Starship Swindlers: Outsiders Trilogy Book 2 Page 2

  Then he headed out into the hall. He heard a door move, and headed towards it. The last assassin was standing by the door, gun out, apparently on guard. As Zino came towards him, he activated his comms, tried to talk to his allies, and found they had gone silent. He turned when Zino was halfway down the hall and saw him.

  For a fraction of a second they looked at each other.

  The assassin lifted his gun to shoot, and Zino leapt out of the way into the kitchen. He heard the assassin coming down the hall towards him. He grabbed a knife and stuck his arm through the door for a moment to throw it blindly down the hallway.

  The knife hit the wall with a thud, and the assassin kept coming.

  Oh well. Worth a try, Zino thought. He grabbed a pot from the counter.

  The assassin came around the corner cautiously, his gun ready. Zino threw the pot against the opposite wall, and the assassin, his nerves wound like steel cable, fired at it the moment he heard it.

  This gave Zino enough time to step out of the kitchen, grab the assassin's wrist, and point the gun safely at the ceiling. That dealt with, he headbutted the assassin, pulled the gun out of his hand, then slit his throat. In the ghostly tint of nightvision, the blood looked black. He could feel its warmth against his wrist, cooling as the last assassin went limp.

  Zino wiped his hands on his suit. He made a final sweep of the house to avoid any nasty surprises. When he was certain he was alone, he pulled his goggles off and switched the light on.

  The surviving assassin woke with his hands strapped behind his back to see his three colleagues lined up in front of him. He struggled briefly, then worked his jaw.

  “Don't bother,” said Zino, stepping into view. He dropped a silver bit of thread, the remains of a subvocal comms system, in front of the assassin. He swung his knife back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Half his suit was clean white, the other stained red.

  The assassin stopped struggling.

  “The first couple of times this happened, it was fine,” Zino said. “Fun, even. But it's started to wear thin. Last time, I left someone alive and sent him back to Sweetblade with a message to stop screwing around. But here you are. What am I supposed to do about that, hm?” A slow grin spread across his face. “Well, I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do.” He tapped the flat edge of the blade against the man's shoulder. “And then you're going to tell me everything you know.”

  A couple of hours later, as Zino washed his hands, he wondered what he was going to do.

  The assassin had insisted he wasn't from Sweetblade. He was an independent. Who had hired him, then? They had called themselves Glass Beach. There was a Petaur. That was all he knew, honestly.

  “So why would some new organisation I've never heard of try and kill me, as soon as Sweetblade stopped, huh?” Zino had asked.

  The assassin had no answer. And Zino could get no more out of him. Given the situation, he was inclined to believe the man.

  He flicked the water off his hands and looked at his suit in the mirror. There was almost no white left. He smiled briefly.

  There was only one thing to do, Zino decided. He had to fight his way back into Sweetblade and find out exactly what was going on.

  Chapter 4: Another Job

  Tethya City: The Outsider stood on a landing pad looking out over the ocean surface that covered the planet. In the background, a Tethyan Battleship, a three-mile long crystalline blue ovoid emerged from the ocean and hurtled into space.

  Rurthk guided the pallet down the cargo ramp, to where a Varanid was waiting. In a tiny canal snaking across the floor, a Tethyan swam alongside him.

  “Thank you for your service,” the Tethyan said. Its voice synthesiser sounded airy and smooth. It generated an effector field to lift the artworks up, and held them up one by one for the Varanid, who checked them against a list on his tablet.

  “Everything is in order,” the Varanid said.

  “Good,” said the Tethyan. It turned to Rurthk. “I have transmitted a certificate of receipt to your vessel.”

  Rurthk checked his tablet. “All right,” he said. “Have fun … displaying them.” He watched the two aliens head back with the artworks floating in an effector field between them. The Varanid walked alongside the canal.

  “Legitimate jobs are nice,” Rurthk muttered to himself, “but the illegal gene dealers definitely have better conversation.”

