“You and Creib hold the fort, Jiminy,” muttered Regers. “Deakes, you, Vincent, me and the Jakru will go down. I may need muscle, if Mathias turns out to be a little girl about things. The man’s a tricky son of a bitch. Cold as a snake. Rich fucker though. Probably owns half of the planet down there.”
“What, and you’re just going to walk in there and make demands of him?” Jennings jeered.
Regers flashed him a dark gaze. “Mathias made a contract and has to honor it. By Jesus, I’m here, alive. I’ll hold him to it.”
Jennings’ eyes rolled. “And if he doesn’t want to pay out, he’s just going to lawyer up and loose his team of attorneys on you.”
Regers spat out a curse. “Yeah, and I’ll shit down his throat.”
Jennings shook his head with disgust. “That’ll surely work.”
“What else you got planned, boss?” Deakes asked.
“Just playing it by ear, Deakes. If Mathias doesn’t play ball, I’ll have to get more creative.” Regers gave a little laugh. Judging by the stony look on the Jakru’s face, he guessed horn head was not liking much the current turn of events.
“Relax, Ramra, you’re too tense.” Regers patted the Jakru on the back. “You’re like a buck with a hide full of buckshot. All bottled up like you got a corn cob up your ass. We need to get you out of your box. Get you laid, some nice piece of exotic ass. I’ll see to it, once I get some cash.” Regers chuckled. Vincent burst out in a peal of laughter.
Ramra only grinned.
Poor fool. Jakru boy didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into, signing up for Uncle Regers’ brigade. These bastards would all have to wisen up, recognize who was in charge. Ramra got it, in his formal oath of obedience kind of way, though he looked half stoned, still grinning like a languid sheep from his long spell dunked in a bug tank. Creib was shaping up, but slowly. Vincent and Deakes were fine; Jennings, of course, was a complete tight ass. If he didn’t get it, he’d get a caving in of his skull like that poor wanker down on Phebis, the one he’d had to put in his place. Spoke out of line once too often and got his head split for riling up the others. Too much sass. That wouldn’t do, especially to one in a position of command. A leader had to exercise authority. The juniors either had to join and fight, or die at the hands of fiends like those ugly Zikri squids. A lot of them already had died; his initial wedding party of ten had gotten mauled down to half by those everloving squids on Phebis. Busted up skulls, broken bones, guts popping out of space suits. Not a pretty sight.
Chapter 4
On Regers’ order, Xaromar touched down on the outskirts of the city in an abandoned service yard of a crating company.
“We rendezvous on the other side of town,” he said, “unless I radio in with different instructions. Clear?” He glared at Jennings. “And no cute stuff, Jiminy, like running to mommy, or getting on the horn and waxing on about squid injustice.” Jennings uttered a curse and Regers sneered at him. “Try it and you’ll see. The wrath of Uncle Regers’ll come down on your delicate hide. Watch over him, Creib. Stay glued to that damn com.”
Jennings gave no comment, just stared at him in stony silence.
Creib gave a lukewarm nod, a moony smile creeping over his chubby, pale face.
Regers stepped down from the cargo hold, his boots crunching on the gravel. Ramra stood beside him with Deakes, inhaling the dry, warm air. The sky shone a deep azure. To the east, a parade of mile high towers hung in balance in a light haze. Xaromar banked off and disappeared from sight into the cloudless sky.
Vincent stood blinking in the bright light beside Deakes. “You really got something rigged, boss?”
Regers elbowed him in the ribs. “What do you think?” He grinned. “Come on.” He tugged at Vincent’s arm. “We head to the surplus shop, get our stuff, get this business over with. Mr. CEO’ll play, I know it.”
Deakes grunted and winced. “Sure.”
“Why out here?” Ramra asked.
“Best place to get quality stuff, Ramra, and cheap. Out in the boondocks. Downtown, twice as expensive, twice as monitored, and fifty times as busy.”
Ramra shrugged.
They trudged down the service road perhaps a mile past warehouses and various other outlets: plumbing fixtures, textiles—a real industrial wasteland, then to a rust-fenced yard, with an open gate. Chain and padlock hung off the mesh and a sign tilted over the warehouse’s front door.
“Here you are, see? Lenny’s Surplus.” Regers pointed.
The four pushed past the heavy swinging door and sauntered into Lenny’s. A subdued atmosphere greeted them: the spacious depot smelt of charcoal and old sweat, with traces of rubber, oilskin, and old engine parts, and a mixture of oil and lighter fluid. Large warehouse steel girders ran overhead. Guns ranged on the far wall on a rack behind glass cases, good stock—E1s to E4s, efficient instruments, arrayed with hand pistols, energy charge packs, scopes, infrared, even some compact grenades.
An attendant came bustling from behind a steel desk along the far wall. “Sirs, can I help you?”
Regers inclined his head. “You got any spinners?”
The man’s lips parted in surprise. He lowered his voice, eyes glinting like pearls. Then motioned to the back room. He sized up Regers, as if his mind churned over the level of commission he could get on a cash sale. “Come with me.” He hustled them behind the counter into a back room. No one else was browsing in
