“You coming with me?” I muttered at Wren.
She shrugged. “Why not? We can go down together, but no wig this time.”
I smiled. “Suit yourself.”
TK grunted, “I’ll stay put with Billy.”
“As you wish. Keep an eye on our progress. We’ll be wired for sound and video. If things go sour, that little red button’ll glow. Hit the override sequence, fire up Starrunner and blast that piece of shit warehouse to shreds. Then I’ll know my death was avenged. I’m not planning on Pazarol being that much of a shyster—but one can never be too sure... In the meantime, put that big brain of yours to work devising new and wonderful scams.”
“I’ll do that,” he agreed with a laugh.
Keep old TK busy, out of mischief.
Those holo data dumps, part of the free store, came in handy. Someone had told me that far world data was updated by a simple file-sharing algorithm, courtesy of the ships’ computers that came into proximity of a star system. Every time a ship made the Varwol leap, the local network of a new world would collect any updated info and merge it with its own local database while uploading new data to the ship’s computer. Hence the system stayed current. Ingenious, but not 100% real time. Of course, worlds like Wren’s on Talyon would get nothing of this, having no traffic to speak of nor any network infrastructure.
I met Pazarol and his gang down in his crib out in Tarsus in the decrepit town of Belgen, liking none of it from the get-go. I hoped to hell TK and Billy came through if there was trouble. Wren seemed indifferent to the meet, as if she were immune to danger. I think the days of violent terror she’d lived through in early years, with sand dervishes and mad boys had made her immune to fear.
I landed neatly in the service yard and debarked. As the engines wound down, the wide gated shutter of tin fluttered up and eight men of a standard merc detail jumped out and escorted Wren and me inside. A large echoey warehouse was busy with motion, tall upright machines and long low vats, looking like stitching and dyeing equipment to me, and some robot assembly machinery stamping out circuits. Pazarol met me with a meaty hand, a big rubicund man with a gleaming pate and a fuzz of blond hair at the back. He wore a starchly-ironed blue plaid suit, polished black shoes, gaudy necktie, all smelling of cigar smoke. Protruding buck teeth dominated his face, goatee hanging from a snub chin. I had no reason to dislike the man on first meeting, but nonetheless I did.
He motioned to his assembly plant with what could have been a gesture of pride. “This is my side business,” he said, spreading a sweaty palm at the production line of boys and young women working fingers to bone to manufacture heavy clothing and boots, others fastening bolts and small latches to what looked like equipment scanners of some sort.
“You mean, ‘front’?”
“Sure, whatever you want to call it, Rusco. Why argue over details?”
“No reason.” A half dozen gunmen idled by, toying with their remodeled Uzis, lazy yawns on their thick lips, evincing casual interest, sleeping lions, but I knew better. I could sense they were wire alert, their lazy, easy steps too light, their sleek bodies too toned, their quick fingers too close to the triggers. To Pazarol’s side, two of his men seemed to be paying more attention to the banter, one tall, swarthy, and sleazy looking with short greased hair; the other shorter, stockier, with down-turned brows and slicked back grey mullet and wearing small round glasses.
“A man needs a legitimate business in this world,” asserted Pazarol, “otherwise he’s got nothing, right? A few scams giving him a bit of bread now and then. His heist money always running low; no investments, nothing to fall back on, and the wolves, the opportunists, the terrorists, the hired government guard, whatever’s left of them, coming out of the woodwork like termites, asking awkward questions.”
I just smiled.
“Something tells me you never really got a business going yourself, did you, Rusco?…you should try it.”
“On the to-do list, Mr. Pazarol, earmarked for a rainy day.”
“That’s good!” He wheezed, slapped me on the back. A bad smoker’s cough. I’d give him five years, no more.
I wondered when he’d broach particulars about the job. This was his game, feeling out his new personnel, gauging the reactions, sparring with bullshit, testing reflexes, even though he was doing all the talking.
“Hire ’em cheap, work ’em hard,” he went on. “Rusco, that’s my credo. Watch and learn. No labor costs here. Look at these patsies. They’re a bunch of dumb, happy freaks. I give ’em room and board—for the price of protection.”
It was a sweatshop in the worst of ways. I saw frightened eyes, young boys, battered women with bruised cheeks or a blackened eye, the cocky guards walking about with Uzis, cracking jokes, ogling the prettier women.
“Get out your lumo pen, Rusco!” Pazarol laughed. “I’ll let you take notes for a limited time, no extra charge.”
I clenched my teeth, a part of me vowing to come back to this dumphole and free every one of those slave laborers. Blow Pazarol’s enterprise to kingdom come. “What’s this they’re making? Looks like army clothes.”
“Boots and combat fatigues. Guerilla outerwear for all sorts. High demand for merchandise like this in these times. A lot of traditional guerrillas, aka war thugs, are doing assaults on land.”
“No doubt.” I moved over and
