Chaos Quarter: Imperial Ambitions Page 19

  “We are being told to remain in the ship until a liaison can be dispatched,” the computer informed.

  “Any idea how long?” asked Rex.

  “No further information has been provided.”

  Rex frowned and walked from the bridge, motioning Jake to follow. He made his way to the common area, where Lucius poked at a canned stew he had reheated for dinner. Rex could understand his hesitation. Chakrika had been a surprisingly good cook on their first mission out, improvising decent taste out of the few ingredients she could get. Canned rations just couldn’t compare, and the only other alternative was food protein, a highly nutritious standby that never tasted like anything other than cardboard—even when they flavored it.

  Lucius glanced up at them, glad for the distraction.

  “Once you’re done with that I need you in the bay. Figure if anybody can puzzle out why the empire is interested in this planet, it’s you,” said Rex.

  Lucius nodded and went back to poking at his stew.

  “Oh, and wear body armor under your clothes,” said Rex.

  “Expecting trouble?” asked Lucius.

  “If there are Europan spies on this planet do you think they wouldn’t be above potshotting you on the street?” said Rex. He remembered all too well their last mission, where a spy had found Lucius, followed him back to the ship, and nearly taken it over.

  “It’s possible,” said Lucius. “Though they are loathe to break cover.”

  “Best not to chance it,” said Rex.

  He moved out of the room, down the starboard corridor, and into the cargo bay. He descended the stairs to the base of the cavernous room, Jake’s heavy footfall close behind him. Below, Second stood, repeatedly pulling a fake gun from her holster. She looked like a gunslinger from the westerns he and Lucius had been watching during the trip out, except she drew the gun all the way to eye level, not to her hip. And it looked a lot hotter when she did it.

  “Any improvement?” Rex asked.

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “I do not know. I have not been forced to use a gun since Atrebar,” she said. “It does not feel the same practicing it, so how can I know if I will be able to defend myself should another situation arise?”

  Rex sighed, “Keep practicing anyway. It pays off.”

  Second nodded and went back to her routine. Rex and Jake moved toward the far end of the cargo bay, where the massive loading and unloading ramps formed the back end of the ship.

  “Put ’em down,” said Rex.

  The computer complied, the cargo bay filling with a mechanical hum as the great ramps slowly swung downward. Rex looked out on Anglesey. The only thing that awaited his gaze was the gray tarmac of the spaceport. The sun had descended behind the horizon, and the tall, rocky mountains bounding the valley were just dark shadows looming against a blue-black evening sky.

  They remained where they stood, at the top of the ramps, waiting. Minutes passed and Lucius joined them, staring out into the dull, but illuminated concrete plain of the spaceport.

  It was another twenty minutes before the “liaison” showed up. Rex had heard nothing of this planet or its inhabitants before accepting the mission, so he had no idea what to expect. As the liaison came closer, tailed by an aide of some sort, he finally got an idea.

  The man was tall and slender, elfish even. His skin was jet black. Rex had seen plenty of people with dark skin, but usually it was a shade of brown of some sort. This guy’s skin was darker than coal, so dark it was hard to make out bone structure or facial features. His hair was a different story. It was positively golden, contrasting greatly with his skin. As he drew near, he fixed his stare on Rex with a pair of light-gray eyes, and a scowl seemed right at home with the similarly light-gray lips.

  The man spoke, his words smooth, flowing, and in a language Rex had never heard.

  “According to your ships transmissions, you are Vahl?” ventured the aide, apparently an interpreter. They didn’t seem to use computers for quick translation here. The interpreter was not a native, from his looks. His skin was light and his hair, a brown, unruly mop.

  “I’m Rex Vahl, captain of this ship,” said Rex.

  “You say you wish to trade, but your bay is mostly empty,” the interpreter noted.

  “We’re here to buy, came to see what this world has to offer,” Rex spoke.

  He waited a minute for the translator to relay the information. The local eyed him warily and then spoke.

  “I am Gaffydd,” said the interpreter, directly translating his employer’s words. “I am a liaison to visitors and here to ensure that you know the rules all offworlders must follow when visiting the Angleseyu.”

  Rex nodded formally and motioned the man to continue.

  “First, to protect Angleseyu culture from impure and inferior influences, all foreigners are required to stay in Brynoer or the Reservation.”

  “We heard that part,” said Rex.

  “Second,” the translator went on, without noticing Rex’s words. “There are fences bounding the limits of Brynoer. Any foreigner found outside of these limits will be given fifty lashes. A second offense will be punishable by death.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow and shook his head in disbelief.

  “Third, all trade must be done with an Angleseyu trader. Direct trade between two foreigners is illegal and punishable by thirty lashes.”

  “And let me guess, you tax the transactions your intermediaries take part in?” said Rex cynically.

  The translator and Gaffydd both paused at this, a sour look coming over the latter’s face.

  “Fourth, you are not to engage in sexual intercourse with an Angleseyu woman. If you are caught doing so, the penalty is death.”

