Koban Universe 1 (21 page)

“I’m listening,” Haveram said. “Although I did come here for exactly the sort of household goods I bought here previously. I don't know what a striped swombat is, but I’m not smuggling anything through Port Brisbane. Not even to or from all of New Australia. This planet is simply conveniently located for my shopping. It’s not as far out of the way for me to travel here as you think, since I don’t Jump here from Poldark.”

The journey, from Koban’s location far outside human explored space, was about the same distance as a Jump to any of several Rim worlds. For the simple goods the long isolated Kobani wanted, New Australia offered fast delivery even if at slightly higher costs, and no official questions would be asked. Haveram was not about to give anyone a clue as to which direction Koban lay, or even hint that it existed for that matter. Kobani genetic enhancements really did carry a risk of the death penalty, if the PU knew about them.

Carmody wasn’t a trusting type, of course. “I don't believe you, but that’s part of the deal I’m offering anyway. In order to forgive and forget whatever secret deal you had going on here under my nose, I need something from you in return.”

With a sigh, Haveram said, “There wasn’t any secret deal, but since it’s all to be forgiven anyway, tell me what you want and I’ll tell you if you can have it, OK?”

The crime boss snapped back at him. “Curb your tongue with me Smith, or I’ll watch you eat it raw. This isn’t so much a negotiation as it is a way for you to save your ass and keep your ship.”

“Fine. What is it you think I can do for you?” He turned and leaned on the bar, looking at the supposedly hidden camera.

“You, or the ship owners, have ties with Khartoum’s Destiny, or at least with some of its Sheiks. Those people are difficult to meet if you’re an outsider and not of their faith. Your organization managed to pull that off somehow. I want you to get my representative a successful introduction with whomever you know there. If that leads to my making deals with them, you keep your ship and your ass. You can even profit nicely from any runs you contract to make on my behalf with Khartoum. On the other hand, you can go your own way after a
successful
introduction takes place. However, you had best never return here.”

Haveram had casually fished into a breast pocket as Carmody spoke, and pulled out a half a handful of large dark brown seeds, saved from the orange colored fruits he’d been served as a garnishment on the fancy drinks he’d ordered tonight. He had made a point of counting them off to his drinking companions as he saved each one, dropping them into his top pocket after each drink. That had actually been done for the benefit of his watchers, so they knew what he had in his hand now was harmless.

He idly tossed some of the half-inch heavy pits back and forth between his hands. He kept his eyes on the mirror, presumably looking into the camera at the crime boss, but focused on the reflected scene. He knew Carmody wasn’t going to like his answer.

“Your contacts didn’t give you current information concerning ownership of the Sparrow, or rather the Falcon, as it’s registered on Poldark. I am the registered owner, although I represent a group of people that you
definitely
do not want to anger.” He continued before Carmody reacted.

“We knew the ship had been configured for smuggling, a fact that made it ideal for our own uses, which must remain outside of PU government knowledge. One thing that did
not
come with our purchase was a list of former suppliers, customers, contacts, or partners. We don’t have, and more specifically, I don’t have any influence whatever with the Sheiks of Khartoum’s Destiny. You’re flat out of luck.”

“I am so disappointed,” Carmody said through the com set, in false sympathy, “but not exactly out of luck. The Falcon will make a speedy addition to my handful of other ships, but I’ll have to choose a new name. Sitting Duck seems an appropriate bird related name right now. You on the other hand, really are completely out of luck.” He addressed his lieutenant.

“Carl, let our boys pay Mr. Smith back for the earlier derogatory meathead comments, would you? Let them stretch their muscles.”

This might be interesting, for a few minutes,
Carl thought. He’d sized up their target, and had noted his graceful, smooth and easy movements, and dexterity as he tossed the heavy fruit pits back and forth without even watching them, or his hands. Smith had remained calm, and smiling, even as Carmody ordered his thugs to beat him to death. He apparently believed he could take on all six men, or he was crazy and suicidal.

Carl stepped farther away, and with a wave of both hands, motioned the toughs towards the man, who still had his back to them. They moved forward deliberately, rather than in a rush. They wanted to instill fear as he saw them coming, like an unstoppable slow avalanche. Showing off their skills while the boss watched was an unusual opportunity for these low-level types.

Haveram, watching them in the mirrors, had divided the solid feeling heavy pits equally between each hand. He let one pit in each palm fall between index finger and thumb, and turned around, raising his hands just higher than his shoulders, as if surrendering.

“Hey. Watch this neat trick.” He said, assuring the six thugs had their eyes open and focused on their intended punching bag.

His hands suddenly blurred in an astonishing series of rapid wrist flicks, as he snapped them down and backwards towards each of the six thugs, the index fingers uncurling and flinging the pits with unerring accuracy, and high velocity. As he brought each hand back up, a new pit was caught between finger and thumb, and a fresh flick of the wrists sent two more pits flying.

The two closer thugs couldn’t even initiate the 100 to 400 milliseconds of time required for an average blink before the little projectiles arrived, and the pits buried themselves with a wet splat in the corneas of their right eyes. The next two pits also struck the surface of an eye of two other thugs, but due to the necessity of ensuring the replacement pits were properly caught and positioned, and the need to shift aim, meant a blink was initiated, but incomplete, before those two eyes were damaged.

The next two men had actually completed closing their eyes when the pits struck. Their eyes weren’t as damaged, but there was rupturing internally as the pressure was still transmitted through the eyelids to the vitreous fluid beneath. In barely a second, all six men were effectively blinded, even though only one eye of each man was hit. Five men had a right eye damaged, one man, a lefty, had that eye blinded. Haveram had deduced their handedness from holster location, and knew that this was normally reflected in which eye was dominate, and used for aiming a pistol.