  Shaking his head, he turned to go back up the ramp – and found Dr. Wolff standing there. Wolff's normally jolly face was grave.

  “Captain,” he said.

  “Ah, Doctor,” said Rurthk, walking up the ramp alongside him. “Have you found another job for us?”

  “You could say that,” said Dr. Wolff after a moment.

  *

  “A lab?” said Mero. “What the hell do you want to do in a lab?”

  “Investigate,” Wolff said calmly.

  “Oh, oh, that makes it so much clearer. Thank you!” Mero growled.

  When he'd heard the Doctor's proposal, Rurthk decided he needed to put it to the crew. They were all gathered in the observation lounge. The window looked out onto the ocean and a pale blue sky littered with fluffy clouds. It seemed an inappropriately calm view, given the circumstances.

  “Let's wind back a bit,” said Rurthk. “What lab is this?”

  “I worked there for close to ten years,” Wolff said. “In the end, I left for personal reasons. Soon after, the lab was shut down, its work deemed a failure. That was about six years ago, some time before I arrived on the Outsider.”

  “What work were you doing?” Eloise asked.

  Wolff paused. For a brief moment a dark shadow crossed his face. He covered it with an attempt at a smile. “Let's just say it was highly illegal,” he said. “That should hardly be a problem on this ship, should it?”

  “Okay. Second point. Why do you need to go back?” Rurthk said.

  “Yesterday, I received a message from someone who used to work at the lab. He believes it has been reactivated. Someone has resumed research. I want to find out what's going on. And, if necessary, stop it.”

  “Not, uh, the sort of research that saves kittens, I take it?” said Eloise.

  “Not quite, no.” Wolff held her gaze. “I'm not proud of the time I spend working there. What comes of it could be very dangerous.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Mero, idly picking at his claws rather than bothering to look at Wolff. “You got your conscience dirty when you were younger and you want us to help you clean it a bit? On a mission to repent, are you?”

  Rurthk moved on before Mero could go further. “It wasn't a government lab, was it?”

  “No,” said Wolff. “Private. Likely abandoned.”

  Kaivon spoke for the first time. “Sweetblade,” he said.

  Mero looked up sharply. Full of tension, he stared at Kaivon. “This gets better and fucking better! We're going to pull Sweetblade's tail again? And suddenly you're involved in this too?”

  Kaivon addressed Dr. Wolff. “When we were on Nereus. The man from Sweetblade who came aboard to kill us. You knew him. You spoke about working together. And about guilt.”

  Wolff sighed. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “We worked for Sweetblade, in a sense.”

  “Mero's right,” Rurthk said. “This is a big ask.”

  “I know,” said Dr. Wolff. “First off, in case you're wondering, I don't think the lab has anything to do with Sweetblade anymore. Albert Wells would disdain that sort of activity. He may want to see it put to bed almost as much as I do.”

  “That's hardly a guarantee,” said Rurthk.

  “Secondly, there's a question I'm surprised you haven't asked yet, Captain: What's in it for us?”

  Rurthk offered him a fair point expression. “I assume you have an answer to that?”

  “First of all, merely for taking this mission, I'm willing to give you all of my cut from our last run-in with Sweetblade. That's guaranteed, no matter what happens. But beyond that, there
's the contents of the lab itself. High-grade medical technology. Biosamples. Modified genome records. How much depends on the state of the lab. But I expect it to be somewhere between one and seven hundred thousand. We could do very well from this mission.”

  At the mention of the latter sum, even Mero perked up, his ears turning towards Wolff.

  “So we steal from a maybe-defunct, maybe-active lab run by an organisation we don't know – but which could be Sweetblade – for a sum we're not certain of.” Rurthk looked at Wolff levelly. “I'm sensing a little bit of uncertainty in this plan.”

  “That, Captain, is an admirable summary. But before we do this, I have to meet my contact. He should be able to tell us more.”

  Rurthk sighed. “And if I say no?”

  “Then I shall go by myself,” said Wolff. “I'm sorry, Captain. I need to do this, with or without your help.”

