Ragnarok (The Echo Case Files) by C.S. Stinton
* *
Grey skies ruled the rocky moon of Forseti. When colonists had come to the Altair system a century and a half ago, the planets in the Goldilocks Zone - not too hot, not too cold, but just right - had been the first to be terraformed and settled, and the moons of Baldr, the system’s most prominent gas giant, were no different. But other moons like the verdant Nanna and rich Hringhorni had received the lion’s share of attention, settlement, and funding.
Forseti had once been the mid-system home for the Confederate Fleet. Military ships travelling from the system core to the rim, or to make a FTL jump to another star, would stop off there for refuelling of ship, crew, and morale. The leaps and bounds made in impulse engine technology over the past fifty years, cutting that travel time from two weeks to mere days, had brought this era of military funding, rambunctious crews on shore leave, and fleet personnel and their families living and spending money there to a dreary halt.
Some enterprising architect long ago decided to design the city in a Gothic splendour to hark back to the grandeur of the eastern European origins of many of the colonists of Altair. Once, that had made Forseti seem imposing, full of military dignity and tradition, as grey skies fell over grey stone and brought reality into sombre, thoughtful focus.
All Ramirez saw now was a ghost town. Rain pattered down upon the slate rooftops of the city of Glitnir and drummed against the window inches away from her face, a steady rhythm that distracted from the newsfeed blaring from the corner of the empty cantine.
‘...but military officials continue to have no comment regarding rumours that the Confederate Fleet are considering a campaign to retake the planet Thoth, lost eighteen months ago to Null forces. The most shocking defeat since the full withdrawal from the Kruger System, the loss of Thoth confirmed the Null have no intention of stopping their onslaught, and established the Vega System as the new front line in the war...’
Ramirez turned to pick up the abandoned control pad on the nearest table. The screen the size of her palm showed a miniaturised duplicate of what was on the screen, and with a swipe across the face of the news presenter she changed the feed.
‘...on Thor protesting against the enforcement of martial law across the Confederacy have been turning violent, forcing the authorities to clamp down on mass gatherings -’
A different feed.
‘...President Okoye stands by his judgement that if Providence continues to refuse to send a delegate to the Senate, a military representative will be selected for them and the Confederate Fleet will assume full control of the planet...’
Ramirez tossed the control pad back on the table with a grimace and let the news presenter drone on, the animated but silent face of President Okoye issuing his declaration from Rome in a smaller window in the corner.
She was still staring at the screen when the double doors to the stark, bare cantine swung open and in stepped Tycho, pad under one arm. She was in her uniform, the high-necked, double-breasted, dark grey jacket of an officer of the Confederate Fleet, though the top two buttons were undone with a laxness that had become more common since the grind of war had set in. The colour of their duty uniforms identified them as officers on surface assignment, distinct from the deep maroon of those on ships or the forest green of the Confederate Fleet Marine Corps. After years in the burgundy, the grey felt and looked odd.
‘Have you seen this?’ said Ramirez, nodding at the newsfeed.
‘I’ve seen it,’ said Tycho, and perched on the nearest table. ‘I just came -’
‘I don’t see how they can appoint Providence’s delegate for them. Surely the senator’s seat should remain empty?’
‘I guess? Does it really matter?’
‘It’s one thing for Providence to refuse to send someone to the Senate. They’re choosing to not have their voice heard. But for someone else to speak for them, vote on their behalf? That’s not democratic.’
‘I don’t think it’s democratic for Providence to not send a senator because they think God told them not to, but -’ Tycho drew a sharp breath. ‘Why do you even care about this?’
Ramirez gestured at the screen. ‘It’s on the ultranet.’
‘We get, what, fifteen thousand feeds; you couldn’t find a kid’s cartoon?’
‘I think sometimes the activities of the Palace of Sixtus bear an uncanny resemblance to children’s entertainment?’
‘Ooh, unpatriotic, Chief, what’s getting up your nose today?’
Ramirez waved a dismissive hand and turned to Tycho, gaze at last torn from the screen. ‘What did you want?’
‘To find you and get a coffee.’ Tycho looked around the cantine. ‘Seriously, is this place haunted and nobody told us? It’s like a graveyard in here.’
‘The distributor’s broken. No coffee.’
‘No kidding? And I was really in the mood for a cardboard cup of black slop to brighten my day. I thought they said HQ would be finished by now?’
‘It’s finished in that the Marshals can operate out of here. The fact that half the sleeping quarters are still waterlogged and the cantine doesn’t serve any food is considered a “low priority” issue for the maintenance staff.’
‘I’m shocked - just shocked – that spaceport security moved out of here to a brand-new building instead of trying to salvage this slag-hole.’ Tycho scowled. Hers was not a face which suited frowns; more common were cheery smiles which bunched up the freckles on her dimples. And within a few seconds one of those grins crossed her face. ‘That reminds me, I’ve got news.’
‘Mercer confessed his guilt, sold out all of his contacts, and is still going to rot in jail for another ten years?’
‘Better. Delta Team moved out on assignment and I’ve wrangled us their quarters. If they come back before we go, it’s their turn to stay in a leaky hotel in the middle of Glitnir.’
Ramirez wasn’t sure if she should smile or frown at that. ‘The prospect of sleeping in Durand’s old bed isn’t filling me with satisfaction.’
‘It’s a Major’s billeting. Bigger bed.’
‘Sold.’ A thought occurred. ‘Where did Delta Team go?’
Tycho hesitated. ‘They...’
Indignation tugged at Ramirez’s gut. ‘They got the Odin Shipyards case, didn’t they?’
‘Chief...’
‘We’ve cracked every case Tau’s given us! What does she want before she gives us a proper assignment?’
‘We might have cracked every case, and I know you have a personal beef with Mercer on account of that little issue of him trying to murder us both, but he wasn’t exactly a feather in your hat.’
‘Then give me bigger birds.’
‘You don’t have to convince me.’ Tycho’s shoulders sagged. ‘We knew what we were signing up for with this posting.’
‘We signed up to keep people safe; crime is the highest it’s ever been in the Confederacy or the Republic’s history. A citizen is still more likely to be killed by their neighbour than by the Null, while funding and recruitment for law enforcement is at an all-time low -’
‘Because all eyes are on the war, and so nobody’s paying attention to law enforcement, and so while this might be necessary work you know it’s not glamorous, you know it’s not where you’re going to make your name, and why the hell am I the one telling you this?’ Tycho’s brow furrowed with honest confusion. ‘What’s brought on this brooding?’
Ramirez let out a deep breath. ‘You’re right. I’ve been staring at the news too long. It’s getting to me.’ She straightened her uniform, adjusting the buttons to give her something to do with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just letting the idea of Durand carrying the shipyards case get to me. But we’ve got a meeting with the Director.’
Tycho checked her watch and swore. ‘I lost track of time.’
‘I didn’t. Let’s not keep her waiting.’
The corridors of the old spaceport security headquarters, now the headquarters of the newly-formed Orion Confederacy Marshals Servi
They passed nobody else on their way to Director Tau’s office, at the top of the building. This wasn’t unusual. The dozen or so investigation teams of the Marshals Service spent more time out and about the planets, moons, and ships of the Confederacy than they did on Forseti, and to say the administrative staff were undermanned was optimistic at best. Even the bullpen for staff outside the director’s office was half empty, naval officers at terminals typing up reports or reading through bulletins posted from across the seven - or, now, six - star systems of humanity.
The figure behind the last desk before Tau’s door sat up as they approached, removing booted feet from the table. ‘Hey, Commander, Lieutenant. I heard you were planet-side.’
‘Petty Officer Weiss.’ Ramirez grinned as she tapped his desk. ‘Is that where your boots live?’
‘I like to keep them clean - do you know how filthy the floors are around here, Commander?’ The yeoman looked bashful as he straightened his uniform. ‘Mercer’s rotting in a Centaurian jail?’
‘Until he arranges a plea-bargain and sells out his contacts. But he should be out of the space lanes for a few years. It’s the price of doing business.’
‘Fortunately that’s not the OCMS’s problem. Let me make sure the Director’s free.’ Petty Officer Weiss swivelled on his chair to the terminal built into his desk, tapping at the screen. ‘Oh, I started reading your book, Commander.’
Tycho rolled her eyes. ‘Now, Kevin, why’d you go do something that boring?’
‘The rain on my window keeps me up at night; I need something to help me sleep.’
Ramirez gave an indulgent smile at the good-natured ribbing. ‘I didn’t think it was your sort of thing.’
‘It’s not, but apparently now I’m assigned to a law enforcement division I’m supposed to, you know, know something about law enforcement. Isn’t it required reading at the Academy these days?’
‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Ramirez. ‘It’s on Professor Delacroix’s recommended list -’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ said Tycho. ‘Anything Old Man Delacroix recommends for Criminology or Politics, anyone who takes those courses will read if they want a half-decent grade. I hear the Chief was his favourite.’
Ramirez looked at Weiss. ‘Please tell me she’s free.’
Weiss gave an apologetic smile. ‘She’s wrapping up a call right now but I want to keep her on schedule today. You can go in and it might give her a get-out.’
‘You’re a star, Kevin,’ said Tycho with a wink. ‘Keep running a tight ship.’
‘I’d rather serve on a ship!’ called out Weiss as they stepped past him and into Tau’s office.
The director of the Orion Confederacy Marshals Service had moved into the headquarters on Forseti two months ago with the establishment of the division, but time and her schedule had not been kind enough to give her the chance to settle in. The walls were still bare, the only decoration the stacked boxes of files and belongings. While Tau would do her job out of a duffel bag if necessary, Ramirez remembered her office from years past, and knew eventually she would make her personal mark on the room. It was a testament to how busy she was that this had not yet been done.
