Her Brother's Keeper - eARC (9 page)

“Come on then. Speaking of the devil, we’ve got to go give Lang an update. The guards said he’s in a good mood today, so this should be painless.” As the two men left the historian’s tiny, cluttered office, Zak found himself hoping to God, or whoever was listening, that Cecil’s father had sent someone.

Chapter 7

New Austin

Lone Star System

Laredo Territory

Southern Hemisphere

The proprietor of the establishment was quietly reading his tablet, feet up on the desk, when Marcus and Wade walked in. The door quietly hissed open, sending a warm draft into the shop. Elliot Landrieu, the owner of Laredo Armament and Supply, smiled at the two colonial marshals as they came into his shop. “Good afternoon, boys,” he said, setting the tablet down and standing up. “What can I do ya for?”

“Ah, we’re just killing time, Elliot,” Marcus said, looking around. “Kinda slow today.” The marshal liked visiting with Elliot. He was an old veteran of the Espatier Corps, always had good inventory at fair prices, and was a hell of a gunsmith on top of it. His shop was well-lit, with a friendly atmosphere despite the fact that Elliot looked like a crusty prospector, right down to the shaggy beard and denim overalls.

The blue and silver flag of the Interstellar Concordiat hung on the wall. Next to it was the rampant stallion on burnt orange banner that represented New Austin. Next to that was the red and silver Eagle, Globe, and Rocket flag of the Espatier Corps. Daylight poured in from large windows, and the walls were stocked with firearms of every sort. His wife, Meg, handcrafted leather holsters and gun belts, just like you’d have found on ancient Earth.

“I heard about that tussle you had with that cyborg fella,” Elliot said. “Glad to see you’re okay, Marshal. The news said he was a pretty bad hombre.”

“Yeah, well, I owe Wade here for that one,” Marcus answered, patting his partner on the shoulder. “He saved my ass with one well-placed shot.”

Wade shrugged nonchalantly. “It was the ADR-808 you built for me,” he said, referencing the powerful 8mm rifle he kept in their truck. “I couldn’t have missed with that optic on there.”

“Bull-
shit
you couldn’t have missed,” Marcus said with a grin. “You miss all the time. A fancy automatic optical gunsight can’t make up for the fact that my daughter shoots better than you.”

“Says the guy whose ass was saved by my amazing marksmanship!” Wade retorted. “Get this, Elliot: perfect headshot, standing position, forty meters. The perp’s head was wobbling all over the place and he was choking Marcus here out. I had to line up the shot through a cloud of dust and make it without hitting
this
clown, who decided to try and go hug the dangerous felon.”

Elliot let out a hard, raspy laugh and slapped the counter.

Wade pointed a finger at his partner. “And for the record, Boss, your daughter is an unnaturally good shot, and that’s not a fair comparison.”

Elliot laughed again, then gestured toward the selection of firearms on the wall. “Anything you boys wanna see? I’ve been playing with different configurations of the ADR-808 and the CAR90, since those are two of my best sellers.”

“You got more lasers in stock than usual,” Wade observed.

“Believe it or not, there’s been more demand for them lately. I guess the economy is picking up. Take a look at this.” After checking to make sure there was no power cell inserted, Elliot handed the stubby weapon to Wade. “It’s an update to the LAS-5 design, the new J-model. I bought the schematics and manufacturing rights as soon as they became available.”

“Wow, this is light for a laser carbine,” Wade noted.

“Yep. More efficient cooling, too. It’s the first real update to the LAS-5 in a generation. I paid a pretty penny for the rights to build them but they’ve been selling well. Improved optics on the six-centimeter lens, improved throughput on the power cell, and it’s even a little more powerful. Four-point-eight kilojoules per shot now. Not too bad, hey?”

“Not bad at all,” Wade agreed. “But I’ll stick with my rifle. You got any more 12mm APHE in stock?”

Marcus absentmindedly browsed the store while his partner bought ammunition for his revolver. It was an odd weapon, based on the earliest repeating handguns from ancient Earth, but it was modern all the same. It fired 12mm rounds from a disposable, seven-shot cylinder that vigorously ejected upward away from the gun when empty, allowing for a rapid reload. Marcus stuck with his regular 10mm automatic, but the Marshals Service was pretty lax on duty weapon specifications. After a run-in with a psychotic cyborg with built-in armor plating, Marcus could certainly see the value of armor piercing, high explosive 12mm rounds.

