Gresham walked through the apartment complex’s lobby briskly and put a hand on his gun, holstered on his hip. He slowly pulled it out and gripped it tightly, staring up the stairwell to the upper floors. The last time he’d fired it somewhere other than a shooting range was in the war.
What if those Balgoshan bastards are up there? Jesus, somebody’s up there waiting for me. Shit shit shit.
Gresham ascended the stairs one at a time, glancing around corners to look for possible assailants. The apartment complex was dead silent and empty. Something was not right.
“Excuse me?” a voice said from behind as he ascended the stairs from the third to the fourth floor.
Gresham spun, raising his gun instinctively and took aim at the source of the voice. A surprised-looking man stepped backward, holding his hands up.
“Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot!”
Realizing that he was aiming a gun at a civilian while in full uniform, Gresham lowered his weapon. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” he breathed. “I’d like you to leave the building immediately, there may be an intruder here.”
“Aren’t you an intruder?”
Gresham paused. “No. I work for the government. Please leave immediately, sir. For your safety.”
The man nodded and quickly bolted for the stairwell and disappeared. Gresham figured that the man would soon call the police and there would be the inevitable questions as to why he was trespassing inside the building brandishing a gun.
Though if you think about it, someone did let me in, Gresham thought wryly and quickly ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. Vance lived in apartment 408, at the end of the hall. Gresham aimed his gun straight at the closed door, before scanning the other length of the hall for any possible ambushers waiting behind him.
He turned his attention back to Vance’s apartment, and he crept down the hallway towards the door, sliding along the wall with his gun firmly trained on the doorway.
He reached the door and crossed the frame quickly so that he would be on the hinged side. It was an older door with a handle, and Gresham touched the handle carefully, pressing down on it ever so slightly. It budged. The door was unlocked. He pressed down on the handle again and nudged it open with his foot. The door started to swing inwards and Gresham crouched down, waiting for something to happen. There was only silence.
I know you’re in there.
Gresham peered around the doorway into the apartment. There was a short hall that ended in a door, and there was another door on the left. There was an opening into what appeared to be a kitchen on the right. He quickly stepped inside the apartment, leaving the door open in case he needed to escape. The kitchen was empty and connected with a small living room. Vance had a large screen set up and two comfortable sofas.
Gresham slowly opened the door on the left, and saw a bathroom similar to his own in the dark. He moved towards the door at the end of the hall to discover Vance’s bedroom, small and messy, cluttered with paperwork and clothing.
Only it wasn’t clutter. Somebody had gone through the contents of his bedroom, in a search for something.
“Lights,” a voice said behind Gresham and the apartment’s AI turned on the lights. Gresham was surprised and tried to turn, but the door slammed in his face.
“Drop your gun!” a female voice barked from through the door.
“I’m not dropping my gun unless you drop yours,” Gresham answered. “How do I know you won’t shoot me?”
There was a long pause. “I’m not a killer. Who are you?”
“A friend of Jeff Vance’s. And you?”
There was an even longer pause. “An acquaintance… Wait a minute…”
The door opened without warning and Gresham raised his gun only to find the barrel of a gun pointing back. He and Lara Taylor were aiming right at each other’s heads.
“Information distribution, my ass!” he cursed. “Maybe if you’re stealing it! How’d you get in here?”
“You think they only give viral cards to Military Intelligence?”
Gresham was stunned. “You’re SIS…”
Lara breathed out and lowered her gun so that it was pointing at Gresham’s chest, not his forehead. “And I read your file, Gresham, you’re Section Four. Why are you here?”
“Vance was a friend of mine.”
Lara brought her gun back up, the barrel only inches from Gresham’s eyes. “Bullshit. Who are you working for?”
“I’m the Junior Liaison Officer to the Commission. J-L-O-C. I work for Military Intelligence.”
Lara’s finger twitched. “I can protect myself, Major Gresham. Who are you working for? How much do you know?”
“I know nothing. Why else would I come down here?”