Tau herself was sat behind her desk, a crisp dark figure against the stark bright coldness of the stone office and grey Forseti skies beyond the window. An older woman in her late forties, she was still keen-eyed and vital, a tall figure made all the more imposing by her sheer presence, her black, tightly-coiled hair shot through with grey.
‘It might make life difficult for you, Senator,’ she was saying, a finger pressed to her earpiece. ‘But it’s not as if all of this isn’t true.’
Tycho edged to Ramirez as she shut the door behind them. ‘Damn, condescending double negatives. She’s pissed,’ she whispered.
‘...that’s very understandable but -’ Tau lifted her gaze, and gestured for them to take the seats across the desk from her. ‘Senator, I’m very sorry, but I’ve got to talk to two people who actually work for a living. OCMS out.’ Ramirez blinked as Tau removed her earpiece with a grimace. ‘The senator of Manat,’ she explained, as if this justified snubbing a significant politician. ‘She’s upset that the arrest of Mercer is making it to the news and is accusing us of leaking details to the press.’
‘What sort of details?’ Ramirez asked.
‘Like that a drug smuggler was apprehended.’ Tau rolled her eyes. ‘It’s apparently bad for her office if the people of Alpha Centauri wake up and realise there’s a drugs trade in their star system. She’d rather the matter was ignored.’
‘Hey,’ said Tycho with a grin. ‘We’re making the news!’
Tau’s only response was to reach for the control pad on the desk. A flick of the thumb brought the screen on the wall to life with a newsfeed bearing the logo of the Manat News Network, a bored-looking presenter speaking.
‘... and the Dahr Police Department are reporting they have confiscated a freighter carrying a cargo of lachryma and arrested the crew in one of the biggest drug cases Manat has ever seen. In other news...’
Tau switched the screen off. ‘That’s as much as it’s hit the news. Of course, there’s no mention of the our role.’
‘Wow, Boss,’ drawled Tycho. ‘It’s like you had that clip ready and waiting so you could dash my tiny hopes into even tinier pieces.’
‘I need some perks to my job, Lieutenant.’ Tau clasped her hands together, leaning forward. ‘But, sincerely, good work on Manat.’
Ramirez nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We’ll see what information can be got out of Mercer, but there’s no point in you two waiting around until then. The wicked never rest, and so neither do we.’
‘We’re not going to object if you need to send us off this miserable rock ASAP,’ said Tycho.
‘There’s a situation that’s sprung up which is going to need delicacy and diplomacy. Naturally I thought of you, Commander Ramirez, so I recommend you bring along a sedative for Lieutenant Tycho in case she considers talking.’
‘Delicacy was going to be my middle name,’ said Tycho. ‘Except my parents realised calling me “Daisy Delicacy” would both be cruel and make me sound like an erotic dessert.’
‘I assume you’re familiar with the situation that’s breaking on Thor?’ said Tau, not missing a beat.
Ramirez nodded, but Tycho shook her head, bashful. ‘I know Thor’s unhappy?’
‘Massive political protests over the past fortnight objecting to the curbing of civil liberties in the name of the war effort,’ said Ramirez.
Tau nodded. ‘While the Null are focusing the majority of their might on the Vega system, we still have enemy ships engaged in fighting around Hel, right here in Altair. Fleet Command has thus the authority to take any measures they deem necessary to support the war effort. This has included a raise on local taxes, restrictions on free travel, and rationing.’
‘That’ll explain why I can’t get a good cup of coffee on this rock,’ mused Tycho.
‘Organised protests have been happening not just on Thor, but Odin and even in the Sirius system,’ said Tau. ‘But Thor’s where they’ve picked up the most momentum. The former mayor of the capital city Hardveur, a man named Graham Locke, has thrown his weight behind the protests on Thor and so they’ve become a bit more serious.’
‘And now they’re turning violent?’ asked Ramirez, remembering the ramblings of the newsfeed in the cantine.
‘Why is that a Confederate Marshals matter?’ said Tycho. ‘Can’t local law enforcement bash some heads together?’
‘Because the protesters are only the beginning. They claim to be a peaceful movement, but a second group has staged attacks on local government and precipitated the violence from the protests of Locke’s organisation. Respon
‘Do we have a pin on their motivations, sir?’ Ramirez said. ‘Except for anti-government?’
‘Please don’t let them be Procyon religious extremists,’ Tycho muttered, gaze turning to the ceiling.
‘Not with a name like Ragnarok,’ said Ramirez. ‘It’s Norse, not Christian.’
‘Is it? I don’t know, I spent my time in school studying useful things.’
‘They’re unlikely to be religious extremists,’ Tau said, interrupting the exchange. She lifted her pad to the screen on the wall. ‘Their first two strikes came in quick succession. A hovercar had the letter “R” seared into its roof, the hood was set fire to, and it was driven remotely at the main gates to the HCPD’s Second Precinct.’
Ramirez frowned. ‘That should have been easily enough stopped.’
‘It would have been if it weren’t for a massive disruption of the HCPD’s internal communications network at the same time. Ragnarok got in somehow and sabotaged it, meaning the emergency response was slow. But the flaming car wasn’t the main problem. A drive-by with automatic gunfire shortly afterwards from an unmarked van, once the main guard had rallied to the scene, was a bigger issue. Several Hardveur Police Officers were injured, one killed.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ muttered Tycho.
‘The next day was an unscheduled protest by Mister Locke’s movement in downtown Hardveur; as the HCPD came out in force to try to disperse the crowd, a masked group burst out with hidden weaponry to shoot and kill two officers and injure others, including protesters. This time they had an unmarked vehicle on stand-by and escaped in the chaos and huge crowds.’
‘What was Locke’s response?’ said Ramirez, cutting off another curse from her partner.
‘He denounced it, of course.’ Tau shrugged. ‘He immediately released a press statement condemning the violence and claiming his movement is a peaceful one. He was brought in for questioning by the HCPD but released. That same evening a video was put out on the ultranet.’ Again she thumbed her pad, and the screen flickered to life.
Most of the video had been computer generated. The main background was black, overlaid with a stylised ‘R’ on improbably perpetual fire. And, silhouetted as if against the flames but likely filmed separately, was a shadowy face, male if Ramirez was forced to make a guess.
‘The Null have taken Kruger. The Null have taken Hel. Our forefathers, after whose faith our homes are named, called these end times “Ragnarok”.’
The voice was impossibly deep and gravelly, doubtless technologically altered to the point of almost incoherence. Ramirez quirked an eyebrow. ‘This man is not as well-educated on his so-called forefathers as he’d like to think, Ragnarok was -’
‘Nobody cares, Chief,’ said Tycho soothingly.
The shadowed speaker continued, the video oblivious to interruption. ‘But it is not by invasion that our worlds come to an end. It is by our own government. With the shadow of war hiding their iniquities they fight the Null and they make us, the people, their enemy.’
‘Ooh, iniquity. That’s a good, ominous word.’
‘If I’m not allowed to correct their shoddy research, Tych, you’re not allowed to heckle.’
‘I’m glad you two are taking this seriously,’ said Tau, rolling her eyes as the speaker continued.
‘We fought a civil war for our freedoms and now they take them away. By tightening laws, making everything a crime, raising taxes to steal what is ours, the President makes schemes to dissolve the Senate and return power to Earth.
‘But there are those of us who see these acts for what they are and fight back. This week, blows were struck against the bastion of the Confederacy’s oppressive lackeys, the Hardveur City Police Department. The first to fall shall not lie alone for long, for we shall make Terran enforcers know they do not stand unopposed. The people shall speak out.
‘They spoke out in the protest yesterday and we added our voices to theirs with the thunder of bullets. The police think the people can be silenced; we have shown them how wrong they are.
‘It will not end here. For every blow the Confederacy strikes against the people, we shall tarnish the Confederacy. By victories great and small we shall reclaim the rights and freedoms that were always ours, and the end of all things shall be our rebirth. Our Ragnarok.’
Tau thumbed a switch and the screen went dead. She looked back to her two officers. ‘Thoughts?’
‘His research isn’t as terrible as I thought,’ Ramirez mused.
‘It’s all a bit juvenile, isn’t it?’ Tycho frowned. ‘Flaming letters? Norse imagery like he’s some separatist? Ominous language and invoking old Civil War ideas of fighting against Earth?’
‘But a juvenile movement like that doesn’t stage lightning strikes against police precincts with military ordnance.’ Ramirez shrugged. ‘It’s a stage show. Either to be underestimated or, more likely, to try to draw the supporters to whom such an image will appeal.’
‘Still, there’s a war going on. I don’t buy that this is political. This is going to be criminals trying to hide it behind idealism.’
Tau slid a pad across the desk. ‘I want you to go to Hardveur and work with the HCPD in bringing this terrorist organisation down.’
Ramirez picked up the pad with a frown. ‘With respect, sir, that sounds like a broad and long-term assignment. Uprooting a terrorist organisation that’s entrenched in the local political sphere isn’t exactly in the Marshals‘ remit.’
‘No, it’s not. I don’t need you to stay on Thor until the entire terrorist network has been destroyed. But there is something which specifically concerns the Fleet, and so it specifically concerns me.’ She jerked her head at the pad. ‘In the most recent violent protest, the HCPD picked up one of the gunmen shooting at the police. He was carrying a 2288 Machenry. That’s a military-grade rifle which hasn’t been issued anywhere but the front lines in Vega; it couldn’t have been acquired on-planet.’
Tycho pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Oh, there it is. The part where this turns into a Grade-A screw-up.’
‘It’s one thing for a terrorist organisation to be sparking protests into something violent. It’s another thing entirely if they’re getting their hands on military ordnance. What I specifically want Echo Team to do is to find where Ragnarok are getting their equipment from and shut down their supply line.’
Ramirez studied the information scrolling across the pad - the model of the rifle, the details of the individual attacks Ragnarok had claimed responsibility for, the birth and development of the protest movement. She glanced up at Tau. ‘If it’s a case of shutting down their supply lines or keeping them open so we can follow them to the source, which has priority?’
