The Soldier: Escape Vector Page 2

  In retrospect—a week later—Tarragon wished the miner still lived. He wanted to know where the wretch had found the cosmic bauble. The arms dealer was made of sterner stuff than the loser, but the globe had ensnared him just the same. Tarragon spent many long days and nights staring into the fist-sized globe of stars and streaks of mystery nebulae. He never got enough, and he heard a ghostly, inarticulate alien whisper thousands of times. The maddening thing was that he never, ever understood what the words meant. And he longed to know, grew desperate with the need.

  Tarragon lost weight, money and critical deals because he was slacking in the management of his financial empire—and by some alchemy of superior intellect, innate ruthlessness and a deep understanding of vice, he realized he had to break the object’s hold over him, fast. If he failed, he would become just like the wretched miner, maybe even worse because he’d started so much higher in life.

  He went to a domed factory on Ember and locked himself in his largest office. The globe was in his jacket pocket, the same jacket he’d worn the day… As Tarragon sat at his desk, he fingered the jacket, eying the dirty fabric. No, the suit jacket was filthy with food stains, sweat and old dried blood.

  Just like the wretch he’d killed.

  The massive arms dealer nodded as shock and fear bubbled in his brain. The globe was an addiction. Yet, how had it ensnared him?

  He patted the pocket again, feeling the outline of the globe. He knew the stars shined in it. The nebulae drifted. Ahhh… He had a vague feeling the globe was magic. Not magic as in a wizard’s spell, but some high-tech, alien inducement lurked in the item.

  That meant what, though? Perhaps the light rays emanating from the tiny stars played upon neurons in his brain. He did not consciously perceive what those rays did to him, but clearly, he thought he heard whispers and promises of power or other delights from it. If one looked long enough at the stars, he became careless of his hygiene and other things, like fixing a torchship or keeping an economic empire running smoothly.

  Tarragon thought deeply as he sat at his desk. He’d studied the late asteroid miner’s log. It had shown that the man had not mined or prospected for space ore, but had traveled through the Vellani Rift, crisscrossing it repeatedly in one direction and then another. It was as if the miner had been looking for something.

  What had the miner been searching for and why? Clearly, the miner’s actions had not been sane or even logical.

  Unless…

  Tarragon patted the object in his suit pocket. Perhaps some advanced being had constructed the object and set it adrift—much like an ancient seafarer shipwrecked on a deserted isle putting a message in a bottle and hoping someone found it and eventually rescued him.

  Tarragon cocked his head. That was an odd thought. Could the thought have come from the object, from the rays messing with his neurons?

  Tarragon sat perfectly still, wondering if he’d stumbled upon the answer. Finally, he shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to search the Vellani Rift. He’d come to this office in order to regain his mind. It was here he’d slain his former partners and taken over the business for himself. It was here he’d learned to do things his way and no other.

  Tarragon patted the globe in his suit pocket and raised the hand, watching it shake. Could he even do this? Yes! He must either head to the rift or break the globe’s hold over his imagination today.

  Swallowing hard, he stood and slipped. He caught his balance by putting a hand on the desk. He found that he was shaking and that tears streaked down his cheeks. He wanted to vomit, but he shook his head instead.

  Slipping the suit jacket from his sweaty torso and holding it, Tarragon staggered through a secret door and stumbled down a hidden corridor. He was sobbing and shaking and wanted to give up this insane idea. A hard, grim part of him—the core of his personality—refused that shit. He would rule his own life and that was final.

  He entered a cruel room with chains, torture devices and a big old-fashioned sledgehammer in the corner.

  Tossing the jacket on the floor, Tarragon rushed to the sledgehammer and raised it high. He stood in that pose for several seconds. He was shaking worse than ever and hiccupping from his sobs.

  With a shout of rage, he rushed the jacket and swung the sledgehammer, completely missing his target. Closing his eyes, willing himself to act, he hammered again, and again, and again.