Lara stepped back slightly, heading towards the door. “Please don’t try to follow me, Major… I’ll shoot you, I swear to God…”
“I’m not here to pick fights, Ms. Taylor,” Gresham said calmly and stepped out into the hallway. “Please calm down.”
“Sam, now!” Taylor barked and Gresham turned to his left to see a shadow flash out of the kitchen. A violent shock struck him in the side of the neck and he gasped, collapsing against the wall, his eyes watering and the world pitching and turning as the stun-gun took its toll and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Eleven: Retribution
Ankina, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System
Turka’s death had noticeably changed Zurra’s father. News arrived to the Akgu household in the traditional manner: a broken sword, dark violet robe and dented helmet were brought in a plain tarwood box marked with the symbol of Kurkand, the god who tended the dead in the Last World. It was delivered by an officer with as high of a rank as sharm, although that was only for soldiers of rank lower than he. All sharms and tarls had their Death Armor taken to families by a prod, and every prod was given the honor of the incumbent High Prod being the harbinger of news.
Juska had stood in the doorway hesitantly once he saw the sharm doing what he had once done himself in that position, and did not say a word.
“Prod Akgu Juska, I regret to inform you that your son, Cadet Akgu Turka, is dead. I dutifully present you with his ceremonial Death Armor, and extend the condolences of the High Prod and Emperor to you. Your son died with honor. Kurkand keep him in his mercy.”
Juska wordlessly received the box and set it inside the doorway before quietly shutting the door, half-heartedly saluting the sharm as he did.
Zurra approached the box but his father raised a hand. “No, son. This is for me alone.”
Later that night, Zurra and his younger sister had snuck out of their rooms as planned to see what Juska was doing. The massive prod, wearing his full armor, was sitting in a circle of red chalk he had drawn in the house’s prayer room. He had lit a candle for each of the Truuknan and was bowed before a makeshift altar. The violet robe was spread across the altar, and at its center was the helmet with the noticeable piece missing. The two halves of the sword flanked the helmet, and crushed flowers and roots had been sprinkled on the display.
“Ugrand, I thank you for my son, and for the time he had. Frusrand, I beg you, show me the path I must take to avenge and honor my son. And Kurkand, keep him in your eternal and unending love and mercy.”
Zurra recalled a very different scene he had observed years later, soon after he had been promoted from karp to sharm. He himself had delivered a box of Death Armor to an older krokator woman on Daruundo, where he had been stationed at the time. When she opened the door and saw the box every mother in the Empire dreaded receiving, she wailed and threw a punch at Zurra that he barely dodged.
He had put down the box as carefully and reverently as he could and had to call for a neighbor and the woman’s younger son to come assist him in restraining her. Zurra had tried to recite his respectful message to her but was constantly interrupted by her screams and curses. He had been referred to as a bunchu and a hrain multiple times by the time he left in frustration.<
br />
What will my sister say on the day I fail to return from an assignment? Zurra wondered. Barely thirty, a promotion to a tarlship remained highly unlikely for at least another few years, thus placing him directly in the line of fire in his immediate career. Especially with the kinds of assignments he was now regularly receiving.
Zurra snapped out of his thoughts as the skyrail pulled to a stop at a station in southern Ankina, near the Ankor River. He was exhausted, having slept poorly while adjusting to the seven-hour time difference between Ankina and the Krokandir.
The whole lift ride down from the top of the skyrail platform to street level, Zurra thought about his time at the Academy. Had he really learned anything he could not have gained in the field? He was a combat operative, and a good one. Often, he had grudgingly thought that the Academy was a front to give the Empire’s elite bureaucratic military positions and shield them from physical harm.
A staggering percentage of goras coming out of the Academy suffered swift deaths. Those who spent most of their time focusing on academic pursuits were often unfit for combat, and they died quicker than enlisted infantry grunts who knew only field training and little else. Conversely, those who neglected their studies were often dismissed from the Academy for not withholding its standards. About a fourth of all krokator admitted to the Academy would never graduate.