  “I thought as much,” sighed Rurthk. He looked around the table. “Okay, then the first step is to learn more. When we do that we can decide how to go forward. I want to see a vote. All in favour?”

  “I, of course,” said Wolff.

  There was a pause. After a moment, Olivia slowly raised her hand. “It sounds worth doing,” she said.

  Eloise joined her a moment later.

  Mero snorted. “Fine,” he said. “I'm not gonna win this one.” He summoned Dr. Wolff and headed towards the cockpit. “Give me the co-ordinates, then.”

  “Well,” said Rurthk as they both left the lounge. “I suppose that decides it.”

  Chapter 5: Tragic News

  Albert Wells spent the final hour pacing back and forth. Every so often he would put his hand on the hilt of his sword to steady himself and regain his composure. At last, the communications chimed.

  He took a deep breath, then walked slowly across the room to stand in front of the screen. He remained there for ten seconds or so, to prove to himself that he wasn't overly eager. At last he gestured at the screen.

  Mr. Hand, a nondescript Petaur in nondescript clothes, appeared on the other side. “Mr. Wells,” he said. “My ally. I bring you tragic news. The former leader of Sweetblade has died. Aneurism, as I understand it. I'm sure your own people will tell you more.”

  Wells' face was like stone. “Tragic news indeed,” he said. “He was a fine leader, and a fine man. I shall miss him greatly.”

  Mr. Hand nodded slowly, he ears respectfully dipped. After a second he perked up. “And on that note,” he said brightly, “let me be the first to congratulate you on becoming the new leader of Sweetblade. We've done some digging, and we have the names and details of a few factions who might be less than pleased with your ascension.”

  “How very generous,” said Wells. “How much?”

  “Oh, not much. Half a million credits, say, for the whole package.”

  “Done,” said Wells. He picked up his tablet from the sturdy table behind him and gestured at it a few times.”

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Hand. He gestured at something off screen, and a moment later Wells' tablet received a new file. “Here is our dossier. And finally, let me congratulate you once more.”

  *

  “They were just delivering artworks,” said Illipa. “No hidden narcotics or biomaterials and nanites. Just art. Oil paintings, in fact. I checked everything – the buyer, the gallery, the handlers, the curators …”

  “Good work,” said Laodicean. “We need not weep for their souls on this count, at least.”

  Illipa laughed softly. “Of course, these are quite famous paintings, so the transit fee was better than it would have been for drugs.” She stepped back from her terminal and stretched. “It's time, isn't it? Are we going to move?”

  “Yes,” said Laodicean. Through his neural link, he was already calling up their ship, plus a decoy to go along with it. “The Outsider has just jumped away, but as far as I can tell they have not been in contact with anyone else on Tethya.”

  “We don't know where they're going,” said Illipa.

  “No. We shall simply have to follow their bulkwave signature and see where they stop. And then, we arrest them.”

  Chapter 6: Opera House

  The Outsider made its final jump and accelerated gently towards Iona. The planet looked almost Earthlike – patterns of deserts and grasslands against blue oceans, with swirls of clouds. But there were no ice caps, and a closer look revealed a slight oddity in the colour scheme. Near the equator, some of those swirls were streaked with a sickly-looking green. Iona's native biosphere had unusually high levels of hydrochloric acid, and occasionally acid clouds dissociated into chlorine, giving them a greenish tint before the heavier-than-air chlorine sank back to the ground. The colonial ecosystem was near the planet's polar region, where temperatures were comfortably warm instead of unbearably hot.

  Iona was a minor tourist trap for its history, being a focal point in the War of the Ancients. A great crater, where an Ancient ship had fired on the planet to destroy a base, was a regular stop on many tours. But beyond that, it remained a comfortable, almost sleepy, backwater colony of the Solar Alliance.

  As the Outsider drew into a geosync orbit, Dr. Wolff settled in front of his terminal in the medibay. He gestured at the terminal, and put a call through to his contact and former colleague.

  A Varanid appeared on the screen. For a moment they looked at each other.

