Hell's Own Read online

  “Another damned drill.” The man complained, but those behind him pulled on their suits as the first full shake hit the building.

  Walls cracked, dust spilled into the air. Screams rang out, men, women, and children, followed by sobs as reality set in. Jakob pushed away from the wall and ran. “Gail. Move!”

  2

  Morgan Stone rested one arm on the bar, his free hand curled around the cold glass of amber beer. Foam, half an inch of the sweet stuff, topped the drink. Not enough to eat up a huge amount of space in the glass, but enough to allow him to enjoy the creamy texture. Only one thing threatened to spoil his time, the presence of a small group of military men and women, though they wore civvies, taking up one large table on the other side of the room. Military meant potential trouble, but not if he didn’t catch their attention.

  “You’re in early, thought you wouldn’t be back for another week.” Jones, the bartender, wiped a cloth along the surface of the bar. “I’m not complaining. Always good to see you.”

  Stone shifted his weight, one eye on the rest of the bar. “It all worked out, and I finished ahead of schedule. The change in timing helps keep me on my toes.” A lie, of course, he’d always planned on hitting the bar tonight. Tell a client you could manage things in a specific time, but add a buffer to the number, and they came to believe you were a miracle. Exactly the way he liked it. “Any problems?”

  “Not of late. Been quiet, except for the occasional-- Hey, watch the chairs. You break it, you pay for it.” He yelled out as the fists started flying. “Bloody hell, had hopes we’d go through a night without a fight breaking out.”

  “In this bar? Not going to happen.” He turned his back to the bar. “The uniforms cause any issues.”

  “Normally no, but if they spill their drinks, all bets are off,” Jones explained. “They’re going to break tables if they keep this up, be right back.” The man jumped the bar and hit the ground running.

  Yeah, you go get them under control.

  He sighed and grabbed his drink, uncomfortable with the bar behind him, but at least this way he’d have a warning if anyone came up behind him. His peripheral vision was better than average, which gave him an advantage if anyone approached him from either side or slightly behind him. A mouthful of beer chased away the dry mouth feeling as he continued to watch the fight. Nothing out of the norm there, a couple of prospectors blowing off steam, and the Marines appeared to be happy enough sitting down with their own beverages.

  “You alright, Stone?” One of the servers, a slender young thing with a hint of curves in all the right places, set her tray on the bar.

  “Doing fine. Woke up above ground today.”

  Her full lips shifted into a full, sensual smile. “You’d be missed if you didn’t.”

  “Yeah, who’d help out on all those difficult requests?” He glanced at the woman but kept the majority of his attention on the rest of the bar. She was sweet enough and didn’t, to his knowledge, offer extras like a few of the girls did. He didn’t have a problem with it. A man, or woman, did what they had to to make their way in life. A few broke or bent the laws in order, but it was the way it was meant to be if you wanted to get through the day with enough money to keep a roof over your head and food in your stomach.

  “Ah, there are others around who can help out.”

  “But do they have my connections?” He waggled his eyebrows and mock leered at her.

  The server laughed, the bright, merry sound at odds with the fight. “You’re a scoundrel, you know, right?”

  He pressed his free hand over his heart. “You wound me, my lady. I’m cut to the core. Bleeding out here. Maybe you should kiss is better?”

  “If I didn’t know you were joking I’d have to slap you for that one, Stone.” She inclined her head. “Better go clean up the mess.” She turned, cloth and tray in hand as she sashayed across the room. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back in a few.”

  He smiled and drank down the rest of his beer and set the empty glass down. The fight was continuing, but dying down. One man nursed a broken nose at a far table, two other men had gone from fighting to hugging, complete with back slaps, only the three primary trouble makers continued to throw fists, kicks and more than a few interesting words. He chuckled, shaking his head. Letting off steam, nothing more. No weapons drawn, no blood spilled, except by accident, and no need to call in for assistance to cart off the offending patrons.

  Exactly the way he liked it.

