Sullivan Saga 1: Sullivan's War (7 page)

The tall man gestured to the room. “There is space enough to exercise and move around. The lights will be turned out at night so you may sleep, and during the day you may, if you behave, be given a tablet so you can read or watch movies.”

The tall man leaned in closer. “You will find that I am not a cruel man, Mr. Sullivan. I am simply a business man. Wilson, however,” he said, indicating the redhead, “is a very cruel man indeed. Do not test that assertion.”

Wilson leaned in and injected the syringe into Sullivan’s neck. Sullivan tried to speak before he lost consciousness, but “mother” was the only word he managed to get out.

8

THE PLANET OF Calandra was a member of the Stellar Assembly. Despite this, Allen found out soon after arriving that law and order meant something different to the Bureau agents there. The planet was still young and rough, and like the non-SA planets in the neighboring star systems, sloth, corruption and kickbacks were a way of life.

Allen had worn himself ragged trying to get Calandra’s Bureau to secure passage to Abilene. They complained of budgeting restraints, questioned his authority to make such a request, but Allen knew the real reason was that there was nothing in it for them. They had hinted that Allen might give them some of the credits the Bureau had allotted him to cover their operational expenses, but he refused. He would take no part in enriching these corrupt agents.

Allen and Wagner eventually resorted to loitering at the commercial spaceport, trying to find a cargo ship on its way to Abilene. After a week of this, they finally secured passage aboard a ship that was loading a cargo of Dacian whiskey. Dacia had grown rich exporting their unique twist on standard grain whiskey, which included a slightly toxic extract from a plant native to the planet. The numbing effect of the extract was popular among a certain segment of the population, and shipments to Calandra and Abilene were frequent.

In exchange for passage, they’d had to barter the four bulletproof vests, two of the bioscanners and most of the drugs from their medical kits. The freighter pilot had refused to take their SA credits. It became clear that he was often on the wrong side of the law and didn’t want a digital trail linking him to the Bureau.

As Allen boarded the freighter, he took with him the vow that he’d see the agents in charge of Calandra’s Bureau office fired for their corruption and non-cooperation. Still, it irked him that it was likely to be a year or more before his report was filed, a decision was reached and word was sent from Earth to Calandra. For all that time, they’d be collecting Bureau paychecks and further enriching themselves by taking bribes.

It was about a month from Calandra to Abilene. Allen had long ago come to resent this mission. So what if Sullivan got away? His actions had exposed corruption at the highest levels of government and led to dozens of arrests. He’d talked to Wagner, Takemitsu and Ives, and they were all in agreement. The mission was a wild goose chase. They’d make their investigation on Abilene as quick as possible and get home.

The trip from Earth to Calandra had done wonders for Allen and Wagner’s relationship. With little to do for three months, they had enjoyed all the benefits of interstellar travel aboard a passenger liner: the spas, the nightly entertainment, the five-star restaurants. But now, in the cramped quarters of a slow and outdated freighter that smelled distinctly of yeast, Allen grew tense and impatient. Their host was curt and unaccommodating, and the crew berths were small and uncomfortable. He never imagined he’d look forward to landing on a planet like Abilene, but when that day came he pushed past the captain to breathe the air of Abilene’s atmosphere and clear the smell of yeast from his nostrils.

It wasn’t much of an improvement. Allen surveyed the surroundings. Abilene was a small, hot desert planet less than point eight astronomical units from its star. The heat seemed to radiate both from the sun above and the ground below. What passed for a spaceport was little more than a three-kilometer-long stretch of cracked asphalt lined with warehouses. Row upon row of dumpsters lined the walls of the warehouses, and it was from these that Allen guessed the stench was emanating.

Wagner exited behind him and held her nose. “Jesus, no wonder these people drink a lot,” she said as the ship’s freight door slowly opened, revealing the stacked crates of Dacian whiskey.

Allen nodded. “Let’s get the hell out of here and find Abilene’s security chief.” He turned to the freighter pilot. “Hey, how do I get to the planet’s security headquarters?”

