Black Legion: Gates of Cilicia (17 page)

She tilted her head slightly and looked at them.

“Xenophon, are you in trouble?” she asked coyly.

Glaucon looked to Xenophon, not wanting to say anything incriminating. It was clear from his body language that he was hiding something. Xenophon, on the other hand, wanted desperately to tell her what was happening but was never going to discuss their situation in a public place such as this. He glanced about and spotted a number of men, all wearing Laconian uniforms that were speaking to a military advisor.

“What’s going on here? Is it me, or are there a lot of military types signing up for work?” he asked.

“You noticed, huh?” asked Roxana.

Xenophon looked back at her and moved in closer.

 
“Can we go somewhere more private?” asked Xenophon.

She looked at him and gave him a look that told him in no uncertain way was she interested in spending private time with him.

“No, you misunderstand me.”

“Do I?” she asked.

“Yes, I need to talk to you about Attica, the Alliance, and us,” he said, pointing his hand at himself and Glaucon.

She waited for a few seconds and turned to her Laconian friends who were busy arguing about something. As she spoke, one of them looked around and sniggered at the two men. It wasn’t clear what he was being so dismissive about, but Xenophon had a few ideas. With a nod, she wandered back and spoke quietly.

“Come on, I’ll buy you both a drink in the bar upstairs, and you can tell me all about it.”

Glaucon looked to Xenophon and smiled. Xenophon just studied the large number of people and tried to count the different nationalities, occupations and even species. If he wasn’t mistaken, there seemed to be representatives from every world he had ever heard of here.

Tartarus Trading Post, Neutral Space

The bar was unlike any place Xenophon had ever visited before. Creatures from every corner of the known Galaxy stood and drank, chatted, argued or flirted in the subdued lighting. Xenophon, Roxana and Glaucon sat in a quiet corner of the bar and huddled over their drinks.
 
Their glasses were filled with a pungent green liquid that gave off an odd scent. From the top of the glass, an even stranger low-lying mist dripped down the sides and moved about the table. The effect was much like dry ice, but the smell and movement was very different.

“You recommend this stuff?” asked Glaucon.

“It’s their specialty, apparently,” Roxana answered. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

Xenophon leaned in closer to her.

“We were in the capital when Crixus and the rest left. They just announced it, and then they were gone. It took less than an hour for every single Laconian civilian and soldier to leave the city.”

“Okay, that doesn’t tell me what you are both doing here though, does it?”

She turned to Glaucon who was already distracted by a number of dancers at the far end of the bar.

“Glaucon, what were you doing there? I thought you were the ardent democrat?”

He smiled back at her, and perhaps a little surprised she remembered anything about him, especially his political views.

“Well, until a few weeks ago, I was the most ardent democratic supporter of all. Hell, Xenophon and I met over a barricade. You know he was the Inner Ward Prefect in the city, right?”

“Prefect? Yes, I heard rumours that the son of Gryllus was working with the occupying government.”

“What was I supposed to do? They wanted to leave, but not if it meant leaving behind a pro war party in their place.”

“You believe that?” she replied sarcastically.

“Well, now that they’ve gone, what has happened on Attica? I will tell you what. The mob has forced a return to democracy, and the first thing they want already is revenge. I promise you, they will happily go to war over this perceived slight even if it means turning the planet to glass.”

Roxana placed her glass back onto the table. She appeared somewhat surprised at this loud and continuous outburst by her old friend.

“I’d forgotten how passionate you can get about certain subjects.”

“Glass?” asked Glaucon, genuinely confused.

“It’s Xenophon, just trying to be cryptic. Centuries ago, back when we were threatening each other with thermonuclear weapons, it was a common phrase. By using powerful hydrogen bombs, the thermal energy would literally boil people, objects and buildings.”

“Turning them to glass?” added Glaucon.

“Exactly. I think you’ll find it’s just Xenophon trying to be clever.”

Xenophon shook his head, evidently unimpressed by her comments.

“What about you then, Roxana? What are you doing in a place like this? And with such, well, colourful company?”

She leaned back and took a long draught from her glass. The alcohol was potent, and with each breath she was becoming less stern and a little merrier. With a clunk, she brought the glass down and glanced about the room. It truly was the most bohemian of locations, but nobody seemed to be particularly interested in the three Terrans.

“Okay, here it is. I met a group of Alliance officers who would be offered some security work on one of the colony freighters off-world. This was right after the surrender, and if you remember, at that point many Alliance military were being locked up. I joined a crew, and we spent the next three months guarding the convoys. Pretty easy work and the pay was good, really good.”

“You, a private security contractor?” asked Glaucon.

Roxana glanced at him and turned to Xenophon.

“Anyway, when we got back from the last job, I met this Imperial Army guy.”

“The one that was downstairs earlier?”

She nodded before continuing.

“He was with a group of Imperial agents, and they were moving between ships and the station to recruit all sorts of people. That’s when they offered me a three-month deal to help retrieve some items.”

