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“They are going for the Underworld.”
Captain Sloane often spoke in clipped declaratives. Seated in the captain’s chair, she tapped the armrest with one finger. “And surprise surprise, there we see Exit Wound floating above that southern pole as well. Imagine the coincidence.”
“Anxious for another go at Fischer?” Fleming asked from the flag officer’s chair.
“No,” Sloane replied. “If it comes to that, I’m not worried. But no captain deliberately risks ship and crew over ego, Alex. Since we are in the mood to swap critiques, then I must point out that they herded your operative right to where they wanted him.”
“Losing initiative was inevitable, Miranda. Our man is still in good shape, and he has the memory core. It’s merely a question of extracting him now. I should think that no challenge for you.”
“Why is it my job to extract your operative? Weren’t you supposed to hand off the core and get him to a spaceport?”
“There is no spaceport at the southern pole. We will need to use a dropship to get him out now.”
Sloane raised an eyebrow. “We do not field drop ships, Alex. And which of my three drop pods do you suppose we use? If I recall, they are all resting in a crater on Prospectus at the moment.”
Fleming paused, then scrunched his face. “Ah, yes. I had quite forgotten about that. I suppose I thought you might have more than three.”
“I do not. And even if I did, a drop pod is not the same as a drop ship. It’s really just a guided brick that falls to the surface. I’d have to be over that pole to get one close to him, and that little corvette is fast enough to snipe them in transit and run away before I could stop it.”
“Well then, I suppose it still falls on OmniCorp to get our man to a spaceport.”
Sloane’s retort came dry as a cracker. “That appears to be the case, yes.”
Fleming stared at the main screen, lost in thought for several long moments. “He will need to get to Sodom or Gomorrah. There are ports there and enough bureaucratic corruption to sneak him out without being seen.”
“Sounds like a fun time,” Sloane replied. “How do we manage this feat?”
“They’ve coaxed Grimes into the Underworld by making it seem like the only place to go. Fine. They believe they have the advantage, and maybe they do. It falls to us to take that advantage away by making the terrain inhospitable to them. Nothing too major is required. My man is very good. Grimes really just needs a little room to move, and he’ll find his way out on his own.”
“And how does one make a fringe enclave on criminality inhospitable to a group of operatives who live and work in one already?”
Fleming smiled now, a thin leer that turned his boyish features ugly. “We soak the area with dirty money and buy off every criminal and degenerate we can find. Every move they make will be opposed, their every maneuver complicated by interference from the locals. We bribe the cops, the thieves, and the thugs all at once. These are reviled sinners, correct? No one will even bat an eyelash if the whole planet turns on them.”
“Ah, yes,” Sloane said with feigned gravitas. “Straight from the corporate playbook. If you can’t beat the opponent on your own, buy more allies.”
“You say that as if it doesn’t work all the time,” Fleming replied. He affected offense, though he could not stop smiling. “Proxy wars have a long and illustrious history dating to well before the advent of megacorporations, Miranda. I am merely continuing a beautiful and important tradition.”
“Truly, you are the cultural custodian we all deserve,” said the captain, though she was smiling at this point as well.
“It’s a calling,” he said, only just suppressing a laugh. “Let me make some calls.”
Fleming left the bridge still wearing a smile. He entered a conference room on the main deck and sat down at a terminal. He checked the secure OmniCorp CommNet first and found several terse messages from Grimes waiting for him. He did not bother to read them, but instead keyed the assassin’s code into the terminal and pinged his comm directly.
“Fleming!” Grimes sounded angry. “What kind of incompetent imbeciles do you have working for you down here?”
“The kind that can be found on short notice, Grimes.”
“The rendezvous was crawling with spies, Fleming. Professionals with good gear and a plan.”
Fleming’s smile drooped. “That does not sound right. Are you sure?”
“Don’t insult me.”
Fleming dismissed Grimes’s disrespectful tone with a hand wave the assassin could not see. “Right. Of Course. I’m just not sure how those fixers or Pike could have those kinds of assets on the ground even with a four-day head start. Gateways has access to the kind of people you are describing, but how did they get a team in place before anyone knew we were going to Gethsemane?”
“They’ve bribed the locals,” Grimes retorted. “They must have.”
Fleming doubted this was the whole story and said so. “Unlikely. Even greased with money the local government would not be this friendly to them.”
“These pious fools love money as much as they pretend to love their god. I put nothing past them.”