The man shrugged and returned to his work, scanning the code on each crate as it was unloaded.

Allen muttered a few choice words under his breath, took up his gear and gestured for the other agents to follow him. He entered the warehouse that was receiving the shipment of whiskey, crossed the warehouse floor and stepped out through the large bay door on the street side of the building. It took only a moment for him to realize that the dumpsters weren’t the only source of the stench. Rows of stalls and shacks lined the sidewalk behind the spaceport. From these, all manner of goods were being sold: food, fresh and not so fresh, was piled high in baskets and plastic bins; electronics, many of them no doubt stolen, were arrayed on cloth-covered tables; racks of clothes in various states of cleanliness jutted out into the street, making navigation of the market difficult. Beyond this, the narrow street barely accommodated the two lanes of cars that inched along in opposite directions.

Wagner stepped up beside Allen. “My god, it’s worse than I ever could have imagined.”

Allen nodded. “But it can’t all be like this, can it?”

Takemitsu stepped up, holding his tablet in front of him. “According to this map, the security HQ is east of here. It should be a more-or-less direct shot if we can find our way out of this place.”

Ives stepped over to a table and eyed the goods. As he sorted through the items—mostly garbage, by his estimation—a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to see a scantily-clad woman smiling broadly at him. He counted at least three missing teeth.

“You look like you could use a little diversion, handsome,” she said, moving her hand from his shoulder to his chest.

Ives jerked away from her. “No. No, thank you, ma’am.”

The woman guffawed lustily, shook her head and moved on.

“We’re pretty damn conspicuous here,” said Wagner. “Let’s get moving.”

The four shouldered their gear and, after encountering a few dead ends, found a road running east and away from the shantytown.

9

IT HAD BEEN a month and a half. Sullivan had cooperated completely. He saw little sense in getting beaten or losing his strength due to being starved as punishment. He’d been given a tablet with its communications hardware removed and, as the tall man had said he could, he spent his days reading or watching movies and exercising.

But he was also watching and listening for sounds outside his cell. He’d learned that he was in a room at the end of a corridor. There were at least three other rooms. One room he could see across from his own through the hatch in the door. The others he knew about because he had heard their doors opening and closing.

He also knew that there was someone in the room next to his. This person had arrived a week after he had and, as far as he could tell, had been given the same treatment as himself: regular meals and buckets for washing and waste disposal. Once, he had heard a brief exchange between that person and Wilson. The voice was low and muffled so he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it sounded like a woman.

The worst part about Sullivan’s captivity was not that he was imprisoned but that the imprisonment of an entire population was continuing. As long as he was in this cell, he was being prevented from completing his work of freeing the people of Edaline. Justice for his parents—and for that teenaged boy—was being delayed.

Sullivan decided the delay had gone on long enough. He had figured out the routine and, through his quiet compliance, hoped Wilson and the tall man would have lowered their guard. He hoped they would not expect an escape attempt after so long a period of inaction.

Wilson brought Sullivan his food and wash bucket between eight and nine every morning. Sullivan was expected to have his waste bucket waiting to be removed. As an experiment, he’d not put it on the ledge one morning, and as punishment, he’d not been given food or water. After that, he always had it in place by the time Wilson came around.

Sullivan turned on his tablet to check the date. It was his forty-sixth day of captivity. This was the day he would escape. From eight o’clock onward, he stood silently by the door, tightly holding a strip of cloth that he had torn from one of his blankets. He’d placed his waste bucket on the ledge and waited to hear Wilson’s heavy steps in the hallway. The redheaded man stopped first at the neighboring cell. Sullivan heard the banging of buckets, followed by the sound of the hatch in his neighbor’s door being swung open.

He then heard the footsteps approach his cell. He heard his waste pail being lifted off the ledge. Before the food and wash pail were set in place, Sullivan yanked open the hatch, grabbed Wilson by his beard and pulled the man’s head through the hole. He quickly wrapped the strip of cloth around Wilson’s neck and pulled it tight, restricting the larger man’s airflow.

