Aphrodites tears, p.17
Aphrodite's Tears, page 17
“Right. Got it.”
Lucia turned to Mindy. “You are still on recon, Mindy. I want you to stick to these Kanos like a blister. My gut says something is not right with them being here. Find out what you can.” Then as an afterthought, “And Jesus, Mindy, put those away!”
The little blond bobbed her head and zipped her suit up a fraction of an inch. Making men hyperventilate was one of her favorite games, but it was just too hot for anyone to find it funny right now.
“Sorry Boss, I’m just really cooking in here.”
“That suit can’t be comfortable.” Lucia thought about how she had felt wearing her gauntlets. She could imagine the blue jumpsuit must be a thousand times worse. “Why don’t you change out of it?”
“Armor trumps comfort every time, lady.”
“You sound like Roland.”
Mindy scrunched her nose in an adorable frown. “No need to be insulting!”
Roland interrupted. “I’ll go up and scout the RUC records. It sounds like these chumps will give me whatever I want, just to look helpful and kiss ass with the Expeditionary Force. Might was well see who pushed the permits through if I can. I’ve got nothing else to do until Craddock calls for another meeting, anyway.”
“Perfect,” Lucia said. “As for me?” The corner of her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “I’m going to go meet Mr. Hardesty.”
Chapter Nineteen
As the Alasdair Craddock meeting had lent itself to Roland’s crude tactics, it was universally agreed that meeting Lincoln Hardesty would be better accomplished with Lucia’s more polished style. Manny knew the man’s proclivities well enough to recommend taking Mindy. Hardesty was a man of appetites, and his penchant for stacked blonds was a known factor. When informed of her role, Mindy’s eyes narrowed and her face contorted into one of the most delightfully predatory grins Roland had ever seen. Making men do stupid things was her second-favorite hobby, and the opportunity to make Lincoln Hardesty look the fool warmed Mindy’s soul in a manner best not elaborated upon.
Manny’s task was simple enough for the experienced infiltrator. Break into Craddock’s records and steal everything not locked down. Special attention was to be paid to finding out who or what was financing high-end armatures for the low-rent denizens of the dome, but any good dirt would serve their purposes.
Roland’s role was more nuanced than he preferred. His formula since beginning his career as a fixer had always been fairly predictable. The steps were well-practiced and followed the same pattern for the most part:
Go talk to guy.
Guy chooses not to listen.
Hurt guy.
Guy listens.
Sometimes the order got mixed up. Sometimes a piece would be skipped or repeated. Nevertheless, for as long as he had adhered to this four-step dance he had enjoyed universal success. This time was different. He needed to go up to the RUC garrison and charm his way into their records. In all his years, the big cyborg had been called many things by many people. People had called him ‘Breach,’ ‘Tank,’ ‘Corporal,’ and a host of other names that polite company would never allow for. However, in his whole life no one had ever called him ‘charming,’ or any other word or words synonymous with it.
On the surface, his task was a simple thing, but every step on this path came with staggering consequences for failure.
He walked up to the RUC office at the security checkpoint, and asked the PFC at the desk to get him Sergeant Cummings. He assembled his features into the best, most comradely façade he knew how to do. Lucia had coached him on his demeanor, and Manny had explained how to use body language and inflection to disarm someone’s suspicions. Ever the soldier, Roland had listened faithfully and executed all of their instructions to the best of his limited ability. When the private fled his station as if Satan himself had poked him in the ass with a pitchfork, Roland knew that his instructors would not be pleased with his performance.
The familiar face of Cummings appeared in the doorway and Roland straightened. Again he beamed his most disarming expression at the man. Cummings just looked confused.
“You all right, man? You look like you’re about to puke.”
Roland stopped trying to smile. “Must be the food here, Sergeant.”
“It’ll do it to ya,” Cummings agreed. “What can I help you with, Corporal?”
Roland cast an evaluating eye over the PFC and the general bustle of the security office before responding. “Is there somewhere we can talk, uh, securely?”