Tau grimaced and opened her hands. ‘I know I’ve said this before, but welcome to the Confederate Marshals, ladies. Use your judgement.’
Tycho lifted a finger with a cringe. ‘I hate to bring this up,’ she said, ‘but neither myself nor the Commander has any experience with the smuggling rings in and around Thor and Odin. If the HCPD haven’t had any luck, I don’t have a clue where to start in finding out how they’ve been getting weapons shipped in.’
‘Nobody in the OCMS has experience with the smuggling rings of the inner core of Altair, specifically because it’s become a completely different beast over the last two years,’ said Tau. ‘Which is why you’re going to need a specialist for this assignment.’
Tycho frowned. ‘The Chief and I don’t need someone holding our -’
Ramirez lifted a hand. ‘A local law enforcement officer?’
Tau bit her lip, and Ramirez sat up. She’d seen the director angry over the years of their professional relationship, in and before the OCMS, and she’d seen her tense. She’d never seen her apprehensive before. ‘There is a former member of the Fleet who has a significant amount of experience in dealing with the smuggling rings of Altair and a motivati
Tycho subsided with a grumble. ‘Well, so long as they don’t think they can tell us what to do -’
‘What’s the catch, sir?’ interrupted Ramirez, eyes locked on Tau’s.
Tau cleared her throat and straightened up. ‘His name is John Harrigan, and he was a Staff Sergeant and Confederate Marine until last March,’ she said, her tone careful and deliberate. ‘This was the time he was transferred out of his regiment and instead of accepting a desk assignment, he went AWOL. He dropped off our sensors until last month.’
Ramirez narrowed her eyes. ‘What happened last month?’
‘Last month,’ said Commodore Tau, ‘he was arrested on Odin for smuggling restricted and rationed goods into Midgard. And the military jail in the city is where you’ll find him.
2
Midgard was the capital city of the planet of Odin, and thus the de facto capital of the Altair system. Built from the local reserves of limestone, it was widely considered to sport the most beautiful colonial architecture outside of Alpha Centauri. Tycho, a native of the Alpha Centauri system, reckoned it a distant second, but she had to admire the tall columns seamlessly built into modern lines and stylish practicality that swept past the windows of the hovercar. It had been booked to receive her and Ramirez at the central spaceport, and did not stop to allow much appreciation of the city as it swished down the streets, most of which were at ground-level, towards the outskirts.
Soon enough Midgard’s dignified sense of style was abandoned for the stark, cold metal lines of the nearby military base. A tall fence adorned with signs inviting visitors to be shot if they tried to enter without a pass blocked the way, and when they’d waved their ID at gate guards it made way for plain, blocky buildings that all looked interchangeable save the signs above the doors.
All save from the building they pulled up outside of. The windows were barred and the sign above the indomitable metal door read ‘Brig’.
Tycho squinted out the window as they stopped. ‘Brig. Why’s it a brig? We’re not on a ship.’
‘Because this was originally a Marine Base,’ said Ramirez, and thanked the Specialist in the driver’s seat before she stepped out of the car.
Odin was a temperate world and Midgard had been built in a sunny coastal spot, the view of the dazzling turquoise ocean on their landing a fine enough sight to distract Tycho from her partner vomiting into a paper bag. But it meant they were over-dressed in uniforms, and she resisted the urge to shed it or loosen her collar. The latter would earn her reproachful looks at the lack of professionalism, and even after two months the dark grey greatcoats were the only uniform items bearing the badge of the Confederate Marshals on the shoulder. Half the Fleet didn’t recognise the badge, and of them half again didn’t care.
‘God bless the Marines,’ said Tycho as she closed the car door behind them. ‘You’d think they were an oppressed minority, the way they cling to their traditions.’
Ramirez’s expression was studied as she looked at the training yard they’d driven around on their way in, where the PT was conducted with the same precision they had grown accustomed to the Marines adopting for every aspect of their operations. ‘They’ve got the highest death rate of any branch of the Fleet.’
Guilt rose in Tycho’s chest. They’d spent so many years of their first partnership making cracks against Marines that sometimes she fell into old habits, even though she knew better. She cleared her throat and nodded at the smooth black car, with its prominent but curved fenders ‘I like that they sent a car to pick us up. But I don’t get why we couldn’t fly in here directly.’
‘Military-issue shuttles are at a premium. And we aren’t a high priority.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if they didn’t make us fly coach. And we’re supposed to fly to Thor after this with a con in tow?’
‘Technically he’s not been tried or convicted yet,’ said Ramirez, their coats flapping in the blessing of a breeze that made the hot air less still as they crossed the yard to the Midgard Base Brig. ‘But I have no intention of taking him with us.’
‘Uh, Chief? Don’t we need him?’
Ramirez paused at the door. ‘We need information to deal with smuggling operations around Thor. But the smuggling is just one aspect of the case. I’ll be satisfied if he gives us a name to go after when we get to Hardveur.’
‘Sure, but... the Director said...’
Ramirez turned to her. ‘The Director trusts my judgement. This is how the Marshals operate, Lieutenant. Once a team receives its assignment, it’s down to the team to make the appropriate decisions on how to carry it out. And so long as we keep on delivering results, Commodore Tau is certainly not going to complain about how I avoided making a deal with a disgraced Marine.’
Tycho stiffened as her rank was used, rewarded with a flicker of guilt in her partner’s gaze. The two had worked together long enough that such a gesture was a slap of authority, one Tycho felt was rarely necessary. She never questioned that Ramirez held seniority in rank and experience, but the two of them didn’t often clash. When they did, compromise and common sense prevailed more often than who had more pips on their collar.
But Ramirez could be awkward if a principle nagged at her. ‘You’d know how to deal with someone like Harrigan better than me, sir,’ said Tycho, keeping her voice diplomatic. ‘And I don’t like this any more than you, but -’
‘This man went AWOL. In a time of war. He’s lucky he’s not going to be shot for treason.’
‘Didn’t you write, like, a dozen papers speaking out against the death penalty and dedicate a chapter of your book to -’
‘I did. But I doubt he knows that.’ Ramirez gave a tight smile. ‘All we need to do is convince him it’s in his best interests to co-operate with us, and then we can be on our way and starting our actual work.’
Tycho sighed as Ramirez opened the door to the Brig and stepped into the gloomy interior, all the more shadowy and pale with the brightness of the sun outside. ‘I guess this means I’m on good cop today.’
‘You’re a crappy bad cop, Tych,’ said Ramirez, but levity was back in her voice. ‘You crack jokes.’
‘And you try to reason with them. Which, for the record? Does a shoddy job of making them think you’re a hair’s breadth from dangling them out a window.’ They crossed the lobby to the front desk where metal panels and barred windows protected the Marine on duty. He had the gaze of the perpetually bored, leaning back on his chair and paying more attention to the pad that probably had the latest ultranet feed piping through instead of relevant security information.
He jumped as Ramirez rapped on the window and pressed her ID card against it. ‘We should be in your logbook, Private. Confederate Marshals Service.’
The Marine sat up, straightening his uniform as he squinted at the ID. ‘I’ve got someone logged in to see Staff Sergeant Harrigan... OCMS?’
Ramirez’s gaze remained polite. ‘Lieutenant Commander Ramirez and Lieutenant Tycho. Yes, here for John Harrigan.’ Tycho noticed her drop his rank. ‘I’m sure it’s in the system somewhere.’
‘I... yes, ma’am.’ The Marine frowned as he tapped at his terminal, then gave a nod. ‘My apologies, ma’am. Of course. Let me show you through.’
‘That shouldn’t be necessary; this facility is built along standard garrison lines. Give us a cell number.’
‘But your passes -’
‘Our OCMS ID will see us through your security, Private. This is supposed to be a system which saves everyone time,’ said Ramirez, placing a gentle emphasis on the last point to highlight that his confusion and resistance were counter-productive at best.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Another frown from the bewildered young Marine, until his terminal gave him the answer he needed. ‘Cell 264B, Commander, Lieutenant. An escort can be provided to deal with the prisoner if -’
‘Is he a violent prisoner, Private?’
‘No, ma’am, but if he sees an opportunity -’
‘Then I’m sure two qualified and experienced officers of the Marshals Service can handle one smuggler. You get back to your work.’
He cringed. ‘Yes, ma’am. Uh, there’s a note here about you removing him from this facility, in which case there are some forms...’
‘Don’t worry. We have no intention of him going anywhere but to trial. We won’t need your forms,’ assured Ramirez, and headed for the heavy doors into the belly of the facility.
Tycho hurried to keep up once they were through, their booted footsteps ringing out in the metal hallways, the hefty security doors slamming shut behind them. ‘He seemed... squirrelly.’
‘I don’t think we were what he expected.’ Ramirez smiled at her partner, who returned the grin. ‘I’ve figured by now our reputation makes people expect knuckle-draggers. Either incompetents or thugs – or both.’
Tycho looked down at herself. ‘I don’t look incompetent. Superb.’
Ramirez chuckled. ‘Never let reputations or assumptions get in your way, Tych. Use and abuse them. Subvert them when it suits you, play to them when it suits you. And it never hurts to be underestimated.’
‘That’s a blatant lie, Chief, because it’s damn annoying.’
‘It is. But that’s all the more reason to make the most of the element of surprise when you’re not what someone expects.’
The truth was, even if the Marshals Service was the newest high-profile division of the Confederate Fleet, its staff numbered not even one hundred, and the vast majority of that was administrative and support personnel. There was barely a score of investigators in the field, and so most of those who cared to remember the name of the OCMS had never met a Marshal.