  With a grunt, he released the handle, finally daring to open his eyes. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled to his crumpled, dirty suit jacket and felt the pockets. The globe had been reduced to tiny shattered pieces.

  He’d done it. He was free—or so he believed.

  As the days and weeks passed, he regained an interest in his arms empire; he regained the lost weight and more. He thought less and less about the globe except for one item he’d retained from the torchship: the Nion XT, the computerized navigator torn from the miner’s vessel. In truth, the Nion was a newer model, an advanced model, worth more than anything else taken from the salvaged ship.

  Tarragon wondered about that to such an extent that he attempted to find out where the miner had purchased the advanced unit. On that score, however, Tarragon found nothing.

  What should he do with the Nion? He didn’t want to sell it to just anyone. No. He would sell it to someone he planned to cheat.

  His eyes glowed with delight. Why did he want to do that, exactly? Ah. He realized why. He wanted to screw with whoever had made the globe and set it adrift so the thing had come to him and screwed with him. Tit for tat, as the old saying went. He would tantalize the globe-maker—even if the being never knew it—and destroy any hope of any rescue by making sure the Nion XT never left the Sestos System.

  Finally, two hundred and fifty-four days after he’d killed the asteroid miner, Tarragon Down found himself in his favorite office at a factory on the water moon. The huge arms dealer sat behind a mammoth desk, with the same two bodyguards from that time standing to the side.

  Across the desk from him sat a devious fellow that he happened to remember well, an olive-skinned Dr. Halifax. The man had narrow, highly intelligent features and inquisitive bright eyes. The doctor wore stylish garments and shoes. What was interesting was that he’d represented Group Six of Earth before.

  Beside the thin doctor was a big sucker, a mean-looking, muscular man in spaceman’s gray called Marcus Cade. There was something powerful and perhaps even frightening about him, a veritable tiger of a man who walked as if he owned the universe. Tarragon had a feeling that even his two bodyguards felt the man’s deadliness.

  “What can I do for you?” Tarragon asked, knowing that Halifax had spent three frantic days trying to set up the meeting.

  It turned out the doctor wanted an overhaul on the Descartes, the ex-Concord Patrol scout. Tarragon remembered working on the vessel many years ago. The weasel-faced doctor also wanted better weapons and equipment this time around.

  It became interesting when Tarragon asked about payment, as it showed these two were working on their own and were not under the protection of Earth Intelligence

  “I have something I think you’ll want to see,” Halifax said slyly.

  Tarragon nodded for the doctor to continue.

  “A Gyroc rifle,” Cade said in a deep voice, speaking for the first time. “Have you ever heard of one?”

  There was lethal competence to Cade. Tarragon felt it exuding from the man and heard it in his voice. He found the soldier’s voice frightening, and there was something else. There was an intense hatred of Cade welling up in him. Tarragon had no idea why. It had come from seemingly nowhere.

  Tarragon folded his thick hands together on the desk. It was a signal to the bodyguards. The two did nothing visible, but they shifted to high alert.

  To Tarragon’s heightened senses, it seemed that Cade knew it. The soldier sat back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded. His right hand nonchalantly slid into the left sleeve, perhaps letting the fingers slide onto a hi
dden gun holstered on the forearm.

  Tarragon put his hands flat on the desk. It meant, Wait, I’ll handle this myself.

  The bodyguards relaxed. Cade did not.

  Tarragon swallowed, making an audible sound. “Gyroc rifles were used by Ultras. That was in the Great War against the cyborgs over a thousand years ago.”

  “Right you are,” Halifax said. “And we happen to have one.”

  Despite the fear, Tarragon felt his interest rise. “Is that so? I’d love to see it.”

  Halifax glanced at Cade. The soldier watched Tarragon, never taking his eyes off the huge man. Halifax shrugged and worked out a time and place for the next meeting, and after a few stipulations, Tarragon agreed.

  Before the next meeting, Tarragon decided he hated Halifax and Cade both. He would proceed with caution, however. He would work out a deal to keep them near, and he would use his best teams to—

  “Kidnap Halifax to find out about Cade,” Tarragon whispered as he walked to a ship. He would proceed against the soldier with greater knowledge and understanding after that.