The Sergeant’s eyebrows rose an inch at that. “Sure. Let me just grab my jacket.”
He left the office to return a few seconds later, throwing his black and tan uniform jacket over his gun belt and fastening the buttons. Okay. Let’s go get some lunch.” Turning to the Private he added, “Sign me out, Wally.”
It was three in the afternoon, local time. Roland chose to not argue with the man over the timing of his meal. He simply followed Sergeant Cummings as the noncom pushed through the reception area crowds until they got off the main concourse. Down a few corridors and through a couple of too-small doorways, Roland found himself in a small commercial promenade catering almost exclusively to eateries. These were all noticeably cleaner and nicer than the food vendors on the concourse, and Roland noted the conspicuous absence of shuffle-footed Venusian laborers winding through the halls leading to each restaurant. Cummings led him up to a place with a bright green holographic sign blinking “McAlpine’s” and flashing an animated workman swinging a pickaxe. “In here, Corporal. Best lunch in The Colander and plenty of privacy to boot.”
Roland stooped through the door and clumped into the restaurant. It was easily the nicest and cleanest place he had seen in The Colander so far. Tables were metal painted to look like wood, and the bar along the back wall was smooth and polished stainless steel. The afternoon crowd was thin. A few older men sat at the bar grumbling to each other and drinking amber liquid from faux-crystal glasses. At one table a couple of women sat talking loudly, cackling like witches as a raucous liquid lunch trespassed into the mid-afternoon hours.
Roland and the sergeant found a booth near the back. The bench looked like it had a reasonable chance of supporting his weight, so he sat. The table had to be pushed back to give him some more room, but this proved to be no challenge, either. Cummings settled in across from him.
“What’s on your mind, Corporal?”
“This place secure?”
“Absolutely,” Cummings said with confidence. “Bob McAlpine ain’t going to let any morlocks in here.”
“Morlocks?” The reference confused Roland.
“You know,” Cummings said with a sideways wink, “...morlocks.”
Roland did not know. This was written plainly across his face. Cummings sighed. “You have been gone a while. I am referring to those lesser inhabitants here who live in dark places and don’t get out much. Like in that old book about the time machine.”
“Ahhhhh.” Comprehension came, and disgust followed it. “I get it. You know, in that story the Morlocks eat the surface dwellers.”
“They do? Huh. Weird book.” Apparently, Sergeant Cummings was not big on irony. He dismissed the cognitive dissonance with a wave of his hand and pushed ahead. “Look, the Red Hats have a lot of support here in The Colander. So nicer places like this don’t let any of the laborers or union guys in because they don’t get along with all the, uh... ‘surface dwellers,’ if you get my meaning. Folks need a safe place to eat, y’know. Bob McAlpine has some connections, so the Hats leave this place alone. Plus, hitting the restaurant district is bad for everybody, even them. It’s safe and quiet enough here.”
The big fixer began to assemble the pieces of the puzzle. “I see. He keeps the undesirables out and pays off the Hats to prevent reprisals.”
Cummings winced, “We try not to say it that way, Corporal.”
Roland let it drop. Sociological debate was one of his least favorite things. In truth, hearing Cummings casually dismiss a whole class of people as monsters from an old story was putting him in the kind of mood that usually resulted in a fatality. Since that would not be helpful to his current mission, prudence compelled him to give the Sergeant a pass this time.
“Fine. What I need to talk to you about is something I noticed down below the refractory level.”
“You went all the way down there by yourself?”
“I brought the contractor, too.”
Cummings’ eyes widened, “Oh yeah. Her.”
“Anyway,” Roland’s reservoir of social grace was dangerously low at this point. “We noticed at least three Shikomi Heavy Industries Kano-type armatures down there.”
“Yeah?” The sergeant’s response clearly indicated that he did not understand.
“That doesn’t seem weird to you? A couple of hot-rod armatures walking around with bargain-basement Erberhaus gear?”
