Honourable Enemies

II. The Golden Glove-2

A few minutes later, Mayhew sat in a booth at the far wall of the Golden Glove and applied instant bandage to his wounds, a glass of whiskey and a prairie oyster on the table in front of him.

He alternated between a sip of whiskey — just as cheap and nasty as he’d feared — and prairie oyster, which actually tasted better than Mayhew would have expected, given the environment.

The proteins certainly did him good. He could almost feel his healing accelerating. Of course, simply asking for an egg would have been easier, but Daniel probably wouldn’t have given him one, though Rena just might have. Besides, the tomato juice and the hot sauce contained a scattering of minerals and vitamins, too.

Still, his body and the nanos in his blood needed more time, until he was fully operational again. And The Golden Glove was as good a place as any to wait, while his body healed.

What Mayhew really needed, though, was back-up. Under normal conditions, that wouldn’t have been a problem for Mayhew. After all, he had the entire Special Commando Forces at his command and they were normally more than sufficient sufficient to take out any kind of lowlife found throughout the galaxy. Except for two and they weren’t exactly what Mayhew would have called lowlives. And should the Special Commando Forces not be enough to handle a problem (again, there was only one problem they hadn’t been able to resolve yet), Mayhew need only have placed a single call and he would have had marines, armoured infantry, air support, even a f*****g battlecruiser or three to nuke the site from orbit, if necessary, all at his beck and call.

But not this time. For this time around, Brian Mayhew was not on Maciste as the deputy commander of the Special Commando Forces, so all the power and privilege connected to his rank would not help him out of this. No, as far as his superiors were concerned, he was enjoying a long overdue and much needed holiday on Brahimi Prime.

Of course, Mayhew could always send an emergency SOS and the Special Commando Forces would extract him in under two standard days. However, if he sent an emergency SOS from a planet where he wasn’t supposed to be, engaged in a mission that had been explicitly refused when he’d proposed it to General Honold, there would be uncomfortable questions at the very least. And Honold already doubted Mayhew’s judgement after the mess with Grikov.

No, Mayhew was on his own for this mission. Live or die, succeed or fail, he would have to do it alone.

The dockworkers on the other side of the barroom were chatting among themselves, their voices getting louder and rowdier, as the alcohol loosened their tongues. And Mayhew, being the accomplished spy that he was, settled back in his booth and listened.

“…steaming hot, I’m telling you. Those t**s, that arse, that skin…”

In his booth, Mayhew rolled his eyes. Charming.

“Forget it, Reg. She’s spoken for.”

“Says who?”

“Says the guy who damn near broke Angelo’s hand, when he tried to cop a feel of those glorious tits.”

“What guy?”

“Husband, boyfriend, who knows? But I’m telling you, Reg, that guy was scary. For a moment, I thought he’d kill Angelo…”

At this moment, the door of the Golden Glove was pushed open. Mayhew tensed and reached for his blaster. But the newcomer, a burly man, paid no attention to the booths at the back of the room and instead headed for the table with the dockworkers.

“Someone wanted to kill Angelo,” the newcomer repeated, having caught the tail-end of the conversation, “Who?”

“Leonviola’s new security chief.”

“What happen?” the newcomer asked, “Did he catch Angelo helping himself to the cargo?”

“Nope, he caught Angelo trying to help himself to his girlfriend.”

“Well, that Angelo for you,” the newcomer said, “Always putting his grubby hands where they don’t belong, whether it’s on someone else’s property or girlfriend. And anyway, why did Leonviola’s new security goon bring his girlfriend to work anyway?”

“Actually…” one of the others began, “…Leonviola’s new security goon didn’t bring his girlfriend to work. She was already there, cause she’s the other new security goon.”

“So Leonviola hired a woman as security?” the newcomer exclaimed, clearly horrified.

At his table in the booth, Mayhew suppressed a sigh. After all, it was easy to forget that the rim worlds didn’t necessarily share the Republic’s enlightened attitudes with regard to gender equality.

“Trust me, you haven’t seen that chick. Okay, so she’s pretty short, but also… like… totally badarse. Kicked Angelo right in the nuts, when he tried to cop a feel…”

The men around the table snickered and even Mayhew couldn’t suppress a smile at the thought of the female security guard putting an unsavoury type like this Angelo in his place.

“…and near sliced him to ribbons with her knife…”

“A knife? I thought security guards had guns.”

“Well, this chick has a blaster — one of them real fancy Imperial ones — but she has a knife as well. A fancy piece, too, with some kind of crest on the hilt, but believe me, she knows how to use it. Honestly, her boyfriend getting involved was completely unnecessary, cause she already took matters in her own hand…”

More snickering.

Recognising how unfortunate his phrasing was, the man added, “Well, not that way, obviously.”

“You sound like you’re in love, Bart,” one of the other men remarked.

“Yeah, well, maybe I am,” Bart replied defensively, “But that security chick… — well, she’s really, really hot. Brown skin like a good whiskey, curves in all the right places…”

In his booth, Mayhew briefly wondered what curves in all the wrong places would look life.

“Hot and deadly.”

“She from around here?” someone asked.

“Nope,” Bart said, “She’s an offworlder. Probably Imperial, at least going by her accent…”

“Imperial? f**k, Bart, you know those Imperials are bugfuck crazy.”

“Well, this one is also crazy hot.”