Wade himself was an odd sort, a former Nuclear/Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician from the Concordiat Defense Force. He was a couple centimeters taller and a few years younger than Marcus, but was the best partner the marshal had ever had. He had a screwed-up sense of humor and a penchant for dry wit that made him tolerable on ten-hour shifts. Two of the fingers on his right hand had to be reattached, he once admitted, after an accident while making homemade explosives. He’d been thirteen years old at the time.

While Wade and Elliot talked guns, Marcus retrieved his handheld and browsed through its applications. There was a response to the profile he had posted on a professional networking job board.
Interesting.
He opened the message and read it quietly.

Mr. Winchester:

The Privateer Ship
Andromeda
is recruiting highly qualified and skilled personnel for an expedition to a remote system. We are looking for people of the highest caliber with extensive military experience. Unquestionable accountability, integrity and discretion is a must. Experience in the full spectrum of ground warfare operations is desired. The assignment will include protecting the ship’s crew while conducting business in an austere, potentially hazardous environment.

From your verified professional credentials, we believe you to be an outstanding candidate for this expedition. We are offering a generous pay package that we believe you will find to be more than competitive. This expedition is departing in a matter of weeks, so this offer is time-sensitive. If interested, please respond to this query and we will schedule an interview with you as soon as possible. Thank you.

Marcus looked up from his device and blinked hard.
Is this for real?
When he’d updated his portfolio on the professional networking board, he was hoping to be offered side-gigs as a personal bodyguard or some such, just to bring in extra money. He didn’t expect an off-world expedition to try to recruit him. He wondered if it was a hoax, that someone was playing a joke on him, but the network site screened and vetted its job postings.
How generous is generous? Off-world. Holy hell, Ellie won’t like that.

“Hey, Wade,” Marcus said. “Come here. You’re going to love this.”

* * *

Marcus nodded to the man on the screen of his handheld. Broadbent, he said his name was. He was an imposing man with a dark complexion and a cybernetic ocular implant. Marcus couldn’t tell where his accent was from, exactly, but he was former Concordiat military.

“Do you have any further questions, Mr. Winchester? How about you, Mr. Bishop?”

Wade shook his head slightly. “No, I think that’s all I have. Thank you for your time.”

“No, thank you both, gentlemen,” Mr. Broadbent replied. “Given both of your backgrounds, I believe you would make for valuable members of our team.”

“I’m flattered, Mr. Broadbent,” Marcus said, “and I
am
interested. I need to discuss this with my family before I can give you a solid answer.”

“I understand. What about you, Mr. Bishop? Shall I send you a contract?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Wade said noncommittally. “I need to see to some things myself.”

“Very well. Gentlemen, I’ll be waiting for your call. Be advised, however, that we lift off in nineteen local days, one way or another. I urge you both to consider this opportunity carefully.”

“We will. Thank you for your time.”

“Good day,” the spacer said, and the connection was severed.

Marcus lowered his handheld. He’d been holding it so both he and his partner could see the screen. The two colonial marshals were sitting inside their armored patrol vehicle. “What do you think, Wade?”

“I think that’s some goddamn good money, Boss. Half up front, too. I’ll take a year’s sabbatical from the marshals for that kind of scratch.”

“So you’re all for this, huh? Why didn’t you have him send you a contract?”

Wade smiled. “And leave you alone? No offense, but you wouldn’t last a month out here on your own, and Ellie would kill me if I let you run around with some other jackass.”

“Better to stick with the jackass you know,” Marcus agreed.

“Exactly,” Wade said. “And I don’t want to go on something like this without someone I’m sure I can trust, especially when the thing is being cobbled together on such short notice.”

“It would be better if we could watch each other’s backs. You’re not wrong, either; that
is
really good money. The half they’re offering up front would be enough for Ellie to get another one of her claims up and running, with plenty left over to pay down debt. Damn.”

“She’s not going to be happy when you tell her you’re thinking of leaving, even if it’s for a job. They said we could be gone for over a year.”

“We get paid extra if it runs longer than that. It could be a win-win.”

“Assuming we come back alive,” Wade mused.

“Mm,” Marcus agreed. “There is that. You know what? What the hell, I’ll talk to Ellie when I get home.”

“Why not just call her?”

“That would be safer in case she wants to slug me,” Marcus grinned. “But I can take my lumps. I owe it to her.”

“Let me know what she says, Boss.”