The waitress showed up at this moment, and Cummings was granted a moment to consider his answer while lunch orders were recorded. When the pretty redhead had left the table, he turned back to Roland wearing an expression of curiosity and confusion. “We get a whole lot of armatures down there, Corporal. Most of us don’t really pay attention as long as the paperwork is in order. I don’t remember any Kanos coming through, but I don’t work every shift, either.”
Something about his answer did not ring as entirely truthful. It felt like Cummings was dodging the question rather than answering it. Roland tried very hard to keep the frown from his face. “But their paperwork had to be in order, right? To get armatures down there, I mean.”
It was obvious Cummings did not like the direction the conversation was going. The man was making an effort to appear nonchalant, but he was shifting in his seat and his eyes had starting darting around with a furtive, nervous twitch. It was a behavior Roland had seen in a thousand street-level hoods and hustlers. The man was lying and Roland knew it.
“Well, yeah. The forms have gotta be straight, because the RUC keeps track of all armatures in The Colander.”
Roland now suspected that this was not the case. He lived in one of the busiest and most profitable smuggling hubs in known space, and he knew how contraband moved. He was not a subtle man, and being circumspect was not his style. “Jesus Christ, Cummings. How many of these things are getting by you guys?”
“What?”
“Sergeant, don’t pull my chain. I’m on the clock, here, and this ain’t my first rodeo. I don’t really give a fuck what side hustle you guys are running, I just need to know who is bringing in those Kanos.”
Cummings, sweating openly now, refused to let go of his poorly constructed veneer. “What do you mean, Corporal?”
Roland heaved a mighty sigh. He hated this part. The part where the stupid hood pretended that Roland was more stupid than he was, necessitating an adjustment in their operating dynamic. It was wasted time really. Once the strategic situation changed, a smart soldier adapted to it. Doubling down on a losing strategy only made you lose faster and harder. Roland was now nearly one-hundred percent certain that the RUC was taking bribes to allow certain things through with minimal scrutiny or none at all. It was common knowledge Venus was a shit posting, and the men and women who found themselves assigned to the RUC were usually there as a punishment for multiple screw ups. It stood to reason that Sergeant Cummings was a multiple-offense screw-up. None of these conclusions were the result of advanced intelligence or preternatural intuition. It was very basic logic and not at all complicated. The sweating non-com before him was a living, trembling testimony to the temerity of tiny minds.
“Sergeant?”
“Yeah?”
“How many exemptions do I carry?”
“Like, forty, I think?”
“How were those designated?”
“Mostly classified,” Cummings seemed alternately confused and nervous. This was Roland’s goal.
“Do you think that the UEDF sent me here with a classified contractor and three dozen top-secret exemptions to bust your little smuggling racket?”
“I don’t really know what...”
Roland cut him off. “I have infiltrated the refractory level already, smacked around two of Craddock’s thugs, and I have a machine gun big enough to drop a tank strapped to me right now.” He leaned forward, letting his physical presence dominate the space between them. “I am not the guy you send to ferret out greedy non-coms at a border station, Sergeant. That’s like killing an ant with a grenade. You understand?”
Cummings nodded. His head jerked up and down, as if his brain had forgotten how to move his muscles properly.
“I need to know who is sending million-credit muscle to the Red Hats, Cummings. There are two ways for me to acquire this information right now. One of them involves you enjoying a lengthy stay in Leavenworth, the other does not. Pick one.”
Sergeant Cummings seemed to deflate in his seat, shrinking two sizes in as many seconds. “We don’t know.”
Roland raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”
Cummings rested his head in his hands and rubbed his face wearily. “We don’t know who sent the Kanos. Not really, anyway. It’s all coded transfers. They don’t even use credits. It’s all back-channel transactions using a dozen different currencies. Even we get our kickbacks in Markers, not creds.”
That revelation increased the intensity or the big man’s frown by several degrees. “You take Markers? That is seriously volatile shit, Cummings.”