  Minus the uniforms.

  Damned military. Always finding a way to spoil his plans, his day, his shipment. Papers, inspections, strangers rooting their way through his ship, or storage, or anything else they could get their grubby hands on. Documents, shipment orders, consignments, what did they know of what it took to make a living out here? They had a steady income, taken care of, three squares and a cot, all so they could fly around, claiming their rules were the ones everyone else had to follow. And they had nothing to be proud off, the military were his biggest customers. Quartermasters; he’d earned more money out of them than the civilians he still worked with. Always trading, making deals because an officer wanted a special bottle of whiskey, or a request for silk, the real stuff not the fake because a daughter or son was getting married. Medication occasionally made its way into his packs, from trading with the military. Things he could sell or barter out among the miners. Men and women who didn’t come into the main base but once a year. Others hadn’t visited the station since it was established a couple of years ago.

  In the twenty years since Pluto had been settled, and the first of the mines opened, the colony had grown slowly. Once the main base had been rebuilt and expanded from the original half dozen buildings, the population had tripled with the influx of fortune hunters, or families seeking a better life. One where they could establish themselves away from the rules which governed Earth only to find the rules on Pluto could be equally restrictive and not always in better ways.

  One of the uniforms moved, giving him a better look at the rest of them. Five at one table, a double check revealed two others sat at a booth, and another entered from the back of the bar. Nothing he needed to worry about, as long as the older man at the table didn’t wander his way. The Gunny was a man he’d recognize anywhere, he didn’t know what the man’s real name was, had never bothered to find out, they all addressed him as Gunny.

  His eyes narrowed. One of the men was a woman. One he’d seen in passing but had never dealt with, he tried to think back, to remember what he’d seen. Marine uniform with stripes. Sergeant stripes. He’d seen women in the fleet, pilots, navigators, and such like, but it was rare to see a woman wearing the uniform of a Marine out here. Not impossible, there were two others he’d come across, but rare enough he took notice. Sergeant stripes, which meant she had to be one of the unusual ones who fought their way up from the ranks. It shouldn’t be this way, but as he understood it in some branches of the military, a woman had to work twice as hard as a man. Maybe he was wrong, but he didn’t know enough about the service to accurately judge the situation.

  Not that she, or the others, wore uniform out here. It was one thing to sneak off base, doing so in uniform meant trouble. A few were dumb enough to risk it, most weren’t.

  She was relaxed, at ease in the way a warrior could be, with one eye on the door and the other eye keeping track of the fight. Her pose matched the men at the table, but her eyes, oh they never stopped moving, taking in action, those who had entered, a small tightening around the eyes when it happened, not noticeable unless you searched for it. And he always watched for it. A man who reacted like this, who wasn’t wearing a military uniform, he’d say was enforcement, scoping out the bar for a raid, but she wore pants and shirt he’d come to associate with men and women in service, and the Gunny he knew to be a Marine. Which is the only way he was able to identify which branch of the service this lot probably belonged to.

  Military. He snorted and forced his attention away from th
e table.

  He wasn’t here to scope out those who snuck their way off base out into the wastes to places like this. The bar wasn’t the only location men and women enjoyed out here, there were fight clubs, bare-knuckle, no holds barred, combat for whatever the current prize might be. More than one family had a holdout location out here, a place to stash their families if the shit hit the fan, and he was one of them. Sure, the base had its uses, but he avoided it whenever possible.

  “Some people can’t hold their drink.” Jones eased back behind the bar with a sharp nod in the direction of the remaining fighters who now sat either at the table or were busy tending their wounds, then gestured to the empty glass. “Need another?”

  “Sure, been a while.” He tapped the glass. “It’s all ready for you when you have the time.”

  “Usual?”

  “Yup.” He wasn’t going to be foolish enough to haul the packages in here. Oh hell no, Jones and his friends could come and pick it up themselves.

  “About the special?”

  “Got it.” Easy enough to find, though he wasn’t going to tell Jones. “Tomorrow, right?”