  The meeting took place the next day as previously arranged. On a table set in a huge parking lot in the middle of a domed city, Cade opened a large case. Tarragon came forward and examined the Gyroc. The weapon and shells seemed genuine and deadly. Tarragon badly wanted them.

  “Yes,” Tarragon said. “We have a deal.”

  The Descartes would go to one of his specialty shops on the water moon. Cade said he would remain with or near the ship at all times. So, Tarragon decided to have his people actually upgrade the vessel as agreed. Otherwise, he risked losing these two. He wanted them both so his interrogators could ask them endless questions.

  Two days later, on Ember, at Tarragon’s orders, one of the items installed in the Descartes was the Nion XT Navigator. It was a statement, in a way, as the nav had its own agenda. That was true with Tarragon as well. He planned to not only cheat these two, but also kill them after he drained their minds of unusual knowledge. He was seldom wrong about such things. If nothing else, he would learn more about Group Six of Earth.

  Three days after that—barely in time, as it turned out—a kidnapping team snatched Dr. Halifax from a massage parlor as a darling of a worker pressed her fingers against his bare bony back as he lay on a table. The team rushed a drugged Halifax to the domed factory site on Ember. As soon as Tarragon learned about the successful snatch, he sent word to the shipyard refurbishing the Descartes. On no account should they give Marcus Cade the scout.

  “Is that clear?” Tarragon asked over a hand-sized comm unit. He sat in the back of a pacer negotiating city streets.

  “Yes, sir,” a woman said.

  He cut the connection, pocketing the unit. Now was the perfect opportunity to learn more about Earth’s premier Intelligence Agency and figure out why he hated Marcus Cade so much. From the back of the pacer, he pulled out the unit and called his interrogation team next, telling them the sorts of questions to ask Halifax and to start the process immediately. Once they were finished—Tarragon hesitated and decided he would give the execution order later. He had a business meeting he needed to attend. After the meeting, he would give his full attention to Halifax and later, to the damned Marcus Cade.

  ***

  Meanwhile, the woman at the shipyard who’d spoken to Tarragon marched through a corridor to the outer office to speak with Cade and convince him the scout wasn’t ready yet. To her horror, she’d just learned that he’d been notified about its readiness an hour ago and was already on the premises. There had been a mix-up, obviously, errors made in the office, and she knew that she’d better correct that fast or it was her hide on the line.

  Chapter Three

  Marcus Cade stood before the customer counter in the main office of Down’s Space Repair Yard on the water moon Ember. This was a luxury suite with a startling beauty standing behind the counter. She was tall, with brunette hair in a high coif, wore a shimmering sequined dress and had long red fingernails.

  Cade wore his customary gray spaceman’s garb, including the WAK .55 Magnum revolver, which was holstered at his side. He also had the seven-inch boot-knife tucked away where it belonged.

  “Yes,” the striking woman said, inspecting a computer screen. “The ship is ready, and I see that you’ve already made full payment.”

  “Great,” Cade said.

  A back door opened behind the counter area and an older, shorter woman stepped near the first. The older woman had short dark hair, wore an expensive but conservative business suit, had an implant in her right ear and a mini-microphone at her mouth.

  “I’ll take care of this,” the older woman told the younger.

  “Oh,” the brunette said, surprised. “But there’s no need. Everything is ready. I’m about to show Mr. Cade where he can go for pickup.”

  “No,” the older woman said. “That’s the problem.” She turned to Cade, giving him a professional smile. “There’s been a slight delay. The ship isn’t ready.”

  Cade said and did nothing as he noted the older woman’s concern, perhaps even worry. How was she going to try to screw with him, and why?

  “What kind of problem?” the brunette asked.

  “Never mind that,” the older woman snapped at her. “I said I’ll take care of it.”

