CHAPTER 1: DANGLE
He pushed through the crowd of traders, his scuffed boots kicking up dust from the arid ground as he passed by market stalls selling strange, alien fruits and scrap parts. The colorful tarps that shielded the merchants from the sun surrounded him on both sides of the street, prefab buildings had been erected to form a rudimentary town whose white, industrial structures stood out against the surrounding desert and scrubland. Panhandlers tried to accost him, foisting their strange wares into his gloved hands, but he shouldered past them and continued on his way. He wore a brown duster, his shoulders wrapped in a ragged cape with a hood that obscured his features, all the better to blend in with the colonists. They would not see the UNN issue XMH handgun that he carried on his hip, nor the environment suit that he wore beneath his disguise, its moisture recyclers keeping him cool in the searing heat of this system's star.
Hades was an outlying human colony, a recent effort by corporate conglomerates back on Earth to expand their operations into deep space, populated almost exclusively by miners and outlaws fleeing crimes on their home worlds. The corporations needed able bodies for their colonization efforts most of all, to man their equipment, to mine and extract the resources that funded their ventures. It was common to see law breakers sign up to escape punishment for their crimes, from debtors to murderers, the colony ships would take anyone who showed up and signed the waivers. It was a widely-known secret that these companies were perfectly aware of who they were hiring, but plausible deniability let them dodge fines and sanctions.
Hades was different however the fledgling colony was becoming a haven for hard criminals and organized gangs, mobsters and pirates had been gaining more of a foothold on this remote planet than the Admiralty cared for. The final straw had been a pirate attack against a UNN jump freighter carrying weapons for the planetary defense forces stationed on Hades. Conscripts and weekend warriors for the most part, but necessary in wartime, as it was logistically difficult to send ships out here. The vessel had been hit when it had exited superlight just outside the planet's orbit, the pirates taking advantage of the brief period of disorientation that followed long range jumps to board the freighter with a skiff and overwhelm its skeleton crew. They had had made off with a number of heavy weapons, no doubt to be sold off on the black market and shipped all over Coalition space.
They would have known that they couldn't steal the freighter, it would be impossible to hide or sell off a jump-capable vessel, as monumentally large and expensive to operate as they were. But the sheer audacity of the raid showed that there had been a shift in attitude on Hades, something had changed here, and Agent Boyd had been tasked with finding out what that was.
He had spent a week undercover after posing as a corporate hiree and boarding a colony ship, later making contact with an informant willing to sell information, his price being an official pardon for any crimes committed and a ticket back to Earth. Boyd was authorized to make such deals, and so he had agreed to the man's terms, and was now on his way to meet him at a local tavern.
His contact had claimed to be a gang member who had become disgruntled with life on Hades, refusing to communicate via unencrypted channels and demanding a face-to-face meeting, wishing to ensure that Boyd wasn't some mob honey trap. Boyd was equally wary, this could just as easily be a setup to draw out UNN spies, but he felt confident with the comforting weight of his handgun on his hip as he made his way through the throngs.
There were families here too, he could see women and a few children milling about, clad in long cloaks and robes that would shield them from the dust and heat. They were the real victims, people who had taken advantage of corporate incentives in order to make a go of it out here, to start a new life on the frontier. Rather than finding opportunity here, they had found themselves thrust into the middle of a criminal empire, likely given little choice but to keep their heads down and cooperate. The higher ups that funded these ventures didn't care as long as the resources kept flowing and the colonies turned a profit, and with no way to hold them accountable, the corporate entities and the local criminal organizations formed a kind of symbiotic relationship where it was in the interest of both to ignore the other. Everything ran smoothly, until somebody went too far, and then the UNN had to get involved.
He spied the tavern in the distance, an ugly prefab in shades of grey and white, a series of pillars on its outer walls that drilled into the ground when deployed and secured the building to the surface. There was a neon sign above its entrance that was almost completely encased in dust and filth, it was hard to tell if it was even turned on. He could see solar panel arrays on the flat roof that would presumably power the structure, along with a satellite receiver, its bowl full of sand. What a miserable planet. When humanity had first joined the Coalition, so much new territory had opened up for lease or claim, dozens of fresh worlds to colonize and exploit. But there was a finite number of hospitable planets in range of Earth, and as they ran out of options, their chosen worlds became less and less appealing.
To top it all off, Hades was skirting the border of Coalition space, beyond which the risk of attack by hostile alien races rose exponentially. These people must have been desperate to come here, and desperate people were the most dangerous of all.