“I’m serious, Bart. In the Empire, they chop off people’s heads for as little as calling the Emperor a senile piss pot.”

Now that was not an epithet that Mayhew had heard about Emperor Francis I before and he thought he’d heard them all in his time.

“Well, this ain’t the Empire, so I can say what I like about Emperor Piss Pot. As for that chick…” Bart trailed off, almost as if he were thinking really hard. “…well, she ain’t in the Empire either. And Imperials usually never leave the Empire, unless they have a very good reason…”

“So what’re you saying, Bart? That Leonviola’s security chick is some kind of wanted criminal in the bloody Empire?”

“I don’t know,” Bart replied. There was a gurgle, as he took a draft of whatever he was drinking. “It’s just… there’s something seriously off about that chick and her boyfriend. Something that says, ‘No matter how hot she is, stay away. Stay far away’.”

“So what about the boyfriend?” someone asked, “He Imperial, too?”

“No idea,” Bart replied, “He’s got an accent, but I can’t place it.”

“Not from round here, at any rate,” another voice piped in, “Probably not even from the rim. Cause I’ve met people from all over the rim and none of them ever had an accent like that.”

In his booth at the back of the bar, Mayhew put the pieces together. A female security guard, brown-skinned, attractive, not very tall, good with a blaster and a knife and her fists, probably Imperial. And her mysterious, but protective boyfriend, quiet but deadly, with an accent no one could place. Hmm… Could it be possible?

No, it was probably just a coincidence. It had to be. The galactic rim was a big place, after all. Lots of inhabited worlds to hide out, most of them more pleasant places than Maciste. This was a place where you only came when you had hit rock bottom or had another very pressing reason to be here. And Mayhew didn’t think Grikov had hit rock bottom just yet.

On the other hand, what if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if Grikov and Patel really were here, on Maciste? If Mayhew managed to bring them in, both of them, and single-handedly, too, that would instantly put him back into General Honold’s good graces.

What was more, these two might be just the back-up Mayhew needed. Of course, Patel wouldn’t help him. She wouldn’t even pee on him, if he was on fire. Patel hated him and — Mayhew had to admit — with good reason, too. But Grikov, he thought, might help, if only for old times’ sake. At any rate, he’d understand why Mayhew needed to do this, why he needed to take out Santerna with his own hands. Because Grikov understood grief, Grikov understood pain, Grikov understood revenge.

Yes, Grikov would help. And Patel would go along with it, not for Mayhew’s sake, but for Grikov’s.

Mayhew downed the last of his whiskey (still didn’t work, even though his nanos should be busy with other things), got up and sauntered over to the table with the dockworkers, as if he had not a care in the universe. As if he wasn’t on the run and wounded and desperately trying to heal before going out there again for another round.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

“What d’you want?,” one of the men growled.

“Go away. We ain’t talking to no offworlders.”

“Least not, unless you buy us a round,” another — Bart by the sound of him — added.

Mayhew sighed under his breath. Then he raised his hand and turned to the bar. Rena had left and only her son was on duty.

“Barkeeper? A round of whatever these gentlemen are having…” Mayhew couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked yellowish and unappetizing and smelled worse. “…and put it on my tab.”

Daniel mumbled something under his breath, set out several glasses on the bar and filled them half with a day-glo yellow liquid and half with a clear spirit so strong it could have passed for cleaning alcohol.

Mayhew turned back to the table full of dockworkers. “Of course, you should be compensated for your efforts, gentlemen. But now, if we could return to the matter at hand. Those two security guards you were just talking about…”

“Aye, that hot little thing and her boyfriend…”

“That dangerous b***h and her really scary boyfriend,” someone else corrected.

Mayhew ignored them, pulled out his com unit and called up the official Wanted posters for Grikov and Patel. The photo of Grikov was a service portrait, about two years old. He was in uniform, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He didn’t smile, but then the Grikov Mayhew remembered rarely did. Patel’s portrait was a surveillance photo from Brahimi Prime. Her hair was loose, she was laughing and dressed in something slinky, glittery and highly impractical. Viewed next to each other, the two people in the photos didn’t even seem to belong in the same universe. And they didn’t. They shouldn’t.

Mayhew showed the photos to the dockworkers. “…are they these people?”

The men squinted at the photos.

“Clothing is wrong, but… yup, I’d say that’s them.”

“Definitely, that’s them.”

“f**k, she looks even hotter in that pic than in reality.”

“Wanted for desertion and high treason,” someone read out, “So they’re criminals, both of them?”

“If they’re wanted criminals, is there a reward?” someone else asked.

“There is,” Mayhew said, “But I wouldn’t advise you to try and collect it. Cause these two individuals are extremely dangerous. Trust me, you wouldn’t survive an encounter with either of them.”

“And you would?” one of the men challenged him.

“I’m a professional,” Mayhew said, “Trained to deal with situations like these.”

“So you’re some kind of bounty hunter then?”

“I guess you could say so,” Mayhew said, “So if you could just tell me where I can find those two and who their current employer is, I’d make it worth your while.”

Most of the men nodded, but one was still sceptical. “And Leonviola won’t get into any trouble over this?,” he asked, “Cause he’s a good sort. Not a crook. Well, not more than most business owners ‘round here, that is.”

“You have my word,” Mayhew said solemnly, “I am after those two, not whoever was desperate or deluded enough to hire them.”

* * * *