Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) (49 page)

They walked away from Constable Hesting’s office, adjusting their breathing masks and chuckling in unison. Alec was the first to verbalize what they were both thinking, “She’s in on it.”

“Don’t give me any shit when it comes time to drill her.”

“I’m debating going back in there right now, dropping her boys, strapping her to a chair, and letting you do your thing.”

Everett stopped and turned to face his friend. “Say the word, but that’s something we can’t undo.”

“I know,” said Alec.

“I say let’s ask around, see who knows what. Torturing the constable with a laser torch and tack hammer is always on the table.”

Alec didn’t mind the image of the fat woman who had something to do with Pete’s murder strapped to a table, screaming for mercy. But like Everett said, that was a one-way trip. He looked across the street and down a few buildings to a sign swaying in the breeze, “Devil’s Heart Saloon – looks like our kind of place.” Alec’s pace quickened. “I could use a drink.”

“I could use a dozen,” Everett quipped, following close in tow.

They both needed to adjust their masks as they walked. AMP or no, the air in the open street was downright awful – almost as bad as the lingering pseudo-atmosphere near their landing spot. But they realized that, like Hesting’s office, most of the inhabited buildings were connected by a web of forty-centimeter flexible tubing that spread across the entire town. The tubing was strung along a roughshod series of jury-rigged poles and stands that kept it above the ground and far from reach, running from a large distribution cap in the middle of the street and into each building through openings probably intended for power cables. The distribution cap, meanwhile, ran straight into the AMP about a hundred meters away.

The streets were shadowy, barely lit and a series of open vents released steam that combined with the native dust and soot, giving the place a blurred feel – like a world fallen into some hazy level of hell.

They were halfway to the saloon when shadowy figures wearing ragged clothes and wielding hand-made rifles materialized from alleys on either side of the street. They ambled closer, six in all, masks covering everything but their hard eyes.

The tallest wore a wide brimmed hat. “You the fellas just flew in?”

“Boy, you just made the worst mistake of your life,” Everett said.

Hat-guy smiled, flashing yellow wasted teeth.

“We got more guns than you,” he said.

“Those aren’t guns,” Alec said, throwing aside his duster to reveal the FX-99 pulse pistols on his double rig.

Hat-guy’s smile wavered for a moment.

“Except for that one,” Alec said, indicating a tall, dark-faced man wearing range goggles over his eyes. Of the six, he seemed the most confident, with his shoulders relaxed and his hands in his pockets. “Ev, check this guy’s rifle.”

“Alec, is that a Steehl T-47?” Everett said.

The guy’s only response was a sly smile.

“Yeah, I think it’s a 47.” Alec said. “How can you afford a monster like that all the way out here?”

“Like it matters,” Everett said.

“Good point,” said Alec, “Thing’s going to be ours in a minute. Which ones are you going to kill?”

Everett licked his teeth.

“You take rifle-guy since he tickled your fancy. Me,” he said, drawing the big Battlemaster in a flash and placing it against hat-guy’s grimy forehead before anyone could react, “I’m plugging this one.”

“H-hey-” hat-guy managed, stunned by the sudden move.

“What about the rest?” Alec interrupted.

“We’ll get around to them,” Everett said, pulling the Battlemaster’s hammer back with a snap. “Time to die, jackass.”

“W-wait!” Hat-guy’s courage was gone. He took a half-step back, hands open and arms out wide, but Everett took a half-step right along with him and kept the gun glued to his head, like they were dancing.

“W-wait for what?” Everett mocked. “You’re the hard cases around here, right, the motherfuckers everyone has to pay homage to? And you aim to take our ship, right? So please enlighten me about what-precisely-the-fuck I should wait for?”

“Easy, mister,” said one of the others.

“Okay,” said Everett without taking his eyes off hat-guy, “I’m killing the ‘easy mister’ guy soon as I redecorate the walls with this one’s brains.”

“We were just going to ask for transport out,” hat-guy said. “For pay, of course.”

“Right, that’s why you surrounded us out here?” Alec’s attention was drawn to the man with the rifle. Despite Everett’s tirade, he had a knowing look on his face. Either he was very good, and very confident, or Alec and Everett were facing more than these six men. Alec risked a glance at the nearby rooftops, but saw no one.

“This town’s about to lose six of its upstanding citizens,” Everett announced.

“Fellas, please, I really think this is just a big misunderstanding,” hat-guy squealed, trying hard to get Alec’s attention.

Alec looked at the man with the T-47 slung over his shoulder, hands still casually resting in his pockets, “You think this is a misunderstanding?”

He studied Alec and Everett for a long, almost painful moment.

“Yeah. It’s a misunderstanding.” His small grin broke into a wide smile, made reptilian by the range goggles, that let Alec know they had unfinished business.

“I can see the wickedness in the back of your eyes, boy,” Everett said to hat-guy. “Don’t think I can’t. I’ve been around long enough to recognize a man I have to kill when I meet him.”

“No, no, no. Not at all. We can let bygones be bygones,” hat-guy said, his eyes flashing nervously between Alec and Everett.

Everett slowly lowered his gun.

The group took that opportunity to back away until they were a few paces down the street, then took off in a run. All except for the man with the T-47, who gave Alec a tiny, almost imperceptible nod as he sauntered off into the darkness. Alec and Everett kept their eyes on him until he vanished from sight.

“Gonna have to kill them later,” Everett said, muffling his frustration.

“Yeah, but we said ask around first, right?” Alec said, holstering his weapons.

“I say no to bygones,” said Everett, raising his voice as if sending the message after the disappeared goons. He turned to his partner and went on, low enough for only Alec to hear. “I say let folk face the consequences of their actions, for good or for ill.”