  Rex nodded and then said, “Since you brought the topic up, can you tell me if it is illegal for one of your men to sleep with a foreign woman?”

  Gaffydd’s scowl deepened.

  “Of course not,” said the translator innocently.

  “Of course not,” Rex repeated, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Fifth, all foreign entertainment is to remain confined to the premises of your ship…”

  This went on for another fifteen minutes, the translator enumerating twenty-eight points of behavior that visitors were expected to comply with. All seemed to be punished either with death or whipping. Rex made a mental note to not return here unless ordered, and then made another to put into his official report that this planet sucked.

  When it was finished, the interpreter removed several pieces of electronic paper from a small briefcase he was carrying, along with a stylus. Rex’s eyes widened as he saw that each piece of electronic paper was a legal contract, repeating the litany of restrictions he’d just got done listening to.

  “Upon signature you will be allowed to leave the ship and do business in Brynoer,” said the translator.

  Rex sighed, and scribbled out a signature. The others did the same, even Second, who had drifted over to them halfway through the list. The translator took the papers back and locked them in his briefcase.

  “Thank you for you cooperation,” he said. Gaffydd, apparently satisfied, turned and strode away. The translator watched him go, hesitating.

  “Something else?” Rex asked.

  The interpreter nodded softly.

  “Your man there,” he said, nodding toward Lucius. “He is wearing body armor?”

  Rex shrugged casually and said, “He’s a little overcautious.”

  The interpreter frowned.

  “No, he isn’t. Not in this town,” he informed. “It is rough on newcomers.”

  “That bad?” asked Rex.

  “Most nights,” the man said. Behind him Gaffydd barked at him in his native tongue. The interpreter smiled sheepishly, picked up his briefcase, and darted off after his boss. Rex watched him go for a while, and then turned to his crew.

  “Jake, keep an eye on Red. We’re going out for the night,” said Rex, looking off toward the term
inals. “We got a whole city just waiting to tell us what we need to hear.”

  ***

  Tracking his prey hadn’t been the easiest of tasks. Barv had left Atrebar and followed an hour or two behind the old Terran freighter, picking up the ship’s proton trace—the trail of particles exhausted by its engines. If you looked close enough you would find that each ship had slight differences, due to the configuration of their engines, differences in the source of their fuels, and various other small quirks of matter/antimatter elimination drives. He’d hadn’t followed directly of course; he wasn’t an idiot. He’d made sure to angle slightly away and stay a few hours behind his quarry, but never so far that he couldn’t pick up the trace again.

  There was also the ever-present threat of his prey blasting him out of the void. His wedge-shaped corvette, the Calico, was barely a third the size of the freighter. And it’s only armaments were two forward twenty-millimeter rail-guns and an automated rear turret sporting a single twenty-millimeter gun. Barv hadn’t gotten that close to his enemies, but through Calico’s scopes he had determined that the old Terran freighter was studded with guns. Far more guns than he’d ever seen on a ship of that size. If Vermella had taken control of that ship, then she had a prize unlike any other in the Chaos Quarter. If not, then she was being held by a powerful enemy, one Barv’s ship had no hope of stopping.

  But now hope smiled upon him. After nearly three weeks of travel, the freighter had decided to make a stop. Barv knew little of this planet, this “Anglesey.” He’d heard the name before but had never been this far from his usual stomping grounds. It was a dangerous thing, venturing out alone. There were always pirates and warlords and crazies ready to pounce on you. But for her, it was worth it. Anything was worth it. And now that his foes were on a planet, he could strike on a more equal ground.

  Assuming they are your foes, he thought. As he gazed upon the freighter from the spaceport terminal, he wondered again what the real situation was. Was he rescuing Vermella, or just popping in unneeded?

  Frowning, he turned around, gazing across the vast main hall of the spaceport. Gates for passengers stood nearby, mostly empty. Most of the people milling about were foreign to the world, of various shapes and colors. A few of the jet-black natives, in sharp uniforms, moved about warily or sat at high counters, separating them from the rabble. He moved to the nearest desk, coming upon an Angleseyu woman with light-blue eyes and flaxen hair.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said in English. “But can you tell me where the security office is? I think somebody was in my ship last night, but I can’t be sure.”

  The woman gave him a disinterested look and then nodded halfheartedly to a hallway on the opposite side of the terminal.

  “My thanks,” Barv said and hurried off for the corridor. About halfway down it, he saw a door marked “Diogelwch—Security.” He tried the knob, but it was locked, so he knocked loudly.

  A minute later it opened, revealing a stocky Angleseyu man with a sleepy look to him.

  “What?” the man asked sternly.

  “This,” said Barv, digging into his pocket. He pulled a gold bit out, holding it up in front of the man. He supposed it was a bit much, probably two weeks’ pay for this fellow. But for Vermella he would spend whatever it took. He had to know.

  “Oh,” said the man, taking the coin. “What do you want then?”

  “That tarmac of yours have security cameras?” Barv asked.

  “Of course it does,” the man said, sounding a little insulted.

