Dumb, Amanda. Real dumb.
13
Tyrus Rechs slipped through the cracked blast doors of the docking bay, re-sealing them as he left. According to local protocols, what was now on the other side of those doors would be sealed under quarantine. A status that could be lifted in three days after the proper medical report had been transmitted to the dockmaster—assuming the ship was equipped with a qualified autodoc or med bot to give the okay. Until then, everyone with a brain would stay well clear of the “plague-riddled” dock sixty-five.
It was time to assess the situation on the ground. Everything that came out of the galactic media was suspect. Had been for years. The agenda they were throwing behind the side they wanted to win had scotched any ounce of reliability.
Rechs moved along the Docks’ fading Grand Concourse. Getting through the terminal—under the alias Kurt Weil from New Baden—wasn’t a problem. His long years as a bounty hunter had given him access to some of the best ident slicers in the galaxy. And as long as he was moving about in cargo pants, work boots, a clean T-shirt, and a flight jacket, he looked like every other freighter jockey looking to make some easy credits off a bad situation.
The Grand Concourse was kilometers long, encircling the entire massif the city of Detron lay upon, but many sections of the once-fabled boarding and entertainment area for the galaxy’s flyboys and girls were now off-limits, and others were accessible only by subway. The massive freight docks and direct berthing for some of the larger starships were among the latter—officially still in use, but unofficially abandoned. Such ships did not call often in the days of Detron’s long slide into a planetary backwater.
The Repub had pulled the destroyer Castle out of the sky, but it was still easy to spot up there in low orbit. Another move by the powers that be within the House, in their efforts to de-escalate the deteriorating situation. But the Soshies considered the sight of a military vessel to be an act of emotional battery against their persons, tantamount to the actual shooting that had claimed some of their lives. Many news personalities agreed that while they supported the military, armed forces were still an inherent danger to the galaxy.
“Typical,” muttered Rechs through gritted teeth as he passed a screen with one tater-headed journalist practically foaming at the mouth in a high-pitched squealing rant about the need for non-lethal legionnaires.
Rechs continued along the main curving concourse, a once-fantastic walkway where the high-end stores had operated duty-free, occupying fantastic malls and pavilions. Now such luxury shops were gone, and a dozen variations of low-rent, barely legal nomadic kiosks had sprung up in their place. Lotus, secure communications, pawn shops—all variations on the theme of bottom-feeding commerce. And every store seemed to reappear every two hundred meters, never mind that there were three in the last concourse bubble, along with the inevitable bar, a travel hotel that had seen better days, and food carts that filled the concourse with savory if not overwhelming smells.
Hardworking aliens smiled at Rechs as he passed, assuring him that their chava, musami, or lotus rice preparations were the best. Rechs declined the silent offers and instead hit a bar, an old corporate outpost from the “David Sanford’s Frontier Lodge” chain that had once dominated every star port in the galaxy. The chain made a good hot dog, and Rechs hadn’t had one in years.
He sat down at the end of the bar where he could keep an eye on the concourse. No one knew he was here, but it paid to be careful. There were always hopefuls seeking to collect on the ludicrous bounty Nether Ops had issued on behalf of the House of Reason—though none of that could ever be proved—and accrue the easy fame that would come with shooting down the notorious Tyrus Rechs. Win-win for a thousand dreamers hoping for a shot at stardom.
He had his snub-nosed Python in a shoulder holster under the flight jacket. Three knives and a few of his other usual tricks rounded out his concealed carry kit. But with such a heavy Repub marine presence all over the Docks, this was probably one of the safer places in the galaxy right about now.
The hot dog was just as Rechs remembered. He put mustard on it and decided on a cold draft to go with it. Spur of the moment. Some things reminded him of better days gone by. The past. Things that probably weren’t ever coming back around in this lifetime no matter how long it lasted.
This hot dog was that.
The constant news cycle was bleating on the big prism screen that dominated the bar, and that politician that Gabriella had been bent out of shape over was being interviewed.
She’s pretty enough, thought Rechs as he took a bite of his mustard-laden dog.
She’d had all the right work done. Obviously, there had been a heavy-duty effort by a PR team who’d managed to nail just the right note of go-getter-young-person-but-coulda-been-a-fashion model. She had a smile she’d learned, but she wasn’t quite able to connect it with her eyes if you studied her hard enough.
The eyes were the window to the soul. Rechs had learned that long ago, even though it had sounded weird and witchy when the woman he’d known told it to him. And these eyes told you this about the woman playing big-time politician on the screen: everything she was saying she didn’t believe, no matter how much she tried to make points with tone and emphatic hand gestures. The eyes didn’t connect with what the brain was making her mouth say, and maybe that was for the best, because either there was nothing in there, or nothing but darkness.
But substance wasn’t the point. No one cared for it anyway. And she’d learned to make her eyes go wide and throw people off the trail