It had been the Marine’s job to expect two Marshals coming to his Brig that morning. But he clearly hadn’t expected what had arrived. Tycho was always overlooked in favour of Ramirez, who was tall and always with her uniform crisply well-presented, wavy black hair long but tied back and out of the way. But the assumption was made from her calm, assured manner and wiry build that she was a bureaucrat, enveloped in law and politics rather than the front lines. And Tycho herself, a sneeze over regulation height, livid red hair looking like it was going to escape from its pinned-up restraints at any moment, a cheery grin her standard-issue expression even in the middle of a war, did not lend them practical credibility.
Over the years of their partnership, in and out of the OCMS, they had learnt to cope with these expectations. And work around the limitations.
The Midgard Base Brig was indeed built along the standard lines of any brig in any Marine Base in the Confederacy, and Tycho followed Ramirez without complaint or question as they wound their way up stairways and down corridors until they got to Cell 264B.
‘This isn’t a solitary cell,’ said Tycho. ‘Do we get to share this conversation with Chuckles the Happy Drunk Marine?’
‘His cellmate was moved out this morning,’ said Ramirez, and Tycho wasn’t surprised she didn’t need to check her pad to confirm this fact. ‘We can have a conversation in private. Now, remember -’
‘I know, I know. So far as he’s concerned, we’re not a possible ticket out of here, we’re a possible means of his life becoming a lot worse if he doesn’t co-operate. Try to not kick the man around too badly, Chief.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘You’re the one who always tells me that being reasonable gets you much further than being threatening or uncompromising. And that’s not just principle, that’s practicality. Don’t throw your own rulebook out because you don’t like the idea that he went AWOL.’
‘In a time of war,’ Ramirez reminded, but cut off the argument by swiping her ID against the security reader, keeping her thumb pressed against her card’s print-reader to confirm the person swiping it was, indeed, its owner. The door gave a dull thunk as it unlocked, and she stepped in without giving Tycho another chance to argue.
The cell was the same as any other in any other brig, with cramped metal walls and a double bunk on their left. The window was high enough to make watching the view something that could only be done by the very tall or those standing uncomfortably straight, and nothing but the tantalisingly sunlit yard outside and the brig’s perimeter fence greeted an observer.
A man lay on the bottom bunk, clad in casual, plain clothing which included one of the Midgard Base Brig-issued short-sleeved vests. From the file Tycho knew him to be around her age, in his late twenties, but even lying sprawled on a bunk he had the hard edge about him she recognised from other veterans of the Null War, the edge that stripped away innocence and youth.
Right then he was slouched back in an indolent manner, dark hair unattended since his arrest and dangling into his blue eyes, which were narrowed to sleepy slits. His features were sharp, a dash of stubble across his strong chin not doing much to soften them, and even after time in jail and a year in civilian life he still had the tall, burly build she had come to expect of Marines.
‘Is it lunchtime already?’ John Harrigan drawled, putting his hands up behind his back. ‘The stewards got prettier.’
‘Mister Harrigan, I’m Lieutenant Commander Ramirez and this is Lieutenant Tycho, Confederate Marshals Service.’ Ramirez put her ID card away and clasped her hands behind her back.
Harrigan lifted his head, eyebrows raised. ‘I guess I’m going up in the world.’
Her expression went blank in a way Tycho knew hid irritation. ‘You’re in quite a lot of trouble, Mister Harrigan. JAG doesn’t know what to do with you.’
‘That’s because I weren’t exactly smuggling lachryma into Midgard, I was smuggling alcohol and tobacco.’
‘This time. And it was stolen alcohol and tobacco, trying to avoid the taxes.’
‘Some folks like a smoke, Lieutenant, and don’t like having to pay through the nose for it. We’re in a time of war; the little luxuries help.’ Harrigan gave a toothy, lopsided smile he probably thought was charming.
‘It’s Lieutenant Commander, Mister Harrigan. I do urge you to pay attention.’
‘Why? You haven’t even told me what you’re here for. JAG ain’t moved on my case in an age, and I suspect it’s not just my roguish charm encouraging them to drag their feet. They got bigger fish to fry. So I don’t see what you could possibly want with me.’ Harrigan sat up and rumpled his dark hair.
‘JAG are still deliberating, that’s true,’ said Ramirez. ‘But a word from the office of the Confederate Marshals could encourage them to press charges not just for your smuggling operations but also your abandonment of your post.’
Harrigan got to his feet. He had a good few inches of height on Ramirez, but she tilted her chin and met his gaze undaunted. ‘My post were a desk, watching traffic in and out of Justice’s moons. Can you think of anything less useful to the war effort?’
‘That’s not for you to decide,’ said Ramirez. ‘You swore an oath. Going AWOL isn’t just against the Uniform Code of Military Justice, but in a time of war could be considered treason.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Your point’s made. Congratulations, Commander, you got me by the balls. Now, what were you wanting? I thought Marshals are meant to be the guys who don’t call for backup, whose powers make the rest of Fleet Security look like mall cops, who go wherever in the Confederacy criminals prey on innocents and come back with their man in chains no matter what. All that good, jack-booted stuff. What do you want with me?’
Finally Ramirez glanced at Tycho, who kept her gaze on her partner, expression tense, serious. Tycho knew Ramirez would get the message. If you push more you’ll have to put your money where your mouth is or he’ll know you’re toothless.
Ramirez cleared her throat and looked back at Harrigan. ‘Before your arrest, you were wanted for smuggling operations in and around the system. Especially here on Odin and on Thor.’
‘Wanted,’ said Harrigan. ‘Nothing can be proven -’
Tycho saw the flash of victory in Ramirez’s eyes. ‘I see,
Harrigan gave a groan of irritation before they was halfway there. ‘Fine. Well-played, Commander. There might be some truth to what the local MPs suspect. I couldn’t confirm it’s all true - ‘cos I don’t know what they’re thinking.’
Ramirez gave Tycho the ghost of a grin, and Tycho relaxed as she saw the tricks work and she turned back to face Harrigan. ‘You’ve smuggled goods in and out of Hardveur?’
He scowled. ‘Yes.’
‘You have contacts in and around Thor, its criminal underworld, and the networks and channels used to smuggle goods on and off-world?’
‘That’s what you’re after? Someone’s causing trouble on Thor?’ He cocked his head half an inch. ‘If you’ve read my file half as much as you think you have, Commander, then you’ll know I’m not going to give you information to buy a reprieve just so you can go arrest someone else out there.’
She’s pushing too hard. Tycho drew a tense breath.
‘Right now I don’t think you have much of a choice, Harrigan,’ said Ramirez. ‘It’s that or -’
‘You said you were only smuggling alcohol and tobacco.’
They both jumped as Tycho’s voice broke the tense air, and Harrigan looked at her for the first time. ‘It speaks,’ he mused.
Tycho opened her hands, giving a sunny smile. She knew she’d get it in the neck from Ramirez afterwards, but the interrogation would go worse if her partner let them seem divided here and now. Not often did she disrupt Ramirez’s plans, but not often did they need disrupting. This was one of those times. ‘It can read, too. And listen. Stolen alcohol, stolen tobacco, getting around goods restrictions and hiked taxes. We’re not exactly talking the crime of the century here.’
‘It pays,’ said Harrigan, cautious.
‘So what do you think of someone shipping stolen military equipment into Hardveur so they can use it to kill cops and civilians?’ Tycho spotted the flash of aggravation in Ramirez’s eyes, but kept her gaze on Harrigan, studying his reaction. Her gamble of sharing information paid off as his expression shifted to a grimace - then turned thoughtful.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Them?’
Ramirez cocked her head. ‘Them?’
Harrigan shut his mouth, and a mask of tight control slipped across his expression. ‘What do I get out of cooperation, Commander? Or are you just going to dangle me above the idea of a firing squad if I don’t ask “how high” when you say “jump”?’
‘I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate, Mister Harrigan -’
‘You want answers I might have. I think that puts me in the perfect position to negotiate.’ Harrigan sat down on the bunk. ‘You want to know who might be shipping weapons in and out of Hardveur, and how, and which channels they’re using. So, I ask again. What do I get?’
Ramirez exhaled through her nose in frustration. ‘All right. If you can give us information which leads to the end of this weapons smuggling, and plead guilty to the smuggling charges, the OCMS will ensure that JAG ignore your abandonment of your post last March and any currently unconfirmed suspicions of other smuggling operations. Just stolen alcohol and tobacco. You’ll be out in two years.’
‘There’s a problem with this,’ said Harrigan. ‘And that problem’s that I’ve not been to Thor in two months. And when I was last there, someone new was muscling in on the scene, issuing new hires, elbowing out all the usual operators. I know who flies in and out of there, I know where they hang out, I know who they work for, and I reckon they’ll still be there, but the situation may have changed. Picking up the thread ain’t going to be so easy as me giving you a list of names and bars.’
It was the most honest, helpful thing he’d said so far, but Ramirez looked irate anyway. ‘We can send a message back here with our findings if your initial suggestions prove unhelpful. And you can inform us from there.’ Tycho opened her mouth to object, but fell silent as Ramirez lifted a hand.
Harrigan watched them, and this time there was something cold and assessing in his gaze. ‘And what ain’t you telling me?’
‘That’s the deal,’ she said.
‘Do I get a bit of paper to sign?’
‘You get my word.’
‘And what’s that worth?’ Harrigan gave a hoarse laugh as he stood. ‘Don’t give me this “higher cause” bullshit, Commander. I was a Marine, you’re right. I know exactly what the honour of a Fleet officer is worth in a time of war. I know exactly what the Confederacy will do to achieve its goals, who it’s prepared to abandon, and who it’s prepared to kill. The Confederate Fleet these days thinks that if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem, and the oath don’t mean a thing no more -’
‘I took an oath and I’ll stand by it -’
‘No, you’ll let me tell you all you want to know and then you’ll have JAG get me in front of a firing squad for treason just because I’ve been mean to you in this conversation, Commander. I know your type.’
