Chapter 30
My home gravity settled over me like a lead blanket, my joints instantly telling me they liked Earth better.
I ignored them, taking a moment to adjust. It was dark here, full night, the air much warmer than Vermont in January, the smells also much different.
After a moment, I headed to the nearest door.
There is plenty of crime on Greenacres but almost none involves climbing to second stories; it’s too dangerous to risk a fall.
The door opened easily and relatively smoothly, indicating a lot of use, likely from skimmers landing on the roof.
Like most Greenacres buildings, it was built of rough-sawn local timbers, the wood so dense that special blades or energy beams were needed on the sawmill equipment.
My Intent sense was muted slightly, the result of extremely low ambient magic, but it was still better than before I left for Earth.
I wasn’t tapping Vesta’s ruby, so it must have been the result of me soaking in Earth’s magic for so many months.
Residual magic still in my rhinocodium tattoos, maybe.
I registered ten intents. Nine aggressively hostile, and one wearily determined to survive.
Moving slowly and stepping softly, I descended toward the first floor.
The building was one story, but the space was sixteen feet tall, the open area stacked with crates and containers on pallets all across the expanse.
My stairway was open to the floor below and I crouched to get my bearings and stay hidden in the plentiful shadows cast by the few overhead lights.
Greenacres doesn’t have the luxury of free Omega power, and our inhabitants are famously frugal with power.
Below me, I sensed three sets of intent, the brains and hearts of each moving in a defined pattern around the warehouse space.
Below this floor were six more hostile minds and one tired yet focused brain.
The drone on my left shoulder lifted silently off me as words just appeared in my vision. Three hostiles. I’ll take the farthest.
It occurred to me that Omega could likely take all three, but maybe there was something I didn’t know. Maybe he needed to stay muted here.
Two of the roving guards approached, one disciplined, the other curious and anxious. Both had more than a hint of bloodlust. I crept down into the stacks of merchandise, tracking my two targets. They converged on the other side of my pallet.
“You think he’ll really show?” eager intent asked.
“Shut it and try to act like a professional,” the other guard ordered. “You get too excited and you’ll fumble the kill. This isn’t the guy to fumble with.”
Okay, they knew I was coming. They intended to kill me. Right.
I pulled a magazine from my belt and pulled two 10mm rounds off it, holding them in my right hand.
My left hand gripped Vesta’s ruby and I looked down at the two brass cartridges in my right hand and then closed my fingers over them as I sent the cartridges on their way, the target for each deep in their hearts.
From the other side of the pallet, I heard two bodies hit the ground.
Three seconds later, I heard a wet thump from across the room and then the soft rustling fall of another body.
Seconds later, Omega’s drone zipped into sight, blood dripping from its alloy shell.
I moved to my two kills and confirmed they were dead.
Dad always told me to confirm my kills. Never leave a living enemy behind you.
Each was carrying a short-barreled pump shotgun, each had a ballistic plate carrier festooned with shells, a handgun holster, and…
a pair of dull gray cylinders with rings and arming spoons.
Military grade flash bangs. A late Solstice gift, just for me.
I took all four, then turned toward the door behind the stairs. Sure enough, another set of stairs descended into the earth. Omega’s drone flashed silently by me, a blue laser light scanning all four walls as it moved down into the darkness below.
Clear appeared in my vision. I crept down till I reached a heavy door constructed of thick slabs of Greenacres hardwood. Six hostiles inside. Three facing this door, three facing the door at the other end. Agent Jensen hanging from a hook between them. Assistance required?
I thought about it for a second, then mouthed silently, Door locked?
Negative. You are apparently invited to a killing.
I accept.
I took one of the flash bangs from my dump pouch, then settled my Glock wannabe in my left hand, the bomblet in my right.
Without hesitating, I lifted the simple wooden latch, kicked the door, and threw the grenade, ducking to one side as I pulled my dad’s gun from my chest holster.
That stretching feeling came over me, a little, like when Omega had shot at Vesta.
“Greeenaaadeee!” sounded through the room as I stepped through and shot them all.
They were all in the process of turning away from the flash bang or at least watching it and their movements were slow, like they were a half second behind me.
My left-hand pistol shot the leftmost guy facing me, then the guy behind him, who was facing away, and then the middle guy also facing away.
Feet shifting me right, my right hand feathered the Nighthawk trigger, killing the middle guy facing me, the bullet hitting at an angle to avoid Agent Jensen, then I shot the rightmost facing me and the one behind him. Head shots each.
I paused. All six bodies were standing motionless, then all fell to the ground like puppets whose strings have been suddenly severed, seeming to speed up as they rushed to the ground.
Jensen hung from her bound wrists, bare feet dangling a foot above the floor.
A small table on the side of the room held a mix of gear that looked like her weapons and equipment: boots her size and the grip of a late generation Glock.
I stopped and picked up the unexploded flash bang.
“I thought maybe you forgot to pull the pin, but you never intended to pull it, did you?” Agent Jensen asked, eyeing me with one dark eye, the other swelled shut from a solid black eye.
“And waste it?” I asked, as I moved up close to her, holstering my guns. “Hell no. You know how hard it is to get quality ordnance here on Greenacres? We mostly have to use big firecrackers. Like half-sticks of dynamite with finicky fuses.”
“Ah, of course. Resourceful,” she said, single eye locked on me as I put an arm around her before touching the handcuff links that were holding her on the big meat hook chained to the rafters.
A tiny pulse of Apport protocol clipped the center link and then she was falling, but I caught her and held her up until she could get her feet under her.
“Plus, don’t flash bangs have serial numbers? Maybe traceable?” I asked.
She staggered a little, favoring her right foot. It looked like someone had taken a hammer to it and then smeared mud on it. I moved to the table and swept her gear into the open black backpack she must have carried.
“I want my gun,” she said.
“Omega, tell them to yank us,” I said, handing her the pistol, then putting my arm around her waist. She had a split-second to look at me wide-eyed at my touch and then the universe split open and we were pulled through the opening and into a conference room on Earth.