  “Usual time,” Jones confirmed.

  Sure, the odds of anyone hearing their conversation ranged between slim and none, but he wasn’t about to take the risk. Not when he had carved out a decent living here and planned on keeping his business up and running for the next ten years and more. If it meant odd conversations, coached in terms of casual conversation in case things went wrong, so be it. He wasn’t about to change when it had worked up to this point. “You got it.”

  “Glad to hear it as we’re running low of a few things.”

  “Isn’t it the way things work? You buy stuff, sell it, run out and need more. It’s where I come in.” He shifted his weight, taking in the bar and its occupants again. Enough patrons to keep the bar running, and he was happy enough to share in the profits in his own way.

  “And it’s always pleasant to see you here.”

  He felt it in the split second before the first of the shock waves rolled through the ground, shaking tables and chairs alike. A roaring, muffled, came from the heavy doors into the tunnels, but nothing from outside. No atmosphere, no sound. One of the joys of living on Pluto. Bottles clinked together on the shelves, liquid spilled, one of the servers stumbled, a full tray of drinks in hand. Stone moved without thinking, one hand snaking around the server’s waist as he pulled her back up from the spread of broken glass. “Got you.”

  “Thanks, what the hell was that?” She turned toward the door. “I don’t understand, Pluto doesn’t have quakes.”

  No, it didn’t, hadn’t been one recorded in the entire time the planet, its status returned after valuable minerals were found beneath the icy surface, had been studied. Whatever happened, it wasn’t a quake.

  The second wave struck. Tables tipped over, men and women struggled to stay upright as the first of the screams rang out. Terror, not pain.

  His jaw clenched as he pushed the server toward the bar and dug into his pocket. A small datapad, but with enough power to do the work he needed when he was away from his ship. He glanced up, his fingers dancing over the pad, demanding information from the base. Answers, they needed answers. Had a mine or building exploded? Possible. The rumble from the entrance into the tunnels carried sound, but details were missing, pieces of information he needed before he made a move.

  The third set of rumbles tossed him, and everyone else, to the floor as the roar blasted against the heavy door separating them from the only known safe entrance and exit into the bar.

  “Salla, grab your bag,” Duncan called up the stairs as he clung to the banister. “We have to go. Need to move now.” Where was the girl? The floor rattled, and he stumbled back into the wall, the breath knocked from his body. He groaned and pressed one hand to his ribs. “Getting too old for this.”

  “You’re not too old, Pops. Just long on mileage.”

  He grinned, despite everything. His daughter was too young to know what it meant. So was he, but knowledge was never wasted. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, and if I find out this is another damn drill, I’m shoving that alarm someplace the sun doesn’t shine,” Salla muttered her bugout bag slung across her shoulders. “Your supply dump?”

  “No, we go where they want us to be this time. If we find out this is the real thing, we’ll head to the dump.” Supplies they would both need if they wanted to survive a real problem. The alert continued, the tone high and wailing, one he couldn’t ignore. The lights shifted, turning from the normal welcoming hue to the red of warning. “Dome. Suit on. Now.”

  Salla didn’t fight, didn’t argue. One thing he could always be proud of was the way is daughter took things seriously. He slapped the box on his hip and pulled out his suit. With deft movements, long practiced, he sealed the suit in place before he looked at Salla again. Her own suit covered her from head to foot as she met his gaze. He nodded his approval and pointed to the stairs, then down. Silent communication from this point on, as they’d practiced.

  Comms could be listened in on. Secrets shared. Or stolen. Either way, it wasn’t a matter he had to deal with. Salla wouldn’t complain, she knew how things worked. He gestured her to move ahead of him. Young legs, faster and more stamina, better to let her do the hard labor of opening the hatch. She hurried ahead of him, picking up the pace as they descended.

  What the hell had caused the dome to crack?

