as the cargo ramp opened and Jennings and Lafayette strolled out.

  “Howdy boys!” he shouted. “Matthew, my friend, what brings you here? You need some more parts for that scrapper of yours?” he laughed boisterously as he extended his hand to Jennings. “Where is it by the way?”

  The captain took it, smiled and said, “The Tryst is flying fine, thank you very much. We set her down in Centuria.”

  “Well, how ‘bout you, Monsieur Lafayette?” Barlow intoned with his most seductive voice. “You lookin’ for anything in particular?”

  Jennings allowed a long moment of uncomfortable silence to unfold before he said, “Jesus, Barlow, you’re scaring the straights.”

  The scrap merchant guffawed mightily and said, “Well, let’s get out of this cursed heat and have ourselves a beverage. Maybe, we can relax a bit and talk some business, eh?”

  He laughed again and led them across the dirt field toward the house. It was hard to call it a dirt field actually, because all of that part of Mariador was covered in the same red dirt. It never rained in Barlow’s part of the world so there were no crops, no vegetation and no people. That was a good thing for someone whose business transactions were less than legitimate; it was bad because it was pushing one hundred and twenty-five degrees.

  Lafayette was muttering something in Acadian French as they stepped inside into the slightly cooler garage that passed for Barlow’s living space. To the right were a bar and a couple of stools and to the left were a small bed and a dozen shelves with random assorted junk on it. Directly in front of the door, was a small round table where Jennings and Lafayette dropped themselves. Barlow first headed behind the bar and opened the cooler before coming back with two beers and a soda pop for Jennings.

  “Still yet to embrace the dark side, eh?” Barlow joked as he sat down and then pulled in a long slug of beer.

  “Just like to have all of my wits about me,” Jennings replied.

  A loud belch was Barlow’s witty retort and Lafayette rolled his eyes. “Well, gents, as much as I enjoy the company, I do figure you didn’t drop by just to socialize,” Barlow announced at last. “You’re not here for parts- then what’s your business?”

  “You see the Nucleus bulletin for O’Sullivan?” Jennings asked.

  “Come on, you’re not working that job, are you?” Barlow protested.

  “There aren’t a whole lot of other good offers, cher,” Lafayette pointed out.

  Barlow shrugged an agreement. “Still don’t see what that has to do with me though. Not that I mind visitors,” he added hastily, his smile flashing toward Lafayette again.

  “You work on both sides,” Jennings said carefully. “Thought you might be able to point us in the right direction is all.”

  “You want me to cross the Resistance? Hell no,” he answered immediately. “Not only are they better customers than you, Matthew, but they’re eleven times more vicious.”

  “Come on, Frank, you know how the Resistance operates,” Jennings argued. “Once their men are made, they sever ties in order to minimize collateral damage. You’d actually be doing them a favor to help us pick up O’Sullivan.�
�

  Barlow scrunched up his face in thought, heaved an enormous sigh and said at last, “All right, all right. I don’t know exactly where he is, but there’s an old school pub in the Émigré section of Centuria. Name of Sullah’s. It’s been known to harbor a few characters of ill repute. Good place to start.”

  Jennings nodded, stood and gave a half-bow to Barlow. “Catch you on the other side,” he said. The two men shook hands.

  Lafayette offered his hand as well, which Barlow immediately grabbed and pulled up to his lips before the Cajun could react. “Such lovely hands,” Barlow whispered. “Do come back soon.”

  3

  Centuria was a colossal city, one of the oldest in human colonial terms, the very first founded on Mariador when humans first arrived in Proxima Centauri. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the city, there was an old closed museum that had been built around the first transport ship to land on Mariador. Now, it was buried under an enormous superstructure thousands of stories high.

  On Earth, as humanity had run out of space to expand their cities outward, they had started expanding upward. Centuria now rivaled New York City or Dubai in terms of which city had stretched the tallest toward the sky. Unlike on Earth however, Mariador was not the most hospitable of locations even with the terraforming that had been done. Colossal storms would build over the distant mountains, far stronger than even a Level 5 hurricane in old Earth terms, and would savage the long open plains upon which Centuria sat. The city had magnetic and electronic storm shields of course, but they consumed too much power over a long stretched-out city. It was far easier to keep the shield smaller horizontally and let people build the city up toward the sky.

  The base of the city was now at least twenty-five stories above sea level and Centuria was a beautiful sight. Everything looked modern, beautiful steel, synthetic concrete and glass shimmering in the afternoon sun. Green grass in clean parks, children playing, the latest model shuttles and hovercars whipping about the city- it was a testament to all humanity had achieved (or had achieved before the Gael showed up, Jennings thought to himself).

  Jennings set the shuttle down in an alley between a couple of smaller thousand story edifices, and he and Lafayette got out. Only barely bothering to keep an eye out for anyone watching them, Jennings pried open a utility hatch in the street, and he and Lafayette climbed their way down.

  The underbelly of the city, the lower levels, had been officially closed off to public use for some time. Not only was it a matter of structural safety (when a new level was built as the base level, engineers reinforced the structure holding the city together in the now unused sub-levels), but the closure might be considered an open invitation for criminals, the homeless and the psychotic to take up residence and get up to no good. Despite the city’s best efforts, this is exactly what they had done.