  “Good. I need to see what one particular ship was doing an hour ago.”

  ***

  Rex, Lucius, and Second walked down the main street of Brynoer. According to the ship’s computer, the name meant “cold hill.” The local language, as far as the computer could tell, was some form of Welsh. Because of this the word “Angleseyu” was pronounced “Ang-luh-say-ee,” because apparently the Welsh language didn’t care much for English phonetics, or at least this variant of it didn’t. Rex hadn’t actually gone to Wales back when he was living on Earth, so he had no idea if this linguistic mismatch was an across-the-board thing.

  But he knew enough about Earth to know that the Welsh people weren’t coal-black, gray-eyed, and blond-haired fascists. He supposed he should look into that, figure out why they’d tweaked their genomes to look this way, even if just to throw it into the report. But he really didn’t want to. Gaffydd, whose name was somehow pronounced “Gaff-eeth,” hadn’t left the best impression. And all the rules and restrictions struck him as a sign of insecurity. Did the Angleseyu have so little confidence in their own cultural vitality that they had to shield in from any outside influences? Who did that?

  He shrugged internally, and kept on walking through the city. The interpreter hadn’t been wrong about Brynoer. It wasn’t the most welcoming place in the galaxy. The streets were narrow, the gutters choked in litter. The buildings were of plain brick or concrete, tending to be thin and packed in close. Alleys barely wide enough for a man to walk through separated them. They passed one structure, a dark-looking building with blackened windows. One floor up a small, wrought iron balcony looked over the street. On it stood three nonnative women of moderate attractiveness, in skimpy bikinis. They made a halfhearted effort to pose provocatively, thrusting their hips out crudely as Rex and his crew passed. It didn’t take a genius to know that a bordello lay inside.

  Next came a brick structure with large windows, affording him a view of its interior. A dozen men lay stretched out on cushions on the floor. Several took draws off of long, white pipes. Glancing up Rex saw a sign with a picture of a poppy flower on it, telling all the world that this was an opium den.

  Then came a building with a red-and-white barber pole and a line of sick and injured people waiting outside, no doubt, for some sort of doctor. A nurse came out, a rotund older woman with tanned skin and evil-looking eyes. She snapped out an order in a language that was neither Welsh nor English, but the patients seemed to understand it all the same. They shuffled forward, one disappearing inside. Another came out a moment later, his head bandaged and his left arm in a sling. He was a tough-looking man with scars on his face and a four-day beard, but one glance from the nurse sent him scampering away down the street.

  Not far beyond that they found what they were looking for. A neon beer-bottle sign hung above its door, and only a few small porthole windows dotted its walls. It was a bar, the best place to go in a spaceport town if you wanted to pick up gossip. They made their way for it, Rex waving off a transvestite hooker loitering near the door.

  “Lovely place,” said Lucius as they stepped inside. Rex couldn’t fault his sarcasm. The place was a hive. It had worse lighting than a movie theater, and he could feel the floor sticking to his shoes. The tables and the bar itself all looked worn, in need of replacement or even just some basic maintenance. But despite this it was full, humming with the “foreigners” the natives were so wary off. And most of them were pretty damn drunk.

  “Oh relax,” said Rex to Lucius. “Just think, you can talk about this in your next memoir.”

  “My debriefing isn’t a memoir,” Lucius growled.

  “Well, it reads like one,” said Rex as he worked his way toward the bar. Lucius and Second followed, Second pressing close to him as eyes fixed on her.

  “I do not like these people looking at me,” she said to him.

  “I don’t either, but we can’t exactly stop them,” said Rex as they reached the bar.

  “I want to…hurt them,” she said.

  “Well, don’t. We need at least one of them to give us something,” Rex said. He motioned to the bartender for three of whatever was coming out of the bar’s lone tap. When the drinks came he sampled one cautiously. It was bland and watery on his tongue, a worthless excuse for a beer. He frowned, a little disappointed that this far-off world of exotic looking people drank the same soulless swill that college kids back home did. He glanced back to the bartender.

 
; “Who do you talk to if you wanna do business around here?” Rex asked.

  “You care about your ship and crew, you talk to that guy in the corner,” the bartender said. He nodded toward a short, thickset man sitting in a corner booth with two bodyguards. “That’s Lako. He makes sure things stay safe around here. You want to take your chances, you pay him nothing and fend for yourself.”

  “I see,” said Rex. “And how much do I pay him to keep things ‘safe’?”

  “Enough,” said the bartender carefully.

  Rex said nothing, just turned, and headed for the corner booth. The man and his two bodyguards saw him approach, but made no moves. They just sat there confidently.

  “Something I can help you with?” Lako asked. He was a tan-skinned fellow with close-cropped, brown hair, plain looking. There was a bit of edge in his voice, just enough to sound credibly ominous.

  “I hear you run the protection racquet in this town,” said Rex.

  “Oh? You need protection from somebody?” Lako said.

  “Don’t know yet. But I got an entire hold to fill, could take a few days. Lots of things can go wrong in a few days.”

  “They can,” said Lako.