That, Fleming admitted to himself, was an excellent point. “Perhaps, but I have another theory. What about the Planetary Council?”
“You mean DECO?” Grimes did not sound pleased.
“Right.”
“Why the hell would DECO be helping one side in a corporate conflict?”
Fleming considered telling Grimes about the Sleeping Giant and the disaster on Prospectus. Then he remembered Lincoln Hardesty’s mangled corpse and decided against it. The circumstances of Jack Chapman’s demise might hit too close to home for the unstable assassin. “There are a lot of potentially destabilizing events in play here, Grimes. DECO likes to have a hand in anything that might affect the galactic balance of power.” As far as deflections went, this one contained enough truth to survive scrutiny.
“I suppose that makes sense,” Grimes replied. “But DECO people are not to be taken lightly. The team that intercepted our rendezvous was good enough to be DECO. In light of your theory, I am glad I decided against engaging them. A large DECO reaction force would make this operation even more precarious than it already is.”
“How precarious is it now?” Fleming asked.
“I’m on a pogo plane to an underground den of criminals with no spaceport and nowhere to run to if they find me. At least this place is large and densely populated. I will be able to hide with little trouble for as long as it takes to get me out.”
“I need you to get to a spaceport as soon as you feel like you can.”
“That will be out of my hands, Fleming. These fixers are not stupid. When I see an opportunity, I will take it.”
“I am in the process of facilitating your opportunities as we speak. You will find that your stay in the Underworld will be well supported by the local criminal elements. Money is changing hands as we speak.”
“Buy the Fratre Militae.”
“What?”
“The Sword Brothers. It’s one of the local military orders down here. I have it on good authority Gateways has already bribed the administrator caste, so they will be no help to you. These Sword Brothers, on the other hand... They are heavily armed thugs, but they patrol the Underworld when no other order will. They can make life very difficult for the fixers.”
Fleming considered this. “Do we want that kind of trouble, though? Influencing criminals and bribing official is one thing, but military orders? Sounds risky.”
“Imagine the trouble Tankowicz will be in if he kills one of these armored buffoons, Fleming. They may even incarcerate him.”
Fleming considered this. Tankowicz was tied up with UEDF in some sort of top-secret way that not even OmniCorp understood. Throwing him into a cell could spark an interplanetary incident that would tie the fixers up in legal red tape for a very long time. “Your insight never fails to impress me, Killam. I’ll get started on a few sizable donations to these Sword Buddies or whatever they are. You’re sure they are amenable to this kind of arrangement? These religious types can be hard to read.”
“Everyone here is for sale, Fleming. The cost of the Penitent’s Path is astronomical.”
Fleming did not understand the answer, but Grimes seemed confident enough for both of them. “Okay, Killam. I’ll make sure you get all the cover you need. Call me back when you are on the move.”
“Of course.” Grimes killed the connection without saying goodbye.
Fleming began to swipe through menus without a second thought. It took only a few minutes of study to concur with Grimes’s assessment of the Fratre Militae. Under any other auspices and without the gaudy gothic aesthetic, the order bore a striking resemblance to any other organized group of armed thugs. The least financially sound of the major knightly orders on Gethsemane, the Sword Brothers accepted donations from all manner of patrons. As the only order to actively patrol the Underworld, most of this money came from shipping and retail interests. Fleming laughed out loud. These were little more than fancy enforcers for smuggling rings. Given the price for King Fruit on the open markets, Fleming found it easy to see how a group like the Fratre Militae might be an essential part of a criminal operation. On a hunch, Fleming checked the prices for other Gethsemane exports and nearly choked. He made a note to have OmniCorp’s import-export divisions investigate a more focused position on Gethsemane.
Satisfied he could handle the Sword Brothers, Fleming made a call. Seconds later, the swollen face of an enormous man snapped into three dimensions above his desk. Fleming did not bother to count the number of chins sagging beneath the jaw he saw. The answer was too high to be relevant.
“Good morning, Mr. Fleming,” the man burbled from beneath his prodigious jowls. “And God’s blessings be upon you and OmniCorp. I am Knight-Superior Chevalier Lasssiter, Lord-Commander of the Fratre Militae. How can I help you serve God this glorious day?”
The man’s words stank of desperate glee, and Fleming knew why. Fleming had dealt with a thousand men like Lassiter before. Beneath that doughy exterior his gelatinous innards quivered with naked avarice. He smelled a big payday, and Fleming was going to give him one. “Hello, Chevalier, I’m so glad you could make time for my call. I have a small issue I think you can help me with, and OmniCorp is happy to support your good works if you can find it in your heart to oblige us.”