Which was the dominate eye might not even be a factor in this situation, because it was surprising how hard it was for most people to immediately open the good eye after the other eye was seriously damaged in some fashion. At least for long seconds it would be difficult. They weren’t going to be given those long seconds to try.

Carl, seeing what was happening, had blinked and started to turn his head and raise a protective hand to shield his face, he realized in an instant that it would not have been fast enough. However, Haveram had a different demonstration in mind for the mob lieutenant. He’d not even propelled a pit his way.

Haveram knew Carl was obviously the better trained, smarter, and more dangerous of the men Carmody had sent. As soon as he recovered from reflexively protecting his eyes, he would reach for his gun, now perfectly aware that he could never match the speed he’d just witnessed, if he foolishly decided to attempt hand to hand fighting. Haveram needed to accomplish some things in the severa
l seconds before that happened.

He shoved off from the bar so hard to start his movement, that he snapped some of the floor brackets that held it firmly in place. He covered the few feet to the man on his left in a fraction of a second, grabbing his jacket lapels and spun him to place his back towards the other men. He didn’t have the luxury of mercy, with eight armed men facing him. He’d seen Gibson, behind the bar, glance frequently at a place near the center, where there must be some sort of weapon placed there for his use.

Haveram slammed the heel of his right hand into the nose of the man he took out first, driving bone into his frontal lobe. He also kicked him backwards with a hard kick to the solar plexus that cracked bones. The effectively dead man flew backwards, into the next closest blinded man, just two feet behind. Haveram grabbed the back of a chair and slung it across the room at the farthest opponent. Hardly fair, since the target couldn’t see the object flying at him. The tumbling chair was timed to arrive with the spindly strong legs just rotating towards their target. Two of the small floor-glider tipped chair legs stabbed him deeply. One in the gut, the other less deeply in his chest. Not fatal, but he would need a med lab to avoid bleeding to death in half an hour.

Leaping over the first dead man’s body; he had knocked next closest victim off his feet, he kicked that still living “meathead” in the side of his head with the steel tipped toe of his right foot, feeling the unpleasant crunch of bone yielding at the temple. Three down, two dead.

He used his non-kicking left foot to launch himself off the most recent dying target’s beefy shoulder, and as he flew past the next unseeing man, he jabbed the rock hard and stiffened fingers of his right hand into that man’s larynx and trachea, crushing them. This man might possibly survive the damage, if he didn’t suffocate in the next five minutes. He provided another resisting inertial mass to use as a launch point, to reach his next targets.

Four down, and Haveram noted in appreciation of the trained man’s reaction speed, that Carl had recovered from his involuntary flinch. His right hand was reaching inside his jacket towards his left shoulder holster, eyes open
and calmly looking at Haveram.

Only halfway across the room, Haveram couldn’t allow the man the time to finish that draw. As he passed him airborne, headfirst and horizontal, he slapped him in the face twice, once on each cheek, but not bone breaking hard. His left hand darted into Carl’s open jacket in passing. His slapping hands had moved far too fast for Carl to react before contact, and he hardly saw Haveram’s action because of the stinging slaps anyway that forced him to blink.

Feeling he had gained a sliver of time, Haveram simply broke the right shoulder of the next thug with an arm twist and knocked him unconscious with an elbow to the side of his head. The last blind man standing had managed to pull his gun before Haveram reached him, and he was starting to wave it towards the sound of activity to his right, ready to shoot at anything he heard. The sounds of cut-off shouts and groans of pain had made him understandably jumpy. He was using thumb and index finger of his left hand to try to lift the left eyelid of that uninjured watering eye in an effort to see.

Haveram intended to let this man live as well, and flashed behind him to knock him unconscious as he disarmed him, when the lucky move ended that attempt at mercy. It also saved Haveram from injury. A good object lesson he’d not forget when thoughts of mercy flickered through his mind the next time. Because he
had
lost track of the bartender behind the bar.

The blast of the short-barreled shotgun boomed, and a spray of pea sized ceramic pellets traveled in a spreading cone of fifty projectiles. They covered about an eighteen-inch radius when they reached the thankfully thick bodied, muscle bound thug’s chest.

This was a multi-shot weapon, and Gibson, was now aware that his traverse motion as he tried to follow the rapidly moving Smith had inadvertently intersected one of his bosses hired enforcers. He’d be forgiven if he killed the intended man. Pausing to take better aim was a mistake.

Haveram simply reached out to grip the dying man’s right hand and heavy caliber pistol, and helped him avenge his own death. He put his index finger over the thug’s trigger finger, and snapped off a shot that struck the bartender between the eyes, spattering the mirror behind him with brains and bone fragments. Gibson squeezed the trigger reflexively, but the impact had flung him back and he fired into the ceiling.

Spinning around to face the tall man, the body that had shielded Haveram from the shotgun blast slid to the floor. Carl smirked as he completed his reach for his pistol, with Smith fully exposed, and strangely motionless, watching him.

The holster was empty.

“Looking for this burner?” Haveram held the small but high-powered laser pistol he’d taken from the man when he’d smacked him. It was hard to tell if the killer’s face was red only from the smacking, or embarrassment. It definitely was red on both sides, with red handprints starting to show on both cheeks. Haveram decided it was a bit of both.

The neglected Carmody was still on the line. “Kill him Carl, and I’ll give you a percentage o
f my take. Not just a salary.”