Zurra left the skyrail station and walked briskly down the quiet street. The Imperial garrison was out in full force alongside hired security working at the behest of the Progressives. Southern Ankina was the city’s most dangerous sector, and in the wake of the assassination of Urkus Ruskir two days prior, the tension was at a breaking point. In the eyes of the soldiers Zurra could detect a deep-seated hatred of every Progressive on the street, and the civilians in their blue and yellow sashes watched the Imperials warily, almost expecting to be beaten senseless with Obedience Sticks.
A familiar face appeared out of a crowd. It was Zurra’s sukuda contact, and they approached each other warily. The spy waved and indicated a nearby gukka bar.
“Good evening, Sharm Zurra, I see you received my message. How are you?”
Zurra entered the bar with him. “I am fine. You have information on Dakkal for me?”
“It appears your target has left the city, but I learned more about his operations. Most of his holdings here in South Ankina are managed by a one Fakkid Rurekk.” The agent showed a hint of a smile. “The name is familiar, yes?”
Zurra raised an eyebrow. “Yes, he was a belekki player for Sartokken over a decade ago. They won three consecutive Crystal Crowns with him riding for them.”
“And do you remember his terrible accident in the semifinals before their third championship?”
“It was my first year at the Academy. Sartokken led Brekenio by three goals when Rurekk fell off his pogo and was trampled. He was lucky to be able to walk again. It was a tragic day for the sport – he was a rising talent.”
“You will be surprised to hear that he has spent most of his retirement running amateur gambling operations at various taverns here in South Ankina.”
Zurra considered this information. “And he is somehow connected to Dakkal?”
“Of course. Rurekk oversees Dakkal’s taverns and gukka bars. Maybe even the one we are in right now. He represents Dakkal in this particular neighborhood both as business manager and as a gangland enforcer. People on the streets know and fear him.”
“And how do I approach someone with such notoriety?”
“His main base of operations appears to be a tavern a few blocks south of here. It is a gambler’s den, but the city official in this neighborhood turns a blind eye for a cut of the profit. His predecessor was thrown off of a skyrail for asking too many questions.”
“What do you suggest I do? I can hardly walk in there, demand to see Rurekk and begin asking questions. I would never survive.”
“Luckily for you, we planned ahead.” The contact handed Zurra a small pocket beacon. “Carry this with you. Set the beacon off if trouble arises. Two eight-man teams of sukuda are waiting, each within a hundred yards of the tavern. A third team of twelve, under my personal command, will be the reinforcement in case any situation expands out of the tavern. I trust you are armed?”
“I have a blade and an okka pistol.”
“Good. We have not inserted any reinforcements in the tunnel system, however. Doing so would surely have attracted scrutiny and threatened detection. If Rurekk makes his escape into the catacombs, you will need to keep the beacon so we can track your progress in your pursuit. I realize this plan has flaws, but we do not want to spook Dakkal if he is still on the planet with a massive show of force.”
Zurra nodded in approval “That is a good plan.”
The sukuda agent paused for a long moment. “Rurekk is our only lead to finding Dakkal now that he has left Ankina. If Dakkal is in an alliance with the Hudda Kugrall, he may already have fled the planet. If we are lucky, Rurekk knows where. I cannot overstate how critical this operation is.”
“Do we know that Rurekk is even at the tavern?” Zurra asked as he rose. He felt that that was the most integral part of the mission.
“Yes. He was spotted entering only half an hour ago and has not been seen leaving. You had better go soon, Sharm Zurra. The building is made of blackrock with a white banner attached to the front, across the street from a butcher. There is a very crude statue of a pogo in front of it.”
Zurra and his sukuda contact clasped hands. “Thank you.”
“Frusrand guide your path.”
#
It wasn’t hard to spot the sukuda lookout in front of Rurekk’s tavern. An old muunfi sat watching a news bulletin on his personal screen on a bench next to a statue of a roaring pogo that obscured the entrance to the nearly-derelict building sitting on the corner of a busy intersection.