  The brunette frowned. “But Mr. Cade said—”

  “It’s time for your break,” the other said. “Now, if you understand me.”

  Cade did.

  “I see…” the brunette said a moment later, finally catching on. She gave Cade a nervous glance, smiling to cover sudden fear, he thought. Without further words, she turned and hurried out the back door.

  “I’m Simone Attar, Mr. Cade,” the older woman said, speaking professionally, trying to hide her nervousness. “It appears—”

  “Just a minute,” Cade said. This had to be about Halifax somehow. Cade turned his back on the woman and drew out a communicator. Halifax was supposed to stay in touch with him. Cade tapped a button and let the communicator buzz. No answer. He tried again, getting an abrupt prerecorded message this time.

  As Cade put away the communicator, he faced the older woman, Simone Attar. She was watching him carefully. He smiled. Two could play this game. As a soldier, he detested lying. Team members told the truth even if it hurt. Shoot straight, fight courageously and tell the truth. But he was behind enemy lines, and this was a matter of tactics. Sometimes tactics meant maneuvering, sometimes it meant trickery. Lying was trickery, hence, the code of a soldier allowed for that on the battlefield. As far as Cade was concerned, this was now a battlefield.

  “I forgot something on the ship,” he said, his smile slipping because he wasn’t very good at lying. “I, uh, I’m afraid I need the item right away. If I could just pick it up…?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Cade, if you could describe the object to me, I’ll have one of the men pick it up and bring it to the office at once.”

  Did she know he was lying? She must realize—No, stick to the issue, Soldier. Reach your ship.

  “It’s a personal item,” Cade said. “I-I, ah, have to get it myself.”

  “Certainly, I would like to do this—”

  “Listen!” he said, banging the counter with an open hand.

  Simone jumped.

  Cade wanted to be clever and fast with a good lie. His brain simply wasn’t working like that. Oh, hell.

  “What are you doing?” Simone said.

  Cade put both hands on the counter and jumped, vaulting over to land beside her on her side. He put a palm on her left shoulder, forcing her toward the back door.

  “Mr. Cade,” she said. “This is—”

  Why couldn’t she just shut up and do what he said? He squeezed her shoulder to convince her the old-fashioned way.

  Simone gasped, twisting under the iron grip.

  He opened the back door and propelled her through into an empty hallway, releasing his hold.

  “Simone,” he said in an
even voice. “When did you last speak to Mr. Tarragon Down?”

  “Sir?”

  He reached for the same shoulder.

  Simone flinched away, turning pale. “Please. Don’t touch me.”

  Because she was a woman, he would try to persuade her one more time. “You do know the kind of man you work for, don’t you?”

  Simone hesitated before saying, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s too bad.” Cade drew the knife from his boot and made a show of letting her see it. That had worked in the past. “Now, I didn’t want to permanently disfigure you—”

  “Please,” Simone sobbed, dropping to her knees and looking up into Cade’s eyes. Her panic intensified and she blurted, “I believe Mr. Down called from his favorite factory.”

  “And…?” Cade asked, as he fingered the tip of the knife.

  Simone told him what Tarragon had told her.

  Cade squinted as he thought fast. He couldn’t get hold of Halifax, and Tarragon had called from his favorite site—if Simone was telling the truth about that. “Tell me about this site,” he said.

  Simone stammered a few details, the key one being how Mr. Down’s associates had all suddenly died of various causes there eleven years ago, and he had taken full control of the company afterward.

  Cade withdrew a small unit from a pocket. He’d had the doctor swallow a specially made locator. Cade pressed a switch, and a tiny holo-map popped up showing where the doctor was located. Cade showed the holo-map to Simone.

  She nodded vigorously. “That’s the place. Oh, please don’t cut me, Mr. Cade. I’ll cooperate. I promise, I will.”

  I don’t believe it. She’s stalling me. It showed Simone had guts. He could appreciate that. Hmm, the other brunette had left in a hurry, probably to get help. That help would likely be men with weapons. In that case—Cade inhaled and made his decision.