  No, he’d have time to find out later in the day, when the dome had been repaired, and he found the right people to ply with liquor to get the answers. There was always at least one tech with the willingness to spill secrets for the right price. Information. The real source of currency on Pluto, unless you were a trader dealing with the mercs and smugglers who dared to risk the rules governing the outer rim. Like Stone.

  He grinned but kept silent. Yeah, Stone was one he’d dealt with regularly.

  Salla reached the hatch, keyed in the passcode and pulled it open. With a sweep of one hand, she gestured for her father to go first.

  Wahhhh Whoooo Wahhhh Whoooo.

  The tone of the alert changed, taking on a sound he’d only heard once before. During his first year on Pluto.

  Under attack.

  The ground shuddered, and the walls cracked around them. Salla cried out as she stumbled away from the escape route, left shoulder hitting the wall with an audible slap. The hatch into the lower tunnels slammed shut before either of them could reach it.

  Her suit. God, if it tore, she wouldn’t be able to cope once the air seeped out and the heat joined it. “The hatch. Salla. Get the hatch.” He activated his comm, breaking the rules he’d drummed into his daughter.

  Nothing else mattered but Salla, getting her out in one piece, alive and able to survive whatever happened.

  His Salla.

  As bright and beautiful as her mother.

  The mother he’d let down.

  Interlude One

  Unified Terran Government: Alpha Comms.

  Sheila Cavanor settled into her seat and brought up the screens which would eat up the majority of her time and focus during her shift. She didn’t look back, didn’t need to in order to know the change of officer hadn’t yet taken place. Another thirty minutes before the bane of her existence joined the crew and found a way, any way, of poking her.

  “You look upset,” tall, leggy and white blonde, Amanda leaned over the back of the display, her folded arms resting on top.

  “He’s changed shifts.”

  “Grant?”

  “Yes.” She kept her voice low enough to prevent it from carrying. “He does this at least once a week now I’m not officially a part of his team.” Her skin crawled at the thought of him. “I can’t keep this up much longer.”

  “Have you spoken to HR?”

  “If I do, I have to put in a formal complaint.” Sheila wiped her hands on her uniform pants. “Can’t do that if I want a recommendation when I put in a request for a new
posting.” No, it would mean a hearing. SOP for any complaints which touched on harassment, sexual or otherwise. “If I can get the transfer it won’t matter.”

  “Only places with openings are out on the rim. Pluto and Uranus.”

  Sheila groaned and rested her head in her hands. “I know, don’t remind me.” But if it meant putting a healthy distance between herself and Grant, then she’d take it. “Dumb, he has to be one of the last Neanderthals around.”

  “I don’t know, there was one in basic training, but you’re right, they’re rare.”

  “With good reason.” The punishments for sexual harassment weren’t pretty, and a career man like Grant had a lot to lose. Which didn’t make sense. Did he want to be kicked out of the service? He’d been in the Navy for far more than his initial mandatory years. Ten years service to date, including a mandatory year as a private, to better understand how the Navy worked.

  “Makes you wonder what’s going on with him.”

  Sheila hit the sequence of keys to begin her initial sweep. “I don’t know, just wish he’d take it elsewhere and leave me alone. I want to get on with my work.” And he was careful. Nothing inappropriate, per the regs, when they were on duty. No, it was the way he looked at her, the small signs that he hadn’t given up. A touch on the shoulder, that never roamed to her waist or ass, but lingered a heartbeat or two longer than it should. “Maybe I’m overreacting?”

  “No, you’re not.” Amanda checked the time. “Damn, I’ve got to go. See you on Saturday? Girls night?”

  “Last time I went on a girls night with you, I lost half my clothes and ended up giving the strippers lap dances.”

  “Which means we all had fun.” Amanda grinned as she hurried away. “Later.”

  Shiela shook her head even as she fought against the urge to smile. Amanda was fun to be around, and letting off steam wouldn’t do her any harm. She’d broken no rules, and with the others around her, she’d remain safe if Grant found out about their plans and shadowed them.