“The Sword Brothers serve God above all else, but we must do so here in the galaxy he has wrought for us. We often find that our worldly needs overlap with the work we do in God’s name as well. Many have come to us in their hour of need, and it has always served God to have us help where we can.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way. You see, a group of godless sinners is trying to steal an important item from OmniCorp. They have chased our courier to Gethsemane and trapped him in an area I understand is called ‘The Underworld.’ I fear for both his body and his soul, down there, Chevalier. I hear that only your Sword Brothers can help him.”
Lassiter nodded, which made his chins wobble. “It is true the Underworld is dangerous to the uninitiated. In fact, it is only our brave Sword Brothers who have the courage and strength of faith to patrol such a place. Though I fear we do but little good. We lack the resources to cleanse the evil from those old tunnels.” He raised his eyes upward. “Though we do what we can, ever faithful to our oaths.”
“Truly, you must be a beacon of hope to those faithful that still live down there.” Fleming tried not to roll his eyes, and hoped he was successful. “Perhaps OmniCorp can help increase your presence in the Underworld. I am authorized to make a sizable donation, though the worldly needs of OmniCorp mean that it will come with some provisos.”
“A flexible mind is the greatest weapon against evil, Mr. Fleming. I am certain we can meet whatever terms your superiors require.”
Fleming suspected that flexible morals were in play far more often than flexible minds. He decided to keep that insight to himself. “We will require nothing more than what you would be doing anyway, Chevalier. The group pursuing my man is filled with cyborgs, sinners, and terrorists. They are a blight on honest, god-fearing people across the galaxy. If I can count on your help in thwarting them, OmniCorp is prepared to help with your funding issues.”
Lassiter’s face flowed into an inscrutable mask of blubbery wrinkles. “I believe I know the group you are referring to, Mr. Fleming. There may be one small issue with your request.”
“And that is?”
“Our planetary bureaucracy is controlled by the Order Administratum. For some reason only God knows, the Administrati have prevented enforcement of any action against them already. My poor Sword Brothers are warriors, not lawyers. It will be difficult to act against anyone so protected.”
Fleming nodded. “Indeed. I think you should know that one of their members is a former citizen of your planet, now an assassin and hunter. Another is a full-prosthesis cyborg of unknown origin. I would think that might erode any such protections.”
“It helps,” said Lassiter. “But if they commit no crimes and conduct their business under the auspices of the Administrati, then I can only accomplish so much.”
“Well, the large cyborg is known to have a very short fuse, and he is a professional criminal. He should be easily provoked into an altercation that might exceed whatever help your Administrati might render.” Fleming neglected to mention the potential interplanetary incident that may arise from direct action against Tankowicz. If the Chevalier knew about Tankowicz’s governmental entanglements already, he would say so. If not, OmniCorp would suffer no loss for his ignorance.
“The sin of wrath is common among the godless heathens who pervert their bodies for war. The Sword Brothers fear no battles and live for the clash of steel against steel. If this poor sinner takes up arms against God’s chosen protectors, then I think something can be arranged, Mr. Fleming.”
Fleming struggled to hold onto his bland affect in the face of Lassiter’s bloviating. He wondered if young students on Gethsemane had to take classes in flowery diction or if the impulse toward verbosity happened organically. “If so, Chevalier, you can expect OmniCorp to become an enthusiastic patron of the Fratre Militae.” Fleming caught a small twitch in the corner of Lassiter’s mouth, followed by an unsubtle drooping of his jowls. He quickly added, “As well as a generous stipend for what consulting services you provide personally.”
Lassiter perked up. “Service is a reward unto itself, you know. But I should think that the Church could do more good work were I to tithe more to the Path. I accept your stipend in God’s name, and for the glory of His Church.”
“Naturally,” Fleming replied.
“I am a humble man, Mr. Fleming. It would not sit right with me if my brothers were to know how much more good I was doing for the order and the Church. I am loath to tempt the sin of pride, you see.”
“I understand. OmniCorp will arrange for your stipend with the utmost discretion. All I ask is that Tankowicz and his people be detained to whatever extent possible.” Fleming leaned into the hologram. “The more you prevent them from operating, the more generous OmniCorp can afford to be on this matter, Chevalier.”
“I understand, Mr. Fleming. I will contact you shortly. You may go with God.”
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