Ramirez narrowed her eyes. ‘I assure you, Mister Harrigan, you do not know my type. I am an officer of the Orion Confederacy Marshals Service. I will enforce the law, but more importantly I will enforce justice. The spirit of duty and honour of the Confederate Fleet is not dead.’
Harrigan gave a shrug and then said seven simple words which made Tycho’s breath catch. ‘Tell that to the people of Tyr.’
Oh, shit. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Harrigan stood tall and casual, unaware of the bombshell that he’d dropped, but Ramirez had gone very still. Not irate, not clamping down on irritation - this was either a calm before a devastating storm, or something had crumpled.
Tycho found herself talking before she could stop, just to do something. ‘We’ll take you to Hardveur,’ she said. ‘Part of our team. A consultant.’
Harrigan’s gaze snapped to Tycho, but there was an edge of surprise at Ramirez’s reaction. ‘A consultant.’
‘A specialist. Whatever you want to call it. You travel with us to Hardveur, you help us get in touch with the people there who’ll know who these new people operating on Thor are, the people who’re shipping goods onto and off the planet, you help us follow this arms shipping straight to the source. And then, when it’s done, we will place that deal we just mentioned in front of JAG and they will have to sign it, because you’re right - we’re Confederate Marshals. We’re imbued by the power of the Senate to do pretty much whatever we damn well please in pursuit of the law.’ She pointed at Ramirez. ‘So that means if you accept this deal and try to cut and run, the Chief gets to shoot you in the head. She doesn’t do that very often but I think right now she’d do that for free.’
Ramirez rubbed her temples. ‘That’s enough, Lieutenant,’ she said, and Tycho breathed easy as she saw she was back under control, not lost in some personal hell where the towers of Tyr still burned.
Harrigan ignored her, still looking at Tycho. ‘Again, do you have a piece of paper I can sign?’
Tycho rummaged about her pockets and pulled out a pad no bigger than the palm of her hand. A quick flick of the screen and she’d brought up the contract Tau had given them, and she extended it to Harrigan. ‘You put your thumb-print on it, you cooperate enough that we make a good arrest, and nobody tries to have you shot for thinking that the traffic of Justice was so boring that death seemed a reasonable alternative.’
‘Tycho -’
But Ramirez’s warning was ignored as Harrigan reached for the pad, giving it only a cursory look-over before he pressed his thumb against the reader in the bottom-right corner.
And then the deal was done.
‘Superb,’ said Tycho, taking it back. ‘We’ll have you processed and released into our custody wi
‘I’m going to need clothes, Lieutenant,’ said Harrigan, voice more polite. ‘Something which don’t identify me as a jailbird at just a glance.’
‘I’m sure even our limited budget can stretch that far. I think we’re done here, Mister Harrigan. We’ll see you shortly,’ said Tycho, and grabbed Ramirez by the elbow to pull her out of the cramped cell and into the grey metal corridor.
Ramirez yanked her arm free the moment the door locked behind them. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Tycho flinched. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but your way wasn’t working. You pushed him too hard by asking him to trust you. This is a man who’s been burned by the Fleet before, he’s not going to trust you.’ She swallowed. ‘And then he said what he did -’
Ramirez turned away, lifting a hand to her temple. ‘It... jarred me.’
‘It was supposed to jar you. Though perhaps not that badly. And it’s okay that it jarred you, it came out of left field and so I did what I’m supposed to do as your partner and took over while you were reeling.’ The reassurance in her voice was honest. Something had gone tight and harsh in her partner in that cell, even before Harrigan’s bombshell, but it was something Tycho would keep an eye on, not judge her for. They were a team, still.
Ramirez’s shoulders slumped and Tycho pretended she didn’t see her blinking rapidly. ‘Do you really think a carrot approach would have worked better?’
‘I think he was going to be an awkward son of a bitch whichever we did. I think if you played nice he was going to play the vindictive bastard. He wasn’t going to trust us no matter what.’
‘True,’ said Ramirez, her mask of control wavering before she perfected it. ‘He wanted something solid, not words. Which means he’s still likely to not trust the contract we made, which means there’s a good chance he’ll run if he gets half a chance.’
‘Also true. That’s why you didn’t want to bring him with us, isn’t it? You didn’t want us keeping half an eye on someone who might screw up the entire operation while we still have a whole case to fuss about.’
‘That, and I didn’t want to compromise for a man who abandoned his post. I don’t care how boring the traffic around Justice is. You read his file, you know he was sent there after he got his platoon killed. And even if that weren’t the case, the man went AWOL. Good men and women are dying in this war, fighting for the Confederacy, for humanity, and he decided to go play space pirate? And now he gets sanctimonious at us about a lack of honour in the Confederate Fleet?’ Ramirez’s voice shook as each word thudded against the metal walls, and in the silence that rang out between them after, Tycho clasped her arm.
‘So we’ll make use of him. We’ll use his criminal knowledge and we’ll stop the arms smuggling and this Ragnarok group and we’ll save lives. And in the grand scheme of things that will do a whole lot more good than just leaving him to rot in a cell, or even sending him off to die.’
She added a gentle, companionable squeeze of the arm, and Ramirez drew a deep breath and managed a wry smile. ‘When did you get so sensible, Tych?’
Tycho dropped her hand, grinned, and everything was sunshine and normality again. ‘I read this book, right? Written by some MP with oodles of experience and common sense, who takes justice seriously instead of just following written law and has a sense of how doing the right thing doesn’t mean being stupid or impractical.’
Ramirez’s smile turned guilty, and her gaze went back to John Harrigan’s cell door. ‘I don’t think she was in that cell just then.’
‘Everyone’s allowed an off-day. That’s why you’ve got me to pick up the slack, Chief. But you’re right. The spirit and honour of the Confederate Fleet isn’t dead, and we’ll get this job done by playing by the book.’ Tycho gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Your book. And those bastards shooting civilians and cops on Thor won’t know what hit them.’
3
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into Thor’s atmosphere and will be setting down at Hardveur Spaceport in the next twenty minutes. When the signs switch on we would like you to remain seated until the landing procedures are finished. Thank you for travelling with Astral Leisure, and we hope you’ve had a safe and pleasant journey.’
The civilian transport the two Marshals and their new ‘consultant’ had taken from Odin was a comfortable and modern enough ship to make the journey as pleasant and smooth as the better part of a day’s travel in a confined space could be. But that still meant a good twenty hours sat in seats barely wider than they were, knees shoved into the row in front of them, and processed food as the only refreshment.
And John Harrigan sandwiched in the middle as a security measure Ramirez sorely regretted within the first hour. As the pilot’s voice filtered down from the overhead speakers and sighs of relief could be heard from up and down the seats, he looked at his two travel companions. ‘I need to take a leak.’
Ramirez pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Now?’
‘Before I get strapped into my chair as this Fleet Academy washout tries to set down this fat lady without spilling anyone’s coffee. Sounds like a perfect time.’
‘Fine. Tych, go with him.’
Tycho’s eyes snapped open. The shortest of the three of them, she was also the only one who’d managed to make herself comfortable, stretching her legs out and snoozing for the majority of the trip. ‘Oh, no, Chief. I am not escorting him to the head.’
‘Dissent in the ranks, oh dear.’ He grinned at Ramirez. ‘You should flog her for that.’
Ramirez ignored him. ‘I am not having him moving around unattended -’
‘Chief, if he tries to run, he runs, and you get to shoot him. Let him go to the damn toilet on his own.’
‘Fine.’ Ramirez looked at him. ‘Go, and if you’re not back before the final descent -’
‘Then one of the lovely stewardesses will be awful disappointed with me,’ said Harrigan, unbuckling his seatbelt. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
Ramirez rubbed her temples as he slipped past her, but the gentle buzzing that had persisted behind her eyes for the last few hours faded as his presence did. She enjoyed the calm, relaxing silence for the long minutes it lasted until Tycho leaned over. ‘You all right, Chief? I didn’t mean to undermine you, there.’
‘You weren’t,’ Ramirez sighed. ‘You’re right. This isn’t a prisoner escort assignment. We’re not here to keep an eye on Harrigan, we’re here to cut Ragnarok off from their source of military ordnance. We’ve got smugglers, terrorists, local cops, and a whole political protest movement to worry about. We can’t get obsessed with staring at the man next to us in case he’s going to stab us in the back or run away.’
Guilt flashed across her face. ‘This is why you didn’t want him with us.’
‘It is,’ said Ramirez, ‘but what’s done is done. Hopefully he recognises it’s in his best interests to co-operate.’ Her gaze flickered to the glass of water on the tray in front of her, the surface beginning to ripple. ‘Here we go.’
‘Is there something you can take for this?’
‘We’re going to have to get straight to work the moment we land,’ said Ramirez. ‘Anything which makes landing easier is going to addle me.’
‘Right.’ Tycho reached to the bag at her feet and pulled out her pad. ‘So, where do we start?’
‘The Flarestar Bar.’ Harrigan slid in front of Ramirez to take back his seat. ‘It’s in the western side of Hardveur. Nice place. They do a killer Manhattan cocktail.’
A shudder ran through their transport as it entered the upper atmosphere of Thor, leaving the empty vacuum of space, and Ramirez gritted her teeth. Harrigan’s presence didn’t make the churning in her gut ease at all.
Tycho took one look at her and cleared her throat. ‘I was thinking we should check in with the local PD -’
‘So every crooked cop in the city knows who we are and why we’re there? We’ll be the hottest new commodity on the street wi
‘Do we want a casual conversation down the Flarestar?’
‘The Flarestar is the local dive for my kind of person. And you want information about what my kind of person’s been doing, I thought, Tych?’
‘We do, Johnny, but I for one don’t like walking into a situation blind. You said you’re out of date on what the situation is in Hardveur and with the smuggling rings. Surely if we go chat with the HCPD they can give us a better picture?’
Still with her eyes shut, Ramirez felt Harrigan tense beside her as Tycho called him “Johnny”. She cleared her throat. ‘If you take us to the Flarestar, can you find someone who’ll give us the rundown on the local situation?’