“Most of the guys are gamblers anyway,” he said back with a shrug. “Markers are like lottery tickets to us. They might be worth ten creds today, or a thousand tomorrow.”
“So you guys are taking bribes in highly unstable pseudo-currency from unknown sources, and none of you thought maybe it would be a good idea to check on it?”
The sergeant’s crestfallen face indicated quite clearly that this was in fact the case. Roland’s sneer hit the browbeaten man like a cudgel. Cummings responded with all the conviction of a whipped dog. “It fucking sucks here, Corporal. We all just want to leave and go home. The pay is shit, the work is shit, the booze is shit, and it’s a million goddamn degrees all the time. Some mystery jerk shows up with the chance for a big payout, and all he wants is to get some basic items inside without a hassle? Most of us are going to go for it. It ain’t even technically contraband. No guns or drugs or nothing. Just some armatures, a couple of operatives that scanned clean anyway, and some communications gear that isn’t even illegal.”
“You got a list?”
Cummings turned white when he realized what Roland was asking. “You can’t be serious, man.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy that makes jokes?”
“You don’t understand. These guys’ll kill us. We aren’t stupid...”
Roland doubted that statement very much, but he abstained from commenting.
“...we know this is some sort of crazy Red Hat shake up. Some weird shit is going down with Craddock and Hardesty. If you shake this tree, we could all get killed!”
Roland was not a sympathetic person. “Shouldn’t have climbed the tree, then. You get me everything you have, and I’ll go do my job. I may even tell the UEDF that instead of taking bribes and facilitating the operations of terrorists, you were gathering all this intel on your own. That’s the kind of initiative that can make a career, Sergeant.”
Roland was playing the man’s greed and stupidity simultaneously. It seemed to be a winning formula, as demonstrated by a noticeable shift in demeanor from abject terror to deep thought. The possibility of career advancement and reassignment was definitely attractive to the corrupt soldier. Naturally, Cummings’ career would not survive this operation under any circumstances. Roland would see to that personally. Whether or not Cummings himself survived was still very much a nebulous quantity at this point, such was the big man’s disgust. The sergeant did not need to know that part.
“So you need what? Transaction records? Not much to work with there. No banks, no brokers. Just Markers shifting through anonymous digital exchanges. I can get you scans, points of entry, and ship manifests, though. We got IDs on the pilots and what we think are a couple of intelligence assets, but I’d bet you a million credits they’re all spoofed anyway.”
“What about equipment?”
“Yeah, we got all that info somewhere. None of it was really interesting stuff. High-end communications gear, mostly. One big shipment of construction ‘bots.”
“Somebody going to build something?”
Cummings shook his head. “Probably a small dome to hide their communications gear in. It ain’t illegal to put up a dome outside of Free Venus. Criminal types do it all the time. This rock is a great place to hide shit because looking for anything out there is a pain in the ass. Most of us figured a rival organization was setting up a spying ring to get at the Red Hats. Might even be the Free Venus folks from Caelestus. Most of those guys hate the Hats, but it’s too politically dangerous to say it out loud.”
“You’d think they’d at least bring you guys in on that kind of op,” Roland speculated.
“They don’t trust us.” Cummings sounded miffed by this, as if his own actions were not directly responsible for the offending sentiment. This was not a man who understood or appreciated irony.
“Imagine that,” Roland said without inflection. “Get me that info. I’ll come by tomorrow to pick it up.” The big fixer stood, lunch all but forgotten. His hunger was insufficient to overcome his antipathy to the thought of sharing a meal with the dirty official. Dropping enough hard cred chits to the table to cover the ordered food, he gave the man a scowl conveying levels of threat and menace sufficient to cow the hardest of men. “Be thorough, Sergeant. A guy might get suspicious if something important got left out.”
“Of course, Corporal,” Cummings responded. “Anything to help out the Expeditionary Force.”
“Right,” Roland grumbled back. He did not sound convinced.