“Retrieve?” asked Xenophon with a hint of irony.

“Yes, treasures stolen from the Emperor himself some twenty years ago. We did the job and came back here for payment.”

“Well?”

She pulled out her ID card and flashed it in front of him while at the same time hitting the credit button. The holographic display showed the credit state of her account.

“Wow, that’s a lot of credit. All of that from one job?”

Roxana nodded and then leaned in even closer.

“There’s more, though. Rumour has it that he is back and recruiting for an even bigger team for a special operation. They’re looking for all types, soldiers, engineers, techs, even translators.”

“What kind of a job would need all of that? Don’t they already have the manpower in the Empire? What do they want us for?” asked Glaucon.

Roxana took another sip from her glass and slid back into a more comfortable position in her chair. She was quiet for a moment, perhaps thinking about what to share, or it might have simply been the alcohol slowing her down.

“Why do you think there are so many Laconians here? He is offering them more money than an Alliance solider earns in a lifetime, for one job. How much does a Laconian soldier earn?”

Glaucon shrugged, and Xenophon shook his head in disappointment.

“Glaucon, you know full well that Laconians only train for war, and that is their sole role in life. The automatons provide the labour in the cities and fields so that they can work on their fighting skills. They earn nothing, and the state provides them with food, clothes and a home, nothing more.”

“Exactly, and this job can make every one of them rich beyond their wildest dreams.”

Xenophon threw back a sip of the liquid and instantly regretted it. The warm drink rushed down his throat and sat in his chest, burning hot and heavy inside. He coughed to try and clear it, but it didn’t help. After a few more seconds, the discomfort started to subside, and he tried to look as calm and comfortable as he could.

“So, you’re signing up for this adventure, then?” he asked.

“Definitely. You’ve seen the reports back home. I’m just as likely to be lynched as given a friendly welcome. This way, I get to keep away and have some money behind me.”

“What about afterwards? What will you do with the money?”

“Who cares?” she said with a cavalier tone. “You know how this works. Money makes life much easier. Maybe I’ll start my own agency, return, buy a farm. I’ll decide when I get to it. But for now, it is good money and guaranteed work for at least six months.”

“Six?” asked Glaucon.

“Yes, at least. That’s the rumour, anyway. You two thinking of coming along?”

The two young men looked at each other, both trying to gauge what the other thought. Xenophon was by far the most eager, but Glaucon looked confused. Xenophon looked back to her.

“There’s something else.”

“Go on.”

“My father. He was killed during the changeover.”

Roxana looked crestfallen. She had been a friend of the family for many years, and right back to when Xenophon had been a boy. She had known his father well, so her anguish was genuine and heartfelt.

“I’m so sorry, can you tell me what happened?” she asked quietly.

“It was murder. That bitch Montoya, one of the Thirty and her cronies, shot him in the back and left him to rot.”

“Why? What did she have to gain?” asked Roxana.

“We didn’t have the opportunity to find out. Half the city was trying to break through the perimeter, and as you can see, they are looking for anybody with links to the old regime with a vengeance. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”

Roxana tapped the table and a computer display popped up, projected directly in front of her. With a few quick hand gestures, she brought up the latest public reports from Attica and the outlying worlds of the old Alliance. Page after page slid past until she stopped at one in particular. She stared for several seconds before turning to Xenophon.

“You have a problem. Have you not seen this?”

Xenophon stood up and moved around to sit beside her. He looked at the data, specifically the images and text on a publically issued police report. There was an attached warrant for both him and Glaucon.

“What does it say?” asked Glaucon, but his voice implied he already had a good idea what it was about.

“It’s my father. There’s a public warrant out for our arrest in any former Alliance territory.”

“What? That will be Montoya and her friends. What does it say we did?”

Roxana moved the page and brought up extra information from the local news sources. One image more than any caught her eye. It was of the civic buildings, each of them burning from the fires of public disorder. The old Ecclesia, a structure famed as the symbol of democracy, was heavily damaged. Multiple explosions had smashed the famous front facade, and much of its structure now lay in ruins. Large segments appeared untouched, but the information around the images explained it would probably need to be demolished and a new one built on the ruins.

“No, it can’t be. The reports say a group of hard-core supporters of the old regime refused to hand over power to the people. When the moderates in the Thirty tried to hand over power, this group tried to start a coup. It says Gryllus was the leader with military support from me and an underground revolutionary party led by you, Glaucon.”

“What? The group I was in was pushing for democratic change. It was a political protest movement. You’re telling me we’ve been blamed for the explosions, violence and carnage in the capital?”

Xenophon leaned back and shook his head.

“It’s worse than that. The official line is that we fought with my father over control and ended up killing him.”

“Bullshit!” snapped Glaucon in a rage.

He stood up, and Xenophon was forced to drag him back down before he drew too much attention to their quiet part of the bar. Two or three unsavoury characters were already watching them. Xenophon looked back to Roxana, and he was having a difficult time gauging her thoughts.