Dangerous Evolution (7 page)

After the Diaspora War, many people didn’t want to belong to one of
the newly established Sectors, so they migrated to independent systems like Harrakan.
The local space didn’t possess enough raw materials to make it an attractive
acquisition, and the population wasn’t wealthy or influential enough to justify
recruitment into the nearest Sector. The locals didn’t want to pay taxes for such
inclusion anyway, so it worked out well for all concerned. The station found
new life as a place of refuge for independently minded people.

They didn’t
need
a Sector allegiance; they would police and
protect themselves.

The new arrivals began to carve out a life on the station, but
without Sector affiliation and its inherent commercial benefits, they
struggled. Over time, a criminal element started to take hold, drawn by the
lawless nature of the Harrakan system. Cartels began to establish niches for
themselves on the station, cultivating trade and commerce—most of it illicit. Depending
on whom you asked, the cartels either saved or destroyed life on the station. What
is undisputed however, is that Harrakan’s influence expanded, and it became
known as a place where you could get things done without regulatory or legal
impediments.

If not lawless, it was loose.

I watched the viewer as we approached, marveling at how many ships
were docked at the station. Even more stood off at various distances, some
waiting to dock, others simply too large to do so and dispensing shuttles
instead. When our turn came, the procedure was pretty simple—unchanged since my
last visit. Dock, pay the fee, then enter the station.

No questions asked.

The first thing I did was send one of Stinson’s men out to the
local market to find a large robe for Del; it would have to be disguised if the
Sentient was going to move throughout the station. I told him to get some
civilian clothing for Mendoza and Stinson as well.

He returned promptly and handed over the clothing, complaining
about the price as he did so. He believed they charged him more because of the
Sector uniform. The ship was obviously Sector, but once we left it and changed
our appearances, we should be able to get lost in the general chaos and
disorganization the station was famous for.

There was nothing to be done about Del’s height and overall size,
but the boots, pants, and long hooded trench coat, made the Sentient somewhat
less conspicuous.

A bio filter mask hid its face, also sending the message:
I’m
sick and it’s probably contagious.
It should keep people from getting too
close.

“There you are, Jeff,” I said to Stinson. “You wanted a change of
uniform. Congratulations.”

“It feels strange to be in anything other than Sector gear but
I’ll manage. Hell, I even wear Sector informal dress when off duty.”

Mendoza looked good…too good. Her long hair was now in pony tails,
and the short skirt, heels, and tube top—
barely
covered by a short vest,
screamed
look at me
.

I stared at my designated shopper and pointed at Mendoza.
“Explain.”

He cringed. “Sir, it was the only type of women’s clothing they
had. I swear.”

“I’ll bet,” I replied. At least no one would be paying attention
to Del. “Let’s go.”

As soon as I stepped out of the airlock, the smell and noise hit
me. The docking area was a large, crescent shaped room that mirrored the
outside curve of the station. The walls were bare metal, and covered with
flyers—advertising everything from specialized fetish shops to concerts. I
looked up at the high ceiling, taking in the view of the stars and passing
ships—visible through square skylights mounted on top the docking ring.

I looked back down to scan the crowded space where we stood. Every
shady type of vendor you could imagine polluted the area, selling everything from
flesh to drugs, and some even more questionable wares. Men, women, and other
creatures of indiscriminant gender, moved through the room in various states of
dress…and undress.

I realized then that Mendoza’s outfit could have been much worse.

Most people were carrying guns, in some cases, that was all they
were wearing, but it was evident who the cartel enforcers were. They were fully
clothed, some even partially armored, and stood in one spot surveying the
crowds. Almost to a man, they carried large plasma rifles.

We moved as a tight group into and through the mob of people,
trading the crowded docking rim for a crowded common area. But this was much
larger space and the crush of people subsided—somewhat.   

The receipt from Evan’s records listed Bitra Mechanicals as the
firm that performed the annual inspection on her shuttle; a quick stop at the nearest
info-booth showed its location, also displaying the quickest route to get there.

Bitra was on Level 3, and the booth marked our position as
sub-level D; we started pressing through the crowd, looking for an elevator. I’d
been right, the only person drawing any attention at all was Mendoza; she’d had
to dodge more than a few immoral solicitations by the time we reached the lift
station. I couldn’t believe that Val Evan’s had actually come here.

What was she thinking?

On the elevator, Del’s size became much more apparent, prompting
one drunken, half naked girl to exclaim, “Look at the size of that motherfucker!
Hey! Are you here for the Eros Festival?” She grabbed at Del’s coat, slurring, “I
bet you can really throw it around.”

Her companion looked at us nervously. When Del turned his head to
look down on the couple, the man grabbed the girl and pulled her away. “Shut
the fuck up,” he yelled at her, “Are you trying to get us killed?”

I had to suppress a chuckle.
If that mask didn’t conceal Del’s
face; they would probably both jump out of the elevator’s open front.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, thankfully, and after exiting
the elevator, we made the short walk to Bitra’s work hangar. It was positioned
on the outside edge of the station, presumably to allow ships to dock directly
with the hangar for servicing.

Stepping through the unlocked door, we found two mechanics working
on a wing mounted engine. The stripped down motor was part of a large ship
parked in the middle of the hangar. They barely glanced over at us as we
entered.

“Marley!” one of them called out, “Customers!” He then returned to
his work, accepting a tool handed to him by his coworker.