“Listen carefully,” Sullivan said as Wilson struggled for breath. “I know you carry keys to these cells. I can hear them jingling as you walk. I also know you can reach the door handle in this position, so what I want you to do is take the keys off your belt and unlock the door.

Wilson struggled more violently but could not escape Sullivan’s hold. Sullivan tightened the cloth slightly but slowly. If Wilson passed out, Sullivan wouldn’t be able to reach the keys himself. He needed Wilson to free him. Wilson relaxed somewhat but kept struggling.

“I will kill you,” Sullivan said. “I’ve killed before.” He heard the keys rattle, followed by the sound of metal scraping against the door handle. “That’s good,” he said. “Now pull the door open, nice and easy.”

Sullivan walked forward as the door swung open, keeping Wilson’s head tight against the frame of the hatchway. As soon as he saw that there was no one waiting in the hallway, he tightened the cloth. He’d decided long before he’d planned his escape that he would kill Wilson, anyone else who tried to stop him and, if he could find him, the tall man. He didn’t know this planet and couldn’t afford to leave men behind who wanted him dead.

Wilson’s body slumped. Sullivan dragged the body into the cell, searched it and found Wilson’s gun and tablet. He closed the door behind him, locked it and removed the keys from the lock.

He opened the hatchway on the door across from his. The room was empty. He checked the room next to it then turned to face the room next to his own cell, the room that he knew held a fellow captive.

He pushed open the hatch. Inside was a woman, mid-twenties he guessed, with shoulder-length blonde hair, flat and greasy from weeks without a proper wash. Sullivan unlocked the door.

“C’mon,” he said. She sat unmoving in the corner, staring at him. Sullivan beckoned to her. “It’s all right. We’re getting out.”

She still didn’t move. Sullivan went into the cell and cautiously approached her. When she didn’t flinch away from him, he lifted her up and led her out by the arm.

At the end of the hallway was a stairwell. Sullivan went in and saw a number two painted above the door. He led the girl down the steps but let go of her before reaching the bottom landing. He signaled for her to stay back as he opened the door an inch and took a quick glimpse of what was on the other side. Seeing nothing, he pushed it open another inch, then another, until he was sure it was clear. It was another hallway with double glass doors at the end of it. Through the doors, he could see sunlight. Sullivan returned to the stairwell and fetched the girl. They made their way down the hall to the doors. They were locked. Sullivan examined the keys he had taken from Wilson, selected what looked like the appropriate one and unlocked the doors. He pushed them open and stepped out into daylight. Between his time on Jones’s ship and his captivity, it had been five and a half months since he’d seen natural light.

Sullivan looked up at the building that had been his prison. It was nothing more than a standard apartment block, badly rundown and apparently unoccupied. The room he had been in must have been converted into a cell by the addition of a wall along the back of the room, blocking the window.

Sullivan returned his attention to the street. He had no idea how he might look to anyone he encountered. The street was filled with tents, shacks, stands and tables. It was part shantytown, part marketplace, where everything from alcohol to electronics to exotic animals was for sale. He briefly wondered why the inhabitants of the shanties hadn’t taken up residence in the abandoned building. The tall man, he realized, must have a great deal of power in the city; he must command a great amount of respect. Or fear.

As he scanned the street, Sullivan soon realized that his appearance would not be a problem. All around him were people who seemed to live in filth and squalor, either by choice or by necessity.

Sullivan walked through the crowd, leading the girl by the hand. He moved confidently and purposefully. Any sign of weakness on his part could get him killed here. He was intentionally rough with the girl. If he looked as though he were taking her somewhere against her will, he was more likely to be let by unmolested.

After a few tense moments, they emerged from the densest part of the shantytown, and he realized that it occupied a strip of land next to a long row of warehouses. This was the spaceport. He doubted there would be any safety to be found here. Sullivan turned back toward the direction he had come. The shantytown gradually thinned until it was replaced by typical, if not rundown, apartment buildings. Sullivan went into one of these and tried a few door handles. He found one that was unlocked. As he pulled it open, he called into the apartment. “Hey! Is this where Joe lives?”