Chapter 8

Zanzibar

Danzig-5012 Solar System

Equatorial Region

“Gentlemen! I’m so pleased to hear of your progress!” Aristotle Lang was beaming as he strode into the underground dig site. As usual, his entourage of bodyguards, flunkies, toadies, and female eye candy were in tow. “I had to come see it for myself!” Lang’s bodyguards fanned out around the chamber and glowered at the captives. They all wore face masks with oxygen condensers and filters and long gray coats with matching skull caps. The goons carried a mishmash of guns and knives, and wore body armor and load bearing equipment if they had it. In the dig site, most of them had their trademark goggles either dangling around their necks or up on their foreheads.

Cecil Blackwood and Zak Mesa exchanged a knowing glance. This was the sort of thing that kept them employed and, by extension, kept them alive. Zak especially hated turning over priceless ancient alien artifacts to a warlord like Lang, but there was nothing he could do.

The warlord didn’t look like much—a heavy-set, middle-aged bald man, broad and squat with a noticeable belly. Nonetheless Lang was cunning, ruthless, and a shrewd negotiator. A man didn’t keep his position as being the post powerful warlord on Zanzibar without being intelligent and being able to think on his feet.

“Mr. Lang,” Cecil began. It was always better when Cecil did the talking. “Thanks to the untiring efforts of Mr. Mesa, we were able to confirm that this site was worth excavating. It’s not the vault we’ve been hunting for, but it may still prove to be a good find.”

“Ah, Mr. Blackwood,” Lang began, “I’ve heard that sweet Bianca is being very nice to you?” Cecil nodded nervously. He knew that the old warlord did things like this to remind him he was essentially a house pet. “Good, good. I could give your counterpart a concubine as well; I have many, but he has refused. Pity. In any case,” Lang continued, trying to sound intellectual, “please explain what you have found.”

“This was a storage site for artifacts when the Maggots hit this system over a century ago. It was, at the time, a closely guarded secret. Before the orbital bombardment began, they used explosives to blast the entryway and seal it before fleeing. They were worried that looters would clear it out before they were able to come back. Obviously, they never came back. Most of the records of this place were lost. Zak’s research led us here.”

“Very good, Mr. Mesa, very good! What can we expect to find in there?”

“I can’t tell you for sure,” Zak managed. Lang’s expression darkened, and Cecil visibly winced. “M-most of the records were lost,” Zak continued. “I’m not sure what’s in there, but there
are
alien artifacts in there. It’s listed as a contingency storage site, and that’s coming from multiple sources.”

Lang’s frown turned back into a smile. “Ha! Excellent, my boy, excellent! An old dog such as myself could hardly hope for a better historian. Tell me, how soon until we are able to penetrate the sealed chamber?”

The vault was at the end of a ten meter wide, hundred meter long tunnel that had been bored into the base of a barren hill, eroded smooth by eons of unceasing wind. The tunnel had been reinforced with composite braces that were still as strong as the day they had been placed, and had not caved in or crumbled in the time it had sat abandoned. It had been sealed by a deliberate cave-in at the mouth and another deep inside, at the end, to confound the efforts of looters. Air was condensed and pumped in to keep the tunnel pressurized so that the crews could work without getting winded, and to keep oxygen flowing deep underground. Lighting had been strung up all along it. At the very end, the tunnel widened into a large cavern, but the entrance was buried under tons and tons of rock.

“I talked to your foreman,” Cecil said, indicating the crew of Lang’s men that were using machines and hand tools to remove the crumbling stone. “I very specifically told them not to use explosives. They might damage the artifacts or cause a cave-in.”

“A wise decision,” Lang agreed. “But how long?”

“He told me several more days. The rock slide goes deeper than we thought.”

“I see, I see,” Lang replied, rubbing his chin. “I will talk to the foreman myself. I expect they can have that chamber open sooner than you think. Until then, make sure these fools don’t do anything stupid. I will not risk the artifacts! My men are replaceable. The artifacts are not.”

“We will, Mr. Lang,” Cecil agreed nervously.

“And you, Mr. Mesa,” Lang said, pointing a crooked finger at Zak. “Find me that vault!”

“I guarantee that he will!” Cecil said, stepping in before Zak could say anything.

Aristotle Lang’s demeanor darkened again. “For your sake I hope so. Good day, gentlemen.” He turned and left, his hangers-on in tow behind him. Cecil and Zak looked at each other again, and exhaled. Sooner or later their luck was going to run out.