Jennifer Wells - Beyond the Stars - At Galaxy's Edge

The ship slowed again in final approach, and Desh felt the stabilizers and maneuvering rockets firing. He picked up his backpack and headed for the ship’s docking tubes. The docking process was completed in less than ten minutes, and Desh was one of the first passengers off. Once onto the planet’s orbiting transfer station, he followed the signs for the planetary shuttle terminal.

In the terminal, Desh walked past the mass transit shuttles and found the private shuttle area. Several pilots offered Desh their services, but a slight man kneeling and tightening his boot cords caught Desh’s attention. That’s the signal. One benefit of being in the Guild‌—‌though the downsides were many‌—‌was that Desh had never been disappointed with the quality of personnel hired to support his missions. The pilot straightened as Desh approached, motioning toward his shuttle and offering to shoulder the bag for him. Desh declined, and the man shrugged.

Desh took a seat in the passenger cabin, closing the privacy door to the cockpit to discourage the pilot from initiating a conversation. The shuttle ride was smooth, no doubt another effect of the planet’s low gravity and thin atmosphere.

Okay, you’ve put it off long enough. Call Headquarters.

He pulled out his holophone, dialed a number from memory, and then punched in a code at the prompt.

“The line is encrypted, you may proceed,” a robotic voice told him.

“Contractor 211, requesting mission update,” he told his phone.

“You exited faster-than-light travel almost twenty-five minutes ago‌—‌why have you taken so long to call in?” a supervisor asked him.

“I didn’t think I should call in from a public shuttle terminal,” Desh told the man, exasperated.

“You should have called from your spaceliner,” the supervisor chided him.

“I’m calling now,” Desh said. “What’s the update?”

“The client’s becoming impatient‌—‌this was a time sensitive mission, and we’re several weeks behind schedule.”

Desh tapped his fingers against his armrest with impatience. “Did you remind them it was their intelligence that sent me to the wrong planet?”

“Regardless, they’ve opened up the contract to local bidders.”

“They’ve done what?” Desh asked, sitting up in his seat.

“The contract is still valid, but fees will be paid to whichever party completes the assignment first.”

“And if the local guys, if these... amateurs ... get there first?” Desh asked.

“That would constitute a failed mission,” the man told him. “And I don’t have to remind you of the consequences of failure.”

Desh swore. “I just got here! I haven’t even made contact with the target yet. I need to do reconnaissance and surveillance, plan the mission‌—‌”

“Normally, yes. In the circumstances, I suggest you cut those activities short.”

“How long has the contract been open to locals?”

“Three days.”

“Well, the target’s security team will have caught wind of it by now. They’re going to be expecting an attempt.”

The line stayed silent.

“My last mission, and you’re telling me my only option is to do a hit-and-run on a target that’s expecting me, with local hitmen likely to interfere,” Desh pointed out.

“Headquarters staff will be standing by to support you in whatever way we can,” the supervisor replied.

“That’s reassuring,” Desh told him, and hung up.

Desh felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck‌—‌the force of gravity was becoming more noticeable. He opened the cabin door and saw that the planet’s canyon now filled the forward viewport. Desh walked forward and took the seat next to the pilot.

He pulled up a picture of the target on his datascroll and held it out for the pilot to see. “I need to know if this man is alive.”

The pilot frowned, but glanced at the photo. “Lloyds? Yeah, he’s alive.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. If a guy like Lloyds got taken down, the whole planet would know about it.”

Desh grimaced. Wonderful.

“I think he’s opening a new titanium refinery on the South Rim this evening,” the pilot continued. “I saw something about it in the news last night.”

“Take me there.”

The pilot began to ask Desh a question, but caught sight of Desh’s expression, and thought better of it. Instead, he concentrated on guiding the shuttle onto its new course.

Desh set his backpack on his lap, opening the main compartment to unfold a large, clamshell-shaped device, his Forge. Hello, old friend. He ran his open palm lightly over the smooth metal, smiling faintly. I hope they let me keep you when this is all over. Just for old time’s sake. Accessing his internal computer, he sent the device a series of commands, and watched as nanomachines in the backpack’s open tray whirred to life. The butt of an auto-pistol soon began to emerge. The pilot glanced over briefly, then carefully kept his eyes fixed out the front viewport. While Desh waited, he slaved his internal communications device to the shuttle’s radio.

“Radio check.”

The pilot touched his earpiece and nodded. “I got you. We’re coming over the South Rim.”

Desh craned his neck to look out the polarized window next to him, noting a jagged edge of cliff close below them. Beyond the cliff’s edge and far below it, a sprawling industrial park belched flame and fumes into the red sky. The pilot made a steep bank, bringing the craft down and sharply to the left, cruising just above the factories.

“What now?”

Desh thought for a second. “Give me a pass over the new plant.”

Desh picked up the completed auto-pistol, loaded it with practiced ease, double-checked that its digital point-of-aim reticule appeared on the heads-up display of his optical implants, and then placed the weapon in the waistband of his pants. In his Forge, the nanomachines were already at work on a grenade.

“Coming up on the plant,” the pilot reported.

“Slow down.”

The pilot took the shuttle through a wide, slow turn, allowing Desh an excellent view of the plant out his window. None of the machinery seemed to be operating, but he identified the glass-domed main entrance by the large, lighted tunnel leading to it.

“See if you can find us somewhere inconspicuous to set down.”

The pilot hesitated. “If you want to get in there, we’re going to have to land in a bay with atmospheric seals... I don’t have survival gear onboard.”

Desh had forgotten the planet’s air was not breathable. Focus! he told himself. If we land in a bay, the shuttle’s going to get recorded on security cameras. But I don’t have a choice at this point.

“Then set down in a bay. Close to the plant.”

The bay the pilot chose was mercifully empty‌—‌he landed with a slight jolt, and the bay doors sealed behind them. As the bay repressurized, Desh slipped into a large trenchcoat, pocketed the grenade from his backpack, and then closed the device, slipping it on. He took a minute to detail his plans with the pilot, and then exited the shuttle quickly, heading for the nearest air-sealed pedestrian tunnel. He pulled his coat close around his jumpsuit, hugging the thin material to him for protection.

There were no guards at the entrance to the new plant, and Desh allowed himself a silent sigh of relief. He stepped out of the entrance tunnel into a large, domed arboretum, ringed with shops and food stalls. The factory could be seen through enormous reinforced glass windows on the far side of the trees, the heavy pipes and valves looking strangely incongruous behind the imported trees.

Those trees must have cost a fortune.