  As he saw his old friend, for all his attempts to remain grave, Wolff felt a rush of the old camaraderie. “Krito, my boy!” he said. “Now there's a face I never thought I would see again. How are you?”

  Krito allowed himself a small smile, which revealed the smallest hint of his giant teeth. “Hello, Anton,” he said. “You may not believe this, but it's good to see you again. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

  “Yes, well,” said Wolff. He paused for a moment, unsure of how to continue. “At least we'll be working on something positive this time. My ship is over Iona now.”

  Krito nodded. “I'm on a transport now. We should get there in a day or so.”

  “Where do you want to meet?” said Wolff.

  “You know the opera house in Iona's capital?” Krito nodded. “Public space, and it shouldn't attract too much attention.”

  *

  Rurthk sat in the cockpit, while Mero took them down through Iona's atmosphere. With a day to spare, he had decided to scout the location first.

  The Outsider flew over a landscape of bizarre acid-filled plants and giant sluglike animals, before passing into a kilometre-wide strip of dead land – the boundary between the biospheres. As they lowered, the landscape turned into Earth grasslands with scattered olive and fig trees. Iona's capital rose up on the horizon, more a town than a city. Mero took them in, and eventually lowered the ship into one of the spaceports.

  A staircase unfolded from the airlock down the side of the Outsider's hull. Rurthk led his team out.

  “Eloise and Olivia, you're with me. Mero, I want you to hang back a little way. Step in if anything goes wrong, but otherwise keep out of sight.”

  “Sure thing, Cap,” said Mero.

  Iona's only opera house took up an entire block at the outskirts of the city. It was retro and unimaginative, built in the classic Sydneyian style. At least, that was Eloise's comment as they approached it. To Rurthk it just looked like a jumbled mass of sterile white curved surfaces.

  He led them into a grand foyer. The crowd inside was mostly human, with a smattering of other species. Signs in English and the interstellar common language Isk advertised a show Rurthk had never heard of, claiming to integrate human and Petaur singing. Eloise vanished briefly to the ticket office, and returned with day passes for all of them.

  “Alright,” said Rurthk. “According to the Doctor, Krito wants to meet us in the gallery of Auditorium Three. Let's start there and investigate all escape routes.”

  They headed up oversized, lushly-carpeted staircases to the gallery. Rows of seats in blue velvet looked down on the stage tw
enty metres below. Most of them were designed for humans, but there were bars on the ceiling near the back for Petaurs and a few giant benches near the edges for Varanids. It was mostly empty, and on the stage a few technicians were setting up for a cheap piece with performance robots.

  Eloise stood at the edge, running her hands up and down a decorated gold-plated railing. Her blood-red dress looked black in the low lighting. She took out a small, circular mirror. It was made of rolled up smart matter which unfurled and became solid when she activated it. She looked at herself against the background of the stage. “I could get used to places like this,” she said.

  Olivia came up beside her, looking rather less impressed, like she'd seen all the trappings of wealth before. “I want to see the lab,” she admitted.

  Eloise's face darkened. “It's worth doing,” she said. “But I can't say I'm looking forward to it.

  Rurthk kept out of the discussion. He walked slowly around the back of the gallery, studying its architecture and noting the exits. Doors to the left and right, a small access staircase for staff, and over the railing to the seating below (not ideal, but useful in a pinch).

  “If we follow the corridor round, it might lead to a rear exit,” Eloise said.

  “Good,” said Rurthk. “Now keep moving.”

  *

  Laodicean left his spherical GEA ship a couple of light hours away from Iona, in the outer system. It was far too noticeable. He took the decoy, the sort of freighter you wouldn't look twice at, on a final jump to Iona.

  Illipa hung in front of her terminal, looking through several communications channels at once, flashing her GEA badge and looking through files.

  “I have them,” she said. “According to spaceport logs, the Outsider is in the capital. I've got a visual of three members of the crew walking together nearby.” She sent a clip of the footage to Laodicean's neural link. “Shall I impound the ship?”