A metal door, set into the sidewall of the hangar clanged open. Two
men, one large and clearly armed, walked out. The big one holding the Laz rifle
looked around warily, then nodded to the shorter man who was obviously in
charge.

Marley, I presumed.

“Can I help you?” he said.

I stepped forward. “I hope so. My friend recently had some work
done and there was a problem with one of the components. I thought you could
help me understand what happened.”

“No refunds!” he barked, and waved his hand as if to dismiss me.

I stepped closer, and the large man tightened his grip on the
rifle, glowering at me. “I think you misunderstand,” I said, looking him in the
eyes before turning to stare at the bodyguard.

“I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

The bodyguard’s eyebrows and gun rose at the same time, but it was
too late; I struck him in the throat with my fist—grabbing the rifle when he
dropped it. He clutched at his neck with both hands, in a feeble attempt to
will oxygen through it, then I hit him in the head with the butt of his own gun
and he went down. I punched an already paralyzed Marley in the stomach,
knocking the wind out of him, before grabbing his shirt and lowering his
doubled-over frame to the ground. He stared over at his unconscious protector,
laying helpless less than a meter away.

I glanced behind me to find Stinson and Mendoza pointing their
guns at the mechanics, who for their part looked shocked and helpless. Stinson
was wagging a finger at them as if to say,
no…no…no
. They both slowly
placed their tools down on the scaffolding where they stood—raising their hands
above their heads.

Del just stood there watching.

I pulled the burnt blackout unit from my trench coat and shoved it
in Marley’s face. “Have you seen
this
before?”

“No,” he said in a weak and wavering voice; the lie so obvious
that he was forced to look away from me.

His face suddenly contorted in fear. He was
terrified
. This
was unpleasant to be sure, and his bodyguard’s moaning certainly didn’t help, but
why was he
this
scared.

He pointed at something behind me. “Y…ou!” he spat out. “You said
they would never find out. You said I would
never see you again
!”

I spun around to see that Del had removed his hood and mask.  The
Sentient was staring at the increasing panicked man.

“I have never seen you before human,” it said.

“Protect me!” he begged, pulling at my shirt. “Save me, and I’ll
tell you everything! I swear!”

Del began to walk towards us. “Please….please,” he begged. “I’ll
tell you anything…anything. Don’t let it kill m…”

A shot rang out from somewhere behind me, glancing my arm before
striking Marley. His face exploded, sending a red and pink spray through the
air and across the guard’s prone body.

I rolled behind a nearby pillar and peered out to see everyone
else scrambling for cover.

“Above…on the hoist framework,” Stinson yelled. He and Mendoza started
firing at a large figure hidden behind a thick beam. I pulled up the rifle I’d
taken off the guard, flipped the holo-scope open, and sighted in on the beam.

It was Del. Shit!

But that was impossible; it was right behind me when Marley was
shot. I looked around but didn’t see the Sentient anywhere. A flash of light
and heat sailed past my head, and I ducked back behind the pillar.

Whoever it was, they were fast. They were firing so quickly that
they managed to keep us all pinned down—even though we were in different
locations. I kept trying to line up a shot, but the Sentient’s movements were
totally unpredictable. It would lean out from either side of the pillar at
random, then fire from different heights; quickly darting in and out from behind
its frustratingly effective cover.

What the hell?

Through the scope, I saw a blurred form sail through the air and
strike the Sentient.

That
was Del; it was still wearing the civilian clothing. It hit the
other Sentient with such force that they both flew over the railing, falling to
the floor some twenty meters below.

The ship undergoing maintenance in the hangar was designed for
atmospheric flight as well as space travel, and had a large set of elegantly shaped
wings jutting out from both sides. The Sentinets, still grasping one another,
landed on the right wing—snapping it completely off the fuselage. The wing
joined them on the remaining 3 meter journey to the floor.

They struck
hard
.

If they’d been human, they would have exploded into bouncing
pieces of dismembered flesh. As it were, they both jumped up, separated
themselves from ship parts and broken scaffolding, then resumed their struggle.
Blue electric discharges grew progressively brighter and danced across their
bodies; the smell of burning plastic started to permeate the air.

The other Sentient pushed away from Del and both of its hands
began to glow brightly. Del’s hands began to do the same, then they started trading
blows. Each time a fist struck there was an electrical pop, followed by what
can only be described as small lightning bolts flying out from the impact site.

They seemed evenly matched, but the long fall and repeated
pounding were beginning to take their toll. Their movements were slowing—the
blue discharges becoming less impressive. Suddenly, Del grimaced with exertion
and emitted a blast of energy from its entire body. The discharge struck its
opponent with such force that it stunned the other Sentient motionless.

Del seized the moment to grab its opponent’s head—twisting it
violently before ripping it off the shoulders.

Damn.

An explosion of electrical discharges flew from the neck before
stopping abruptly, then red and grey fluids began to flow out of the stump and
down the torso. The body remained upright—no noticeable sag or movement.

Del looked fatigued, yet more menacing than anything I’d ever seen.

It turned to look at me, but instead of the emotionless face I’d come
to expect, there was a trace of…..regret?

“It was Woz,” it said. “I suspected it might be involved, but I didn’t
want to believe it.”

Holding the head in one hand, it stooped down to pick up the body
with the other, then walked over to one of the smaller airlocks on the far side
of the room. I rejoined Stinson and Mendoza, noticing that the mechanics were still
huddled under the ship. They’d taken refuge there when the shooting started, and
I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be coming out anytime soon.