‘Sure. I mean, unless everything’s gone completely different. You two do have the authority to operate out of uniform?’
‘If the situation calls for it. Then we’ll do that. Afterwards we can talk to the HCPD. It’ll be telling if they paint us a different picture to what your contacts do.’
When she popped one eye open, he was scowling. ‘I can find reliable people.’
‘It wasn’t your contacts’ reliability I was worried about.’
‘You’re worried about the HCPD being crooked, Chief?’
‘I worry about a member of the HCPD being crooked, especially considering Ragnarok’s access to the comms network on the precinct strike,’ said Ramirez. ‘Terrorist groups like this operate at their best with insider information to plan their hits. They like to use shock and awe tactics so their victims and enemies think they can attack anywhere, anyhow, when it’s really just a case of cherry-picking their strikes.’ Then their transport rattled underneath them and she closed her eyes, slowing her breathing.
‘I guess a department the size of Hardveur’s is going to have someone who’ll sell them out for a quick credit or two.’ Tycho looked to Harrigan. ‘You said “them” back on Odin about someone buying weapons and muscling in on the local smuggling ring. Is this “them” Ragnarok?’
‘This was only starting up when I got collared. There were someone putting my usual contacts out of business, and some folks I knew who stuck more regular to Thor said there was a group becoming the only people who put out hires and didn’t like it if you turned them down. Ragnarok was the name they used.’
‘And this was mundane contraband smuggling, not just weapons and other high end -’ Then the transport bucked enough for Ramirez’s glass of water to spill, and she stopped talking with a low groan, eyes screwing shut tighter.
‘It was all sorts,’ Harrigan said, but he sounded like he’d lost interest in the topic of smuggling by now. ‘What’s up with you?’
Ramirez gritted her teeth, but it was Tycho who spoke up. ‘So we get out of uniform when we land, get to the Flarestar, talk to them -’
It was a valiant effort to draw Harrigan’s attention but he ignored it, and when Ramirez opened one eye he was peering at her. ‘You get space sick?’
She let out a slow, shuddering breath. ‘I get airsick. I’m fine out of atmo.’
‘But you’re a naval officer.’
‘I am.’
‘Ain’t that the kind of thing they refuse you from entering the service for? What good’s a naval officer who gets sick the moment her ship passes through a nebula?’
‘One who’s better planet-side,’ said Ramirez, and with a supreme effort opened her eyes. ‘But rest assured, Mister Harrigan - I have served on battleships racked with enemy fire and done my job, I have taken part in troop landings on planets under attack, and I passed every test required to join the Fleet Academy.’
‘So you bribed your way in?’
Ramirez gave a tight twist of a smile. ‘Just for that, Mister Harrigan, I’m not letting you have a Manhattan when we get to the Flarestar.’
He scowled, but it was an exaggerated expression and there was a spark in his eyes. ‘Oh, you play hardball, Commander Ramirez.’ He reached into the soft brown suede jacket they’d bought for him on Odin even through Tycho’s protests that if they got him cheap clothes they might be able to fly first class to Hardveur, and pulled out a boiled sweet. ‘Here.’
‘Where’d you get this?’
‘At the spaceport, Commander. It’ll help.’ He smirked as she unwrapped it. ‘Of course, I totally stole it from one of the kiosks when you were getting our luggage checked in.’
Ramirez rolled her eyes. ‘Nice try.’
‘No, I did. It was a holdup. I convinced the shop girl that my boarding pass was a gun, there were tears and upset, it was a hell of a thing, but you didn’t give me any credits to spend and I was desperate for a snack.’
‘I know you bummed some credits off the lieutenant,’ said Ramirez, and Tycho had the good grace to look sheepish.
‘I blew those on smokes,’ said Harrigan. ‘The sweets are definitely stolen contraband. Spaceport security tried to hunt me down but I told them I was with the Confederate Marshals, and they let me go...’
This tall tale continued even as the window next to Tycho showed the bright skies of Thor’s upper atmosphere turning to gloomy clouds as they descended. Thor was a rocky, mountainous world, of tall peaks and deep forests, but Hardveur as a city had been there for over a hundred years, and had begun its life humbly. Once it had been a small town built on the banks of a slow-running river that wound its lazy way through rusty plains ripe for farming crops, fruit, and feeding the imported livestock. The town would have been at odds with the majestic surroundings of Thor, for the plains were flanked by two mountain ranges that cut jagged views across the skylines parallel to the river. It was an oddity of terraforming that the nature of a planet’s surface could be changed more easily than the shape, and a reason for the river’s apparent hesitance at reaching its destination became clear if one turned an eye south - for the plains did not last forever, and eventually their reddish, vibrant hues collapsed.
A sheer cliff-face presented a dizzying tumble for the river’s waters, which coursed into the oblivion of their continuation somewhere through the green canopy of the tree-line several hundred metres below. Down there would be settlements, logging camps and unassuming homes in rustic nature which would have been settled long after the pre-fab constructs of the Hardveur colony had been replaced with permanent buildings made of the grey stone from the quarries of the nearby mountains.
And from there the city had only grown, no longer a humble town but a bustling metropolis. It had raced from its nestled spot in a curve of a river towards the cliff-face and then, as if hitting a sheer wall which went up, rather than down, all of the energy of expansion had surged towards the sky. Spires of sweeping lines of shining steel now stabbed at prevalent clouds, piercing them to bring down the rains and the mists, and it was past these they soon enough whisked by before they landed at Hardveur Spaceport.
Harrigan didn’t shut up the entire way, and only stopped talking when their transport rocked to a stop and Tycho leaned forwards in her chair. ‘Look at that, Chief, you didn’t need a sick bag. I swear I thought you were gonna die when we were setting down at Midgard.’
‘That sounds less to do with airsickness and more to do with Midgard being a dump,’ said Harrigan.
Hardveur was the capital city of Thor, so the spaceport they’d set down at was the busiest in the world. In a crowded nest of civilisation like this, so far away from the front lines, one could almost imagine there wasn’t a war raging even at the outskirts of the star system, let alone casting whole worlds of the Confederacy into chaos, death, and darkness.
Here there were no weeping refugees, no military shuttlecraft hovering to watch the landing routes for threats, no panicked families gathering around every ultranet screen for even the briefest hint of news. Here the biggest concern was still getting a job, paying the bills, and crawling up the ladder. On Thor, nobody was worried that if their best friend died, they might get back
But the war still lurked, its presence a lingering shadow at the edge of the polished metal buildings of Hardveur. Security as they landed was still tight, and even flashing their OCMS IDs granted only a little leeway when it came to baggage checking. At every departure and arrival gate there was a spaceport security guard with a rifle, bored out of their skull at watching civilians come by. Nobody lingered more than they had to - and if they did they were promptly moved on.
The six remaining star systems of the Orion Confederacy were under martial law, where although local law enforcement had not been stripped of its authority, the military was permitted all rights and powers to keep order. It was by such a decree that the Marshals, drawn predominantly from military officers, could deal with Fleet and civilian matters alike, for separating the police and military was less of a concern in the face of chaos and war. But the Fleet still had the Null to contend with, and thus many worlds of the Confederacy still operated just as they always had, with civilian law enforcement front and centre.
‘This place got more tense,’ said Harrigan as Ramirez emerged from the changing rooms, out of the constraints of the uniform and in civilian clothing. ‘It’s only been a couple of months.’
‘A lot’s happened in a couple of months. And we’ll get the HCPD to tell us what wasn’t in the official reports soon enough, but in the meantime, the three of us are going to play tourist. You know how to get to the Flarestar?’
‘I used to practically live there, darlin‘.’ She rolled her eyes, but he just grinned and led them to the taxi rank outside the spaceport.
Ramirez didn’t mind hovercars. She could almost always see the ground, and even if she couldn’t, the closeness of the buildings created the illusion of stability. They also rarely travelled above sixty miles an hour when in city traffic, and if she could grit her teeth and bear it sat on a shuttlecraft hurtling two hundred miles an hour while being shot at by Null cannons, travelling across Hardveur was positively sedate in comparison.
So as Harrigan tried to say something to irritate her and Tycho tried to make him shut up, she turned to the taxi window and watched.
Depending on the lighting, Hardveur was either a series of shining spires or stark, cold, and grey. With more and more people crowding in and less and less space, it had succumbed to the inevitability which struck any modern city, and thrust upwards. A citizen of Hardveur could walk the streets for a whole day of work, shopping, and entertainment, and still never set foot on solid ground. Walkways wound like metal spiderwebs between the granite and steel skyscrapers, and in between them buzzed the hovering traffic, pumping the lifeblood of Hardveur around the city. Colour seeped in from the billboards and giant screens lighting up the walls of buildings and trying to sell the latest hovercar model, advertising the most recent movie, but the dreary skies made them desaturated beacons in grimy air.
The Flarestar was close to the industrial district of Hardveur, where the buildings were shorter but hulking and square, grimy, and their taxi ducked towards the lower levels, winding through the layers of traffic to come to a halt at a walkway a mere twenty floors up. The late afternoon sky was grey, and with the shadows of the buildings falling upon them, the streetlights were already sparked to life at people’s feet on the walkway.
Tycho opened the door and looked across the steel platform to the flashing light on the wall welcoming them to the ‘Flaresta’, a dimmed ‘r’ dangling off the wall. She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Cheerful.’
‘It’s perfect for what it is. Only the people who’re supposed to be here, come here,’ said Harrigan, setting foot on solid metal.
‘Since a passerby takes one look and decides to not risk it because they’ve not had their plague vaccine updated this year?’
Ramirez paid the taxi driver and hopped out to join them. A cold breeze whistled down the wind tunnel and she grimaced, pulling her jacket closer and already missing her military greatcoat. ‘You know the place, Harrigan. Lead on.’