  Once the underworld had been established, Terran Interplanetary Security and the local cops had all turned a blind eye to the place. Jennings supposed they figured it was better to at least have it all out of sight. The small utility tunnel they were in opened into a larger area, which had once been a normal four lane street. On either side, there were dark and shadowy shops, illuminated by the occasional light. The entire area had a feel of night despite the early afternoon hour. The streets were not crowded, but business was definitely being done. On Jennings’ right were a series of open windows and the faint glow of red light. A few overly made-up eyes tracked Lafayette and Jennings as they passed. On the left, goods were changing hands at a sort of black market bazaar. It might have been drugs, maybe guns or even sex, but Jennings was not concerned with it in the slightest as his eyes locked on a glowing neon sign with a few letters missing in the distance. Even without all the lights, he could make out Sullah’s Level 24.

  “There it is,” Jennings nodded.

  “Right, how do we want to do dis?” Lafayette asked.

  “Carefully,” he replied without slowing down.

  “I’m starting to really not like dis day,” Lafayette muttered. “First, Barlow. Now you have to go be all cryptic.”

  “Barlow’s not so bad,” Jennings said.

  “He’s not always trying to touch you, mon ami,” he countered angrily. A roll of the eyes was all Lafayette received. “I’m not kidding,” he continued. “He does it every time.”

  “Probably because it bothers you so much, genius,” Jennings pointed out.

  Lafayette seemed to consider that. “Next time, you take Fix,” he said at last as they crossed the last few feet of street and headed into the pub.

  The double doors swung inward and a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward Jennings and Lafayette. The place was old- old enough to still have walls of cold gray concrete instead of synthetics. Also, the tables were all wooden as was the bar that was set against the back wall. The tables were about half full and everyone had turned toward the new arrivals. Most of the men in the bar looked a bit on the shady side. Of course, if they were legitimate, they would all be top side anyway.

  “Something we can do for you?” a loud disgruntled voice demanded from across the room. It belonged to the burly, grizzled bartender who was wearing a Terran Marine Corps camo-jacket.

  “Looking for someone,” Jennings replied, striding into the bar past onlookers who seemed as if they were just waiting for something violent to go down.

  “Look elsewhere,” the bartender, whose jacket’s name tag read Rafiq, growled.

  “No can do,” Jennings replied good-naturedly as he allowed a fake smile to cross his face. “I have it on good information that he’s here.”

  “Bounty hunter scum!” one of the older customers shouted as he drew a short knife and made toward Jennings.

  The captain drew his plasma pistol before the man made it out of his chair, and he did so without ever taking his eyes off Rafiq. “I’d appreciate it if your patrons restrained themselves,” he said toward the bartender. “And if you would take your hand off the slug-thrower you’re palming under the counter there.”

  A dark shadow of anger crossed Rafiq’s face, but he slowly raised both his hands and put them on the bar. “Thank you,” Jennings said. “Now, we’re looking for a man named Ciarin O’Sullivan.”

  “We’re not appreciative of Gael lackeys here,” he spat out, staring daggers at Jennings.

  “I don’t work for the Gael,” Jennings replied sternly, his eyes narrowing in anger. “I work for myself.”

  “By bringing in Terran freedom fighters? You’re a traitor to your race,” another patron shouted from behind him.

  Lafayette’s hand went to his gun, but Jennings waved him off. “Freedom fighters?” he echoed. “Funny, I call them murderers. How many innocent people have died…?”

  “They’re not innocents! They’re collaborators!” Rafiq thundered.

  “Not your targets maybe, but what about everyone else who is killed in the Resistance’s bombings?” Lafayette demanded. “Are you content with all the collateral damage? As long as you kill your target, you presume your actions justified?”

  Rafiq glowered with rage. “The Resistance doesn’t bomb civilian targets,” he spat.

  “Then who does?” Jennings demanded.

  Rafiq did not appear as if he had an answer, but Jennings would not have heard it anyway as there was a flurry of activity from the kitchen in the back of the pub followed by the sound of broken glass. Quickly running past the bar, Jennings kicked open the kitchen door and surveyed the scene. A window leading to the outside alley had been shattered and there was a half of a bloody handprint on the sill.

  Turning back to Lafayette, he shouted, “Outside. He’s on the run. Move.”

  Lafayette was already out the door with Jennings hot on his trail. No one made a move in the Resistance friendly pub until the door swung shut and then everyone went back to their drinks. Rafiq went back to the kitchens and took a look around. O’Sullivan had indeed rabbited.

  “Foolish boy,” he whispered to himself. Now, he was as good as
caught.

  4

  General Ounimbongo was out of uniform, wearing a long trench coat, milling about on the street outside of Sullah’s pub when he saw a young red-headed man race around a corner and start heading down the street. A moment later, he saw another two men come running out into the avenue, chasing O’Sullivan top side. The woman at his side made a comment in a language he did not understand.

  “I didn’t catch that, Ms. Petrova,” he said.

  “It’s of little consequence,” she replied. “So, that is our mark, da?”

  “Yes, he is a highest priority case, almost worth his weight in gold,” the general replied.

  “If you knew he was here, why bring me in?” she demanded.

  “I have my reasons,” he replied. “One, the Gael prefers this to be done unofficially. Two, there’s no reward for criminals captured by Terran Gael Force or Terran Interplanetary Security.”

  “Ah, you want a commission?” Petrova asked rhetorically.

  Ounimbongo laughed, a deep robust sound, very foreign in the underworld. “A commission? I want half.”

  Petrova’s eyes narrowed. “That’s outrageous,” she said.

  “Is it?” he demanded. “The other bounty hunters have already flushed the quarry. I provided you with this location in the first place. You really only have to put a couple of hours of work into this one, so I think half is quite generous on my part.”