Zurra paused at the entrance to the intersection, watching the tavern’s dirtied banner flap in the breeze, putting a hand against his the okka gun stuck into the back of the Progressive sash he had tied around his civilian tunic. To hide his officer braids, which were a terrible nuisance to remove, he had pulled a wide-brimmed peasants hat low over his face. The hat was meant to cover poorly-applied tokkom knots when in public, as the lower classes of krokator society could not afford the expensive, professionally tied ones that required constant upkeep.
Now is the time to turn back. Once you enter the tavern, it is done. He paused, considering what his father had once told him: “A true coward takes no action, for they do not foresee what can happen, only what they think will happen.” It was a dated adage, but Zurra understand the basic message. He wanted to believe nothing would go wrong. He had a gut feeling, however, that his life was about to change for the worse.
And with that thought gnawing at the back of his mind, he ambled across the street to the tavern door and entered without acknowledging the lookout.
Rurekk’s tavern was a mix of gukka bar, beastwine emporium and fetish house. Barely-clad males and females of all four major species that lived in the Empire were chained to posts and walls throughout the establishment, subject to humiliation and the whims of perverted customers. At the heart of this tavern was a massive ring for hittik fights. The hittiks were small but aggressively vicious tripedal herbivores that sported a pair of massive claws meant to hack through foliage, but were perfect for tearing deep into soft flesh.
Zurra approached the ring, where five hittiks were enlocked in a thrashing ball of red skin as they hacked away at each other, bluish blood splattering across the already saturated floor. Tall, brawny krokator stood on a platform above the fighting ring itself, collecting bets.
“You want to make a bet?” a thin, sickly old krokator asked Zurra. He smiled, showing two poorly-filed and rotting tusks in a mouth with few other teeth.
“I have very little money,” Zurra replied. “I just want to watch a good fight.”
“Well, I have four friends over there who think you should m
ake a bet,” the old krokator said, indicating four krokator as large as Zurra sitting at a nearby table. One of them stroked a crude bludgeon placed casually on the table while another took a long drink of beastwine, staring straight at Zurra as drops of the brackish red liquor rolled down his neck. All four had knives clearly tucked into their boots.
Zurra turned to face the enforcer. “I already told you. I just want to watch the fight and have a drink.”
The old krokator revealed that he too was wielding a knife, subtly pulling it from his belt. “Do you know who we are? You make a bet or leave. Stay without paying and you join Haldroi in the Origin World, hrain.”
“Put the knife away and step aside,” Zurra growled, clenching one fist while grabbing the handle to his own blade, in a sheath strapped to the inside of his shirt, with his other hand.
“As you wish,” the old enforcer sneered and lunged forward with the knife.
Zurra brought his elbow down on his attacker’s forearm, pinning it against the railing as he stepped aside to avoid the knife. He heard a crack as the bone broke before he threw a hard punch to the enforcer’s face.
Two thugs moved against Zurra instantly. Grabbing the screaming old enforcer with one hand, he stepped into their approach, driving his shoulder into one while shoving the old krokator into the other. His knife was out in an instant, and he cut a deep gash into the arm of the first thug.
He ducked to avoid the business end of a sharp white blade and backed up, seeing the alarmed crowd move away from the brawl with a panicked look of apprehension.
“Enough!” he heard a voice bellow just as he sidestepped another jab and struck his attacker with force in the jaw.
The room went silent and the cumulative attention turned to a figure standing above the commotion on a second floor balcony. Fakkid Rurekk was a lean but intimidating green-skin, his belekki tattoos colorful on his dark arms. He wore the colors of the Movement but also rich, flamboyant garb. He seemed out of place in such a seedy establishment.
Zurra bowed his head respectfully. “My apologies, sir. I defend myself when attacked. If you want me to leave, I understand.”
“You fight better than any of these idiots.” Rurekk licked his unfiled tusks and glared at his men. “Get out of here, cowards. My piss is worth more than your contracts.” The two thugs sheepishly moved towards the door, the crowd parting to let them through. He turned his attention to Zurra. “And you, peasant, come up here and dine with me. I wish to speak to you.”