‘Right. Try to not stink of pig.’
The shadowed inside of the bar met every promise with which the outside had lured them in. Lighting came from the under-lit table surfaces where glowed every stain of a spilt drink, from the screens on walls showing the speeding shapes of a jetbike race on Danu, from the fluorescent tubes of lights of mismatched colours running along the walls. The floors were sticky, the music a repetitive, thudding bass, the air thick with smoke and the smell of sweat. It was full and liberally serving alcohol even at this time of day to a clientele who wore plain, functional clothing, drank alone or in groups, and either held hushed, muttered discussions or kept themselves to themselves.
Harrigan’s eyes lit up as they swept across the bar. ‘Some things don’t change.’
‘Even though they should,’ Ramirez muttered. ‘There’s no way they can serve this much drink and still be following rations.’
Harrigan smirked. ‘And yet, society ain’t imploded because one bar’s bootlegging some booze. Go figure.’
‘How about you go find us someone we want to talk to and we’ll get some drinks and go take that booth at the back, out of the way.’
‘A shadowy booth in a corner. You’re the downright epitome of subtlety, Commander,’ chuckled Harrigan, but with a wink he swept past them and off to the bar.
‘I don’t know about you,’ said Tycho as they trooped past the curious eyes and the ducked heads trying to shut out the rest of the world, ‘but after everything Harrigan’s said about this place, after how ominous this Ragnarok are sounding, and after being stuck in a crappy transport for twenty hours, I really want one of those Manhattans.’
Ramirez gave her partner a grin, and the two women relaxed as they slid into the booth. Unconsciously they positioned themselves so, between the two of them, they had a clear line of sight of the whole room; Tycho kept an eye on the door, Ramirez kept an eye on the bar, and Harrigan who stood there, deep in conversation with the bartender. It included a lot of gesticulating.
‘This is promising, at least,’ she said. ‘If this isn’t some sort of trick, then he’s genuinely trying to make himself helpful. Even if I do wish we could gag him.’
‘The man doesn’t shut up. But on the other hand, I never saw you take a landing so well as this one.’
‘That’s because I was distracted by how annoying he is.’ Ramirez looked up as a waitress approached her table, and gave Tycho a warning glower. ‘No Manhattans.’
Tycho ignored her and ordered a pair, and gave an innocent grin when the waitress swept off. ‘Come on, we order fruit juice in a place like this and they’ll know we’re cops. This way it just looks like we’re class tourists.’
‘Fine, but you’re not allowed to drink it.’
‘Of course,’ said Tycho, but when the waitress returned with their two cocktail glasses she grabbed hers with an eager eye. ‘And now it would be suspicious to not drink it.’
‘You are incorrigible.’
‘I’m helping us keep a low profile. I swore an oath. This is my duty,’ said Tycho, and drank.
Ramirez left hers well alone, not out of deference to the uniform so much as a distrust of the Flarestar’s smuggled drinks. The high taxation on alcohol was an underhanded means of gathering more revenue in wartime, and some puritanical Senator from Courage had argued that less alcohol in a time of war would mean less crime. While the tax revenue spoke for itself, it had also managed to breed a bustling black market of bootlegged alcohol to anyone who didn’t want to pay inordinate prices for a legitimate drink anywhere outside of the Sol system.
Which meant no regulation, which meant no quality control, which meant Ramirez wasn’t sure whatever she’d drink in here wouldn’t make her go blind.
She was saved from arguing this with Tycho by Harrigan coming over, a woman following. She wasn’t much taller than Tycho, short hair swept back, wearing a black leather jacket and holdi
Harrigan had to speak around the cigarette he’d acquired and his jaunty grin as he approached the table. ‘Ladies, may I introduce Captain Grace Takahashi of the Northern Star. Grace, this is, er...’
‘Your cop friends,’ said Takahashi without missing a beat, pulling up a stool, and Harrigan looked surprised. She jerked a thumb at him. ‘He’s not as smooth as he likes to think.’
Ramirez nodded, leaning forwards. She didn’t know if she should feel reassured or off-put by Takahashi’s easy manner; she was keenly aware that she was sat across the table from someone who’d likely committed crimes just as bad as Russell Mercer’s, and she’d almost died to bring the smuggler in. But this was what they were there for. ‘I’m Commander Ramirez; this is Lieutenant Tycho. We’re Confederate Marshals.’ Lying seemed pointless by now.
‘Is that a fact?’ Takahashi raised an eyebrow at Harrigan. ‘You weren’t kidding about friends in high places, John. I thought these guys were a myth.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Harrigan. ‘They’re maddeningly real.’
‘And we’re the only reason you’re not in a cell, Harrigan, so let us do our job,’ said Ramirez.
He opened his hands and grinned around his cigarette. ‘You mean, talk to the lead I brought to you?’
She ignored him and looked at Takahashi. ‘Harrigan says that things have been changing on Thor the past few months. That the usual faces have been elbowed out of smuggling operations, and someone new leading the charge.’
‘That’s accurate,’ said Takahashi, ‘but such an understatement it’s almost useless. You should have got yourself a fresher source than John.’
‘They got me; I brought them you, Gracie. So make yourself useful and tell these nice people what they want to know.’
Takahashi’s brow furrowed, and Ramirez could have kicked Harrigan. In just one jibe her demeanour had gone from businesslike and co-operative to suspicious and irritable. ‘Why, exactly, should I?’ she said, voice low and flat. ‘There are no outstanding warrants for my arrest. I’m here out of the goodness of my heart.’
Tycho sipped her Manhattan. ‘And so are we, and the mutual goodness of mutual hearts can do all sorts of people all sorts of favours.’
‘Not to mention that I doubt you want to be on the Marshals’ bad side,’ said Harrigan.
Takahashi waved a hand. ‘Empty promises and empty threats.’
Ramirez caught her eye. ‘But you’ve been operating on Thor for a while; that’s why Harrigan went to you.’ A quick glance at Harrigan suggested her guess had been right. ‘And now Ragnarok are changing everything, elbowing in, and you can’t be on the inside and their best friend, or Harrigan wouldn’t have gone to you. So, what, they’re cutting out your business partners? Expecting you to operate their way? Infringing on that freedom you so ardently value?’
Takahashi had been giving her a pensive look until the last sentence. ‘You know you can shove that condescending flat-foot attitude up your ass any time, right?’ But she sighed. ‘Ragnarok came in two months ago. Before that Thor was… you’ve read the files, I bet. Black market goods from whoever made them to whoever sells them, but we’re talking getting booze to a fancy nightclub which wants to sell drinks cheaply, or some rich guy wants you to get something through customs without it being confiscated. Thor wasn’t exactly the Confederacy’s biggest den of iniquity - and that was a good thing. You operate on Thor, you’re not likely to get shot because you pissed off the wrong person. This isn’t Morrigan.’
Ramirez sipped her Manhattan and tried to not cough. Clearly Tycho could only keep a straight face because of years of a pickled liver. ‘And now?’
‘Now it’s all Ragnarok. They came in with their guns and their people and told all of us that we work for them now. And any of the big rings either did work for them or they wound up chased off-world at best, dead at worse. Jean Gardin used to run the show around here, biggest fish me and John worked for. They killed him.’
‘To what end? What’re they after? What do they want?’
‘What does anyone want, Commander? You’re the cop.’ Takahashi gave a wry smile that twisted her sharp features. ‘Credits. And so now people have to ship in the harder drugs to the markets they’re supplying and creating. And so now if you want to bring in a shipment of whisky off the books, you better be giving it over to a Ragnarok fence, or make sure you give them a cut - because if they find out, they won’t be the ones getting the cut, you follow?’
Tycho sipped her drink. ‘Witty.’
Harrigan frowned. ‘So why’re you still here, Gracie? None of this ain’t your kind of scene.’
‘And where do I go? Martial law’s spreading across the Confederacy. Vega is no place to operate unless you’ve got balls of steel because the Navy shoots first and asks questions later in a war-zone. The Sirius gangs are only marginally kinder, nobody operates in Sol unless they’ve got superb connections, and I don’t have the licenses to maintain a legit front in Alpha Centauri. So that leaves Altair. And sure, Ragnarok are growing, and looking to Odin and Baldr’s moons, but so far I’ve been able to give them a small cut and keep them happy. I don’t do the kind of business that upsets them so long as I pay them lip service. I tighten my belt but, hey, news flash, we’re at war. Everyone’s tightening their belt.’
Even the smugglers do their part in this age of austerity, Ramirez thought wryly. ‘So Ragnarok just look like some new, organised crime family to you?’
‘I watch the news,’ said Takahashi. ‘I know they’re more than that. I know they’re political, I know they’re blowing up monolink stations and exploding cars outside of precincts and shooting cops. Seems they have a little problem with the war meaning those of us who’ve never seen a Null need to be treated like the enemy.’
‘Of course, acting like the enemy is the perfect way to deal with that situation,’ said Harrigan.
‘But all I see of their operations,’ said Takahashi, ignoring Harrigan, ‘are them getting themselves well-entrenched in Thor’s criminal underworld, and making themselves rich.’
‘And yet weapons are showing up in the hands of civilians when these political protests turn violent. In the hands of the people blowing up cars and stations and shooting at cops.’ Ramirez cocked her head. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that?’
Takahashi drained her glass of whisky, gaze thoughtful. ‘If they’re shipping in weapons, they’ll need the best, and they’ll need people they completely trust. I’m only one of those things; I don’t bow and scrape enough to be in their trust. I can’t afford to.’
‘Who is?’ said Harrigan. ‘There’s got to be someone who went running into their skirts.’
‘You remember Jovak?’
‘The Fair Prospect’s skipper? That little weasel?’
‘You’re just jealous because he beat you to that diamond smuggling job.’
Tycho’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding. People still smuggle diamonds? That is so cool.’
Ramirez rolled her eyes. ‘Sometimes you’re a terrible cop, Tych.’