Alec pulled his duster closed.

Everett looked back in the direction of the constable’s office. “Think she had anything to do with our welcoming committee?”

Alec shrugged, blowing hot air into his cold hands.

Everett slid his heavy pistol back into its worn leather holster. “I’m looking forward to shooting her in the face.”

*              *              *              *

The Devil’s Heart Saloon was as unimpressive as the rest of the town, just a small structure of corrugated metal like a compact warehouse with a smattering of tables and chairs, all dimly illuminated by a pair of light strips hanging from the ceiling and running at less than half power. At the center, sunk in a deep pit, was a large distillery that emitted a rolling wave of smoky gas that kept the incoming air at bay. The noxious gas mixed with the stench of the saloon’s clientele, their racial distribution a microcosm of Sekai space, with only a couple of humans among the huddled figures. Most were drinking a milky white liquid in tin carafes the size of pitchers.

All in all, the air was considerably better than outside, allowing Alec and Everett to drop their masks and headgear, but there was a stark difference between the air in here and the heady crispness of what they experienced in the constable’s office.

“Wonder if they take standard creds,” Everett said.

“I’ve got some chits and bongos.” Alec led the way to the smoking distiller. A small wiry man sat on a wooden bench beside it, staring at them stupidly. His eyes were yellowed and bloodshot, and his skin was stained so dark that it almost matched his thick moustache. As they drew close, Alec noted that the man had the rather dubious distinction of having had his teeth fall out in perfect symmetry so that the remaining few on the top would slot into empty spaces on the bottom and vice versa.

“How much?” he asked, reaching for a few bongos. They were braised steel lined with etchings of worn gold. Easy to manufacture and hard to fake, all one had to do was press his thumbnail into the soft gold to know if it was bona fide.

The man put up two fingers, his expression unchanged. Alec handed him four. Once the currency was verified, the man grabbed a coiled length of copper tubing capped with a spout and filled a pair of pint-sized tin tubs with the viscous white liquid that seemed to be the town’s signature drink.

“Thanks.” Alec said, and moved toward a pair of empty stools near a long plank of unfinished wood that had been bolted to the far wall to serve as a makeshift bar.

“You’re new?” As much a statement as a question, it came from a young man on the other end of the bar who was busy entertaining an equally young woman. He was dressed with more flair than the rest of the saloon put together.

Alec nodded.

“Just a warning,” the young man said with a disarming grin, “That stuff’s hardcore.”

Everett took a seat beside his friend, swirling the liquid in his tin as he tried not to contemplate exactly how far this was from Scotch. “Looks chalky.”

The two men regarded each other, shrugged, toasted in silence, and took a good long swig before setting their tin mugs down on the bar.

“Feel anything?” Alec asked.

“Somewhere back there. It’s like a tickle.”

“Makes them happy,” Alec said, motioning to the rest of the saloon’s patrons. They were a dark and rough bunch, swathed in heavy clothing to combat the cold outside, with soot-smeared faces and yellowed eyes.

“Don’t know if you can call them that,” Everett said, taking another drink of the white stuff. “See the faces of those poor bastards that tried to jump on
Drifter
? This place is dying. When that AMP goes, and sooner or later it’s going to go, everyone here will have a few hours before they choke to death.”

“Damn,” Alec said solemnly. He drained his drink and stood. “Want another?”

“Might as well.” Everett finished his drink and handed Alec the empty mug.

Alec crossed the room to the distiller and stepped up to the small smiling man with the dark moustache. “That’s good stuff,” he lied. “Have anything stronger?”

“He don’t talk,” said a man from a nearby table. “Don’t act right, neither.”

“Ah,” Alec said. “But he can serve drinks, huh?”

The man shrugged.

Alec bought refills and returned to his friend, “Funny place.”

Everett was leaning back against the bar, eyeing everyone. He nodded in thanks as Alec handed him his refill. “Odds are all these sons of bitches are in on it too.”

“You’re too conspiratorial,” Alec said. “Most of these folk just want to be left alone. Live their lives in peace.”

Everett took a drink. The stuff was growing on him. “These are the poor bastards we bled and died for.”

“Against,” corrected Alec. “Remember, this little rock was on the other side of things.”

“Lotta good it did them,” Everett grunted. “Just the same, the war happened and I bet these people didn’t even notice what was going on. I doubt they did anything other than change the flag from one day to the next.”

He looked around, studying the crowd with contempt.

“And don’t tell me we made a difference on the big worlds either. I know I don’t travel much anymore, but I see how things are. People will do anything for peace, even sell their souls for it.”

Alec let Everett continue with his tirade. There was no point in arguing with him, even when he was wrong. Of all places, little border worlds like Astrakhan were very aware of the war. Strategically invaluable during the conflict and instantly useless once it was over, Astrakhan had gone from a boom town to a dying prison that these poor bastards lacked the creds to escape in the blink of an eye and the flick of a pen.

The door to the saloon flew open and slammed shut. Alec looked up to see someone pull herself out of an oversized coat and, in one continuous motion, throw the coat to the floor and let out a roar that shook the walls made the tin roof vibrate.

It was the green-eyed woman from the landing.

Somewhere in her twenties, her natural beauty managed to shine through her grease-smeared cargo pants and sweat-stained tank top. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but a few unruly stands had broken free and were clinging to the fresh blood on her mouth and nose.

“Motherfuckers,” she said, bounding to the distiller with deceptive agility. As she got her tin of the white swill, a pair of angry men stomped into the bar. One had his chest spattered with blood, courtesy of a broken nose. The other was covered in mud, as if he’d fallen or been thrown to the ground.