made a rhythmic thumping sound as he led the visitors around a corner, past a group of dimly seen men, and toward the sign beyond. The H had gone dark so it read as OMER’S.
A scattering of locals were standing around outside. Some of them traded greetings with Billy. The rest eyed the trio in the speculative manner that predators reserve for their prey.
Two heavily armed Hudathan bouncers were on duty at the front door. One of them raised a large paw. “Hold it right there, Billy. Homer wants his twenty credits. You got it?”
Billy turned to look at Vanderveen, who removed a small roll of money from a pocket and subtracted a twenty. She gave it to Billy, who passed it along. “There,” he said triumphantly. “Billy always pays his debts.”
“Yeah,” the bouncer replied. “And it’s going to rain beer in the morning. Don’t skip out on your bar tab again. Not unless you want to lose the other leg, too.”
Billy made a face, waved his clients forward, and entered the bar. Vanderveen felt warm, fetid air wash around her as she and her companions were enveloped by a miasma of stale beer, mixed body odors, and the fumes from greasy food. There were twenty or thirty tables, and about half of them were in use. A brightly lit bar could be seen against the far wall-and a tired-looking stripper was orbiting a pole off to the right. The music had a prominent backbeat and was too loud for comfort.
Vanderveen scanned the crowd for Ramanthians, didn’t see any, and felt an insect land on her cheek. She slapped and it buzzed way. “Sand flies,” Billy said disgustedly, as if that explained everything. “Where would you like to sit?”
“In a corner,” Sullivan answered, and Vanderveen nodded. It would be good to put their backs against a wall if that was possible.
Having located an empty table and ordered a round of drinks, the threesome settled in to watch the crowd as Billy went out to speak with the people he knew. None of whom was likely to share information with strangers. And, because there was a constant flow of individuals in and out of the bar, that kept him busy for quite a while. But eventually he was forced to return to the table with nothing meaningful to report. A few Ramanthians had been seen here and there over the last month, but nobody was sure where they were or why they were in Heferi. And nobody cared.
So being tired, and with no leads to follow up on, Vanderveen had Billy take them to a nearby boxtel, where she paid him. In keeping with its name, the hostelry consisted of about fifty lockable cargo modules all stacked in tiers. They were located inside what might have been a Forerunner temple, judging from the vaulted roof, an altarlike structure at one end of the room, and rows of stone benches. Each box had an air vent with a mattress and clean bedding. The last was a welcome surprise.
Like the other two, the diplomat had little more than a toothbrush with her. So it didn’t take long to get ready for bed and crawl into her “room.” Then, after removing her body armor, it was time to curl up with a gun in her hand. That was when Vanderveen thought about her mother, father, and Santana. A sand fly was trapped inside the box, and it buzzed from time to time. Eventually, she fell asleep.
When Vanderveen awoke, the air was warm, she needed to pee, and she could hear the pop, pop, pop of gunfire in the distance. After pulling her gear together and crawling out of the box, the diplomat discovered that Billy was waiting on the floor below. He nodded respectfully. “Morning, ma’am. I found someone who can tell you about the bugs.”
Vanderveen jumped down onto the sand-scattered floor. “How much?”
“Two hundred.”
“One hundred.”
“One-fifty.”
“One-twenty-five. And that’s final.”
Billy nodded happily. “Done. But my source will want something, too.”
“Wait here.”
Having roused her companions, Vanderveen spent fifteen minutes in a rented shower stall, toweled off, and put the same clothes back on. When she returned to the main room, the others were ready. “Okay,” Vanderveen said. “Where are we going?”
“To a bar,” Billy announced.
“I like this job,” Mubu said approvingly.
The heat fell on them like a hammer as they left the boxtel and entered the streets beyond. Vanderveen could see the lead dune by looking left-and the back dune by looking right. Both had steep slopes and were hundreds of feet tall. The ground shook, and a dull thump was heard. “Tomb raiders,” Billy explained. “Fighting it out somewhere below us. That’s how I lost my leg. Follow me.”
Sand flies buzzed all around as the foursome picked their way through the debris-littered streets. Empty shell casings lay everywhere. Billy led them around a body at one point, and a horrible stench filled Vanderveen’s nostrils. The city was, she decided, the worst hellhole she’d ever been in. And that was saying something.
It took ten minutes to reach the ladder that led down into the bar called the Mummy’s Breath. “I’ll wait here,” Billy announced. “Just ask for Kai Cosmo. He’ll tell you what he knows.”
Vanderveen descended the ladder first and was surprised by the flow of cool air that rose to greet her. The mummy’s Is breath perhaps? Yes, she thought so. The air had a dry, musty quality-as if emanating from ancient chambers far below.
A human bouncer was positioned at the foot of the ladder. He nodded and pointed Vanderveen toward a rough-hewn passageway. It had been excavated by tomb raiders as part of their efforts to find Forerunner artifacts.
Vanderveen followed a series of dangling glow strips to a set of stairs that led down into what might have been a rectangular swimming pool thousands of years before. That’s where two dozen tables had been set up. It was early in the day, so most of them were empty. A badly dented one-eyed utility droid clanked over to greet them. “Good morning,” the machine said gravely. “A table for three?”
“We’re looking for Kai Cosmo,” Vanderveen responded.
“Of course,” the robot replied. “Please follow me.”
Vanderveen and her companions followed the machine to a table where a man was in the process of assembling a submachine gun (SMG) from the newly oiled parts laid out in front of him. He had a hard face, a dark tan, and was dressed in military-style body armor. There was an audible click as one assembly mated with another. “Mr. Cosmo?” the diplomat inquired. “My name is Vanderveen. Billy sent us.”
Cosmo directed a stream of ju-ju juice at a spittoon and nodded. “Have a seat. Sorry about the parts. It’s a good idea to clean your weapons once a day around here. The goddamned sand gets into everything.”
“You sound like a marine,” Sullivan said stiffly. “A deserter perhaps?”
“And you sound like a tight-assed navy officer,” came the reply. “And a junior one at that.”
Sullivan was seated by then. He looked offended. Or tried to. “A navy officer? What makes you say that?”
“The academy ring on your left hand,” Cosmo answered dryly.
Sullivan looked embarrassed and began to rotate the face of the ring inwards.
Cosmo jerked a thumb toward Mubu. “And, judging from the CSN tattoo on Mr. Plasma Cannon’s forearm,” Cosmo continued, “he’s one of your men. Not the play pretty though… She’s a civilian.”
Vanderveen smiled as the merc continued to put the SMG back together. “How so?”
“You’re wearing your sidearm in a cross-draw holster, your hair is too long, and you smell nice.”
Sullivan scowled and Vanderveen laughed. “You’re good. I’m impressed. Billy says you have some information for us.”
“Maybe,” Cosmo allowed warily. “I led a group of mercs who were hired to guard a complex occupied by some very snooty bugs. One of them was sick and confined to a cagelike apparatus. Sound interesting?”
“Yes,” Vanderveen replied, as her heart began to beat a little bit faster. “ Very interesting. Where are they?”
“Ah,” Cosmo said, as he slipped a magazine into the SMG. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Let’s talk price.”
“What do you want?”
“A ride,” Cosmo said simply.