He arrived at the entrance to the tavern, and the automatic door opened to allow him through, stepping into the dingy interior as it closed behind him with a crunch as sand became trapped in its mechanism. Boyd dropped his hood, exposing his face, still obscured by his goggles and a respirator. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his duster, finding that the gesture only served to glue more sand to his damp skin.
There weren't many people in the tavern, it was cramped and poorly lit, clouds of tobacco smoke floated in the air to further obscure its occupants. There were only a dozen tables scattered about, and the bartender watched him from behind a counter as the few patrons turned to stare at him. They were dressed much as he was, cloaks, hoods and masks. Anything to protect themselves from the blowing sand and the relentless sunlight that beat down on the planet.
Boyd took a few steps forward, his contact could be any one of these people, even the barman couldn't be ruled out. How would he know which one it was?
He made his way over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools, banging his gloved fist on the faux-wood counter top.
"Barkeep," he rasped through his respirator, "got liqueur?"
"Got scrip?"
"Aye," he replied, pulling a handful of plastic coins from his pocket and dropping them on the counter. They didn't use UNN currency out here, the employees were paid in vouchers, small plastic tokens that could be redeemed for goods and services. Wage slavery of a sort, yet another grey area of the law that was exploited out in these remote colonies where the long arm of the law did not reach.
The bartender picked up one of the coins in his fingers, holding the plastic disk to the light and letting it shine through the transparent center, its intricate and hard to reproduce markings intended to prevent forgery. Satisfied, though still wary, the barkeeper scooped the coins off the counter and turned to open a liqueur cabinet behind him.
"I have rum, tequila, vodka, gin..."
"Gin," Boyd crackled, his respirator serving both as a protective rebreather, and to mask his voice with a hidden modulator. The man poured a glass of the colorless liquid, then slid it across the countertop, Boyd catching it in his hand and extending a built-in straw from his mask to take a draw. He felt vulnerable here, with his back to the room, but he had to keep up appearances until the informant revealed himself. There were always new workers being shipped in and so it would not be unusual to see unfamiliar faces, he should be safe for the time being, even in a hole in the wall such as this.
Damn it, didn't they have a jukebox? Some music would ease this tension, and mask the noise of the incessant coughing and the hissing of respirators. The bartender was not chatty, ignoring Boyd as he washed glasses with a filthy rag, leaving him to sip at his gin. His goggles were tinted to protect him from the harsh sunlight, and so he was able to turn his head and observe the patrons without being too obvious, scanning his eyes over the hunched figures as they drank or played card games at their tables. None seemed too interested in him, that was a good sign, the shifts in the mines were over and these people were likely exhausted after a hard day's work. He wondered briefly how many of them were criminals, who had outstanding debts and who was fleeing alimony payments, who might have murdered their spouse or fled from the scene of a hit and run. Every person you met in these colonies was under suspicion, the man working the stall beside yours could be a rapist who had posted bail and then boarded a colony ship under a false name, there was no way to know.
That wasn't his job however, his job was to find out who had stolen those weapons, and what had happened to make them think that they could get away with it.
A man sat heavily on the stool to his left, portly and wearing a stained tank top, his lack of protective gear indicating either that he had been here for a while or that he worked in the tavern. He was fidgeting, nervous, shifting his weight as he drummed his fingers on the bar. This was his man.
"Are you here to meet someone," the man asked, trying to sound casual and failing. He must not be completely sure that it was Boyd who he had been waiting for.
"I believe we spoke on the phone," Boyd replied. "As you requested, I have come to buy the...item in person."
Relieved, the portly man exhaled, relaxing somewhat as he leaned on the counter.
"Yeah, I have it in the back, do you want to inspect it?"
"I'll follow you."
Good idea, there would be less chance of them being overheard. Boyd finished his drink, and got up from his stool to follow the man towards a door at the back of the building. Not the restrooms, surely? No, the informant opened a door into a store room, closing it behind Boyd as he stepped inside. There were crates stacked against the walls, and shelves with bottles and produce, the man checking the room hurriedly as Boyd waited for him to calm down.
"Ok, I think we're alone, I'm pretty sure." The informant wiped his brow with his hand and took a seat on a nearby crate, the container sagging a little under his weight. "You never know who could be listening, the syndicate controls this colony, they have eyes and ears everywhere. Not here though, not here, I made sure of it."
"You said that you had information to sell," Boyd said, getting straight to the point.
"Yes, yes, but first I need you to prove that you are who you say you are. I need to know that this isn't some kind of setup to draw out rats before I tell you anything."
"Very well," Boyd replied, unbuttoning his duster and reaching beneath it. The man flinched away, scared for a moment that Boyd was drawing on him, but he withdrew a leather wallet and held it up to the informant. The man leaned closer, squinting.