‘Sometimes I can hack into a ship’s computer and save your ungrateful ass from being shot, Chief.’
Takahashi looked at Harrigan. ‘I’m glad to see the Confederate Fleet are as professional as ever. What did you get caught for, John?’
‘Only everything I did and there aren’t at all any outstanding cases,’ said Harrigan with a toothy grin. ‘But, Jovak, what about him?’
‘You’re right, he’s a little weasel,’ said Takahashi. ‘But he’s a competent little weasel and Ragnarok has pretty lucrative skirts. If anyone’s been entrusted with gun running, it’ll be him.’
‘This Jovak.’ Ramirez leant forwards. ‘Where do we find him?’
‘Oh, I know the haunts -’
‘Things change, John,’ warned Takahashi. ‘This isn’t the same Thor you’re used to. Anything can happen at any -’
And then fate decided to prove her point when the double front doors were kicked down to allow half a dozen armed men to charge in, filling the air with orders to freeze and put their hands up, each and every one in the uniform of the Hardveur City Police Department.
Which was when the shooting started.
4
It was hard to say who shot first. Perhaps one of the HCPD officers was startled by movement in a corner and had an itchy trigger finger. Perhaps one of the patrons of the Flarestar decided coming quietly was the last thing they wanted to do, and drew a gun. But the first gunshots broke the stunned shock that ran through the bar, and chaos was come.
The Flarestar was a large establishment and the HCPD officers no more than half a dozen in number. The spray of bullets rang over everyone’s heads, but that didn’t stop the police from storming forwards, met by bottles swung at armoured helmets, and retaliating with rifle butts in unprotected faces.
Which began the mad dash and scramble for the back doors.
Ramirez grabbed Tycho by the elbow when the shooting started and dragged them both under the table. ‘What kind of cowboy operation is -’
‘Survival first, outrage later, Chief!’ Tycho snapped, fumbling her ID card from her coat pocket, and lifting it above the table as if the shield emblazoned on it could become a genuine one.
‘They’re not going to see that,’ said Ramirez, just as Harrigan appeared under the table next to them.
‘Hi,’ he said with a grin. ‘So, it looks like the HCPD are a lot more ballsy than I remember -’
Ramirez frowned. ‘Where’s Takahashi?’ A glance at the knees and boots which were all they could see gave nothing. Bar patrons were throwing themselves against the cops, against each other, scrambling for cover or an escape, and whatever the HCPD had wanted was likely long gone.
As was the best source of information they had.
Harrigan looked over his shoulder. ‘Girl always knew when to make an exit. She won’t go for the back door, she’ll go downstairs; the emergency exit in the stockroom leads to the rest of the building and she knows this place back to front -’
Ramirez grabbed the lapel of Harrigan’s jacket. ‘Which way?’
‘You ain’t going to arrest her -’ He stopped when Tycho yelped as a hail of bullets, these from a handgun rather than one of the HCPD’s rifles, thudded into the wall above their table.
‘I’m not trusting two inches of cheap metal to protect us against bullets,’ Ramirez said, scrambling out and keeping her head down as she plunged into the chaos that was the swirling bar brawl and raid filling the Flarestar.
The half-dozen HCPD officers, their faces invisible behind the helmets, were ploughing forwards, using the butts of their rifles to suppress anyone in their way. Ramirez knew this kind of procedure; they’d go in armed to try to try to make everyone surrender, but with chaos breaking out, if they opened fire they’d likely only shoot civilians. And even in the days of technically-martial law and an interstellar war, the press frowned on such incidents. So now they had to trust brute force up close and personal, while whoever they were after and anyone who was spooked by the sight of the police tried to fight them, or scrambled for the door over the bodies of anyone who got in their way.
By the bar, Ramirez saw Takahashi darting for a door behind it. If Harrigan was right, then it would lead to somewhere else - another part of the huge building they were in, which threatened to be a warren of offices and establishments and industry. ‘There!’ she shouted, not sure who was following her as she plunged into the fray.
The patrons were hiding, fighting, or scrambling for the rear exit, so none of them stopped her so long as she wasn’t in their way as she clawed in Takahashi’s wake. She veered around a muscular man knocking someone over in his dash for escape, behind a pair who’d tipped a table and were using it for cover, towards her target and past a man who was yanking a handgun from a holster inside his jacket -
And pointing it directly at the row of HCPD officers who shoved over tables and ploughed onward in one of the most ineffectively brutal displays she’d ever seen from local law enforcement. But they were still law enforcement, and they still had a gun levelled at them from which body armour remained an imperfect protection.
Ramirez hesitated, then took her eyes off Takahashi and turned to deliver a vicious blow to the gunman’s solar plexus. He didn’t see it coming, had clearly ignored a woman trying to get out of the bar, and staggered into a table, struggling to breathe. Within a heartbeat she’d grabbed his wrist and twisted the gun from his grasp, turning him to pin him on his front against the table.
‘I wouldn’t try it,’ she growled, ‘but it’s your lucky day because you’re not the one I’m after -’
She looked up to gauge the distance between her and Takahashi, who’d made it to the door - and caught, out of the corner of her eye, the glint of another gun barrel. It was in the hands of a man she’d thought was running for the exit, but he’d stopped when she’d intercepted his comrade and the weapon was pointed right at her.
The gunshot rang out a split second after Tycho’s shoulder hit her with surprising weight and ploughed her to the ground.
But when she hit the floor she realised it wasn’t Tycho, it was Harrigan, and his weight was enough to keep her pinned down for long seconds. The second gunman grabbed his stunned comrade by the shoulder, yanked him upright and the two went stumbling to the rear exit.
‘Get off me.’ She shoved Harrigan away and scrambled to her feet just in time to see the door Takahashi had been heading for swing shut, and she was going to dart forwards when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.
‘Stop right there, ma’am. You’re under arrest.’
The voice was deep and muffled, the hand bulky and armoured, and with a sinking sensation Ramirez realised that now the Hardveur City Police Department had managed to be competent and break through the crowd of low-lives that inhabited the Flarestar.
She turned to face the armoured shapes of the police officers. The cop had already grabbed Harrigan by the back of his jacket, and it looked like the worst of the fighting and resistance had stopped. Patrons had either been intercepted or had made it to the rear exit; the HCPD seemed unconcerned by this, and Ramirez assumed they had men out back waiting to pick them up. Now they were stopping by the thickest pockets of resistance they’d met, cuffing Flarestar patrons, forcing people to sit down and wait. Over towards the booth they’d come from she could see Tycho, sat on a table, looking bored and frustrated in the face of another armoured officer. A broken bottle was next to her, and a burly patron lay in a crumpled pile at her feet.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Ramirez sighed. ‘Look, I’m a Confederate Marshal, I’m conducting an investigation -’
She was reaching for her ID nestled inside her jacket, and the hand on her shoulder tightened. ‘Don’t move, ma’am. We’ll clear all of this up soon enough, but we’ve had no word of the OCMS operating here -’
‘Look, I’m going for my ID, I was after someone making an escape from your damn raid -’
‘We have people watching the rear exit, ma’am, I’m sure -’
‘She wasn’t going for the rear exit -’
‘There aren’t any other exits, ma’am -’
Harrigan turned his eyes skyward, not resisting the police officer’s grip. He whistled. ‘There really are.’
Ramirez narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What were you doing back there?’
He blinked. ‘I don’t know; saving your life? You’re welcome, by the way; always a pleasure to help a dame in distress -’
‘And you couldn’t have gone for the gunman, instead of tackling me to the floor while your friend made her daring escape?’
‘See, I thought you just came here to talk, not to lock up someone you couldn’t pin nothing on. Gracie was right; there ain’t no warrants out for her arrest. I don’t know what you thought you were going to hold her on.’
In truth, Ramirez didn’t know
The police officer holding them both cocked his head at the muffled sound of a message piping over his helmet headset, incomprehensible to them. His grip relaxed. ‘All right; the situation’s under control. Ma’am, sir, if you two have any identification, then now’s the time for it.’
Slowly, deliberately, Ramirez reached for her card, the shape reassuring in her hand as she showed it to the police officer. Though his face was invisible under the helmet, his body language showed surprise; clearly he’d thought this was a tall tale from her, but he did let her go.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, we had no word of the Marshals operating on-world.’
‘That’s because I didn’t tell you,’ said Ramirez in a flat voice. Normally she was in favour of co-operating with local law enforcement, but the raid looked like a bungled, brutal effort from a police department that didn’t care how many skulls it cracked to get results, and she had little fondness for such organisations.
And by now, with several minutes’ head start in an area she was familiar with, Grace Takahashi would be long gone thanks to their interference.
‘We’ll be sure to clear it all up. Sir?’ The officer turned to Harrigan.
He gave a toothy grin. ‘I’m with her.’
‘We’ve got strict instructions to arrest anyone in this bar; if you don’t have any identification justifying your presence here...’
‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.’ Ramirez’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s with me.’
‘If you just show me your identification -’
‘He doesn’t have any because he’s a civilian.’ It was a quicker explanation. ‘He’s working as a consultant with the Marshals Service.’
‘Be that as it may, my orders stand,’ said the police officer, implacable. Over his shoulder she could see Tycho going through a similar dance with her own representative of the HCPD. ‘We’ve had reports of smuggling deals being made in this establishment and want to bring anyone in for questioning. What’s your name, sir?’
Ramirez’s heart sank as the police officer reached to his webbing to bring out a pad, and Harrigan grinned. ‘John Harrigan.’
She could see the file that sprang up on the pad’s screen as the police officer punched in the name and took a mugshot, and the flashing alert as it consulted the HCPD’s records and informed him that, indeed, John Harrigan was someone with a criminal record they might want to have a conversation with.
Harrigan’s toothy grin remained as the police officer looked at him. ‘Well, what do you know. It’s heard of me.’