Here we go with our second part.
***
"So, what did happen to your arm, Mister?"
The man bristled at the question, his right hand tensing on his cards. He was an imposing fellow, with a rough, black beard and well defined muscles. His left arm was a thick tangle of metal and wire, all pistons and hydraulics right up to his shoulder. The hand was solid and rounded, perhaps the most natural looking part, if not for the red and yellow tubes and wires wrapped around the fingers. The man's face and right arm were scarred. A knife wound on his bicep, a bullet graze on one cheek. He was armed with two pistols, one in a shoulder holster, and the other at his hip. Both were emblazoned with an image of a ram on their grip. Both were worn with use.
"I'll check," he said, his voice rough, his accent recognizable as having come from one of the corporate owned ice mining worlds. The gentleman to his left, a local trader by the name of Peter Bryce, raised the pot to twenty.
"I'll call your twenty, and raise you fifteen," Thomas Newell, the man opposite the scarred man, said. He was in his mid-thirties, and bore a certain confidence about him.
"I'll call that," said the young man who had asked the question. He had a pistol of his own hanging loosely off a shoulder holster. "So, was it a war injury, then, Mister Mulberry?"
"Call," Mulberry replied, tossing his chips into the pile. Bryce called and Newell began dealing the flop. "And yeah. It was."
"I was in the last war myself," Newell said. "What division did you fight with?"
"I didn't fight with a division," Mulberry said, glancing at his cards. He had a two and a seven, off suit. The flop was composed of an ace of spades, a jack of diamonds, and a nine of hearts. "I was working with the Ramshead mercenary company, doing a ticket for the Imperial Colonies."
"Ah, I see," Newell replied. "I was a UEP Naval Officer, myself. No hard feelings against you, though, there were mercenaries on all sides."
"I'm not much for ideology."
"Just keep your hands above the table, Mulberry," Bryce said. "Both of them."
"You think I'm gonna cheat, Bryce?"
"Maybe we should order another round of drinks, gentlemen," the young man said, anxious to keep the discussion under control. "It'll be on me in a couple minutes here."
"Only if you hurry up and check, boy," Bryce snorted.
"Yeah, yeah, right. I check."
"I'll raise you twenty," said Mulberry.
"You sure about that? You're starting to run low there."
"Ha, let the man be, Newell," Bryce said. "I'll call."
"So, you lost it in a battle, huh?" the young man queried, his voice full of wonder. "What was that like, being out there on the front lines?"
"I never saw the front line," Mulberry said. Newell and the boy both called while he spoke, and Newell began dealing the turn. "I was on board a transport shuttle that arrived too late for the United Earth's blockade of one of the Imperial Colony worlds. Our commander, rather than trying to break through, sent the UEP Battleships a message letting them know we were turning around and leaving."
The turn was an eight of diamonds.
"I'm all-in," Mulberry said, continuing his story. "One of the UEP fighter pilots broke from formation and came straight for us while we were locking into our jump. I could see him coming through the port windows we had in there. I can still remember the insignia painted across his hull, just a few seconds before he opened fire and tore us to shreds with a strafing run. My best friends died beside me, and my arm came off so fast, I never even found out how I survived."
"He shot you while you were retreating?" Newell cried. "What a shit thing to do."
"It is a shit thing to do, isn't it? I found them in one of those periodicals your Navy had during the era, though. All of their pilots and their names in this photograph. I decided I should head out and question some of them, maybe find out which of them did this to me, and finally bring down some justice."
"Well, maybe I can help you out," said Newell, preparing to deal out the river. "What was their Squadron number?"
"Like I said, I remember that insignia like it was yesterday. He was a part of 21st Squadron."
Newell dropped the river to the table and froze.
"I was in that Squadron."
"I know."
Mulberry was up in a flash. The pistol at his hip flew into his right hand and drove a bullet into Newell's shoulder. The former pilot was thrown off his chair and onto the floor, his sidearm tumbling away across the room. A split second later, Mulberry drew the pistol from his shoulder holster with his left hand and planted a bullet in Bryce's head. The trader's energy pistol fell from his limp hand before it had even left his jacket. Lastly, Mulberry turned to the young man, who only now began fumbling for his weapon. He stared down the barrel of Mulberry's gun as he rose to his feet.
"Get out of here, kid," Mulberry told him. "This has nothing to do with you."
The kid tightened his grip on his own weapon, and Mulberry shot him twice through the chest. Holstering the pistol in his right hand, the mercenary stepped around the table planted a foot on Newell's chest.
"You remember who it was who did it, Newell?"
"No, man, I swear to God," Newell pleaded. "I don't even remember it."
"Figures you bastards have killed so many people as they tried to run away, you wouldn't even be able to tell 'em apart."
"No, no, I never did anything like that. It wasn't me. What can I do to make you believe me?"
"It doesn't matter if I believe you or not. I'll just kill all the people in the picture, and one of you bastards is bound to be the guy who blew me up."
The final shot rang out across the room. Mulberry holstered his weapon and stepped back over to the table. The river card was a ten of spades.
"Look at that," he said. "I got a straight, Jack high. Guess that means I win."
Author
Topic: Empty Intrigue (Read 1935 times)