Gangs of Galis
A Warpmancer Short Story
Nicholas Woode-Smith
https://nicholaswoodesmith.com/
Gangs of Galis is a short story side-story set in the Warpmancer
Universe.
Enter the 36th century by checking out Shadow, a thrilling action
space opera available on Amazon.
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Copyright © 2017
Warpmancer Universe
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise
without the prior written permission of the publisher and the
copyright owner.
A pale red light flickered. Its audible click-click and hiss melded
with the flashing of its sanguine illumination upon the broken
concrete. Red sand seeped through cracks in the badly maintained
ground. The light, while pale, still managed to enhance the hue of
blood, steadily spreading across the tarmac, staining Michel
Fulken’s white dress shirt as he lay, splayed like a shrivelled insect,
in one of the many alleys of Galis City.
Danny Marzio took a drag from his cigarette and then grimaced.
He blew out the acrid smoke and tossed the cigarette into the
growing crimson puddle. Galis hadn’t received a shipment from the
Grengen tobacco plantations in months. The lab-grown stuff was
all there was left, but it didn’t come close to the real thing.
Zito Gorlea clicked his tongue in disgust as the cigarette was
extinguished in the blood.
‘That necessary, Don? Best be honouring the dead.’
‘Best way to honour the dead is not to make so many of them,’
Danny responded, surveying the scene.
Zito stared blankly at his boss. He was sweating. The rotund man
with the balding pate always looked nervous, but his colleagues
knew that was never the case. Despite the moisture on his brow and
beneath his pits, Zito Gorlea was as unfeeling as a syn.
Bullet casings were scattered around the area. 9mm. Locally
sourced metal. Non-Corporate. Galis smiths.
Danny lifted one of the scattered shells and sniffed it.
Gunpowder. Not a Trooper killing, then.
The uppity self-appointed law enforcement had been known to
eliminate criminals like Michel Fulken before. It could still just as
well be them. They would have had the motivation. Michel had been
the one leaking the Trooper patrol schedules. He was a professional
spy, one of the best. But even the best slipped up eventually. And,
even so the Trooper’s mainly used carbon and CC-rounds, many of
the new recruits had to utilise Galisian-smithed weapons, and cheap
Galisian rounds. This could be a Trooper killing – but Danny
doubted that.
It was messy, but effective. Michel’s blood and bits were strewn
around the alley, a chunk of brain stuck to the aluminium door to
Michel’s home. A splinter of lead had split off and hit the red light,
damaging it. Troopers, even the new recruits, had better aim. They
didn’t spray. They summarily executed. A single-shot to the head.
Sometimes, they even had a trial. This wasn’t an execution. This was
an assassination – and the Trooper Order were not fond of such
dishonourable acts.
Michel was face down in his juices, two holes in the head and
five in the back.
‘Neighbours say they heard rapid-fire, boss,’ Zito added, hands
in his pockets as he looked around, bored.
‘Probably a Scorpion?’
‘Yep,’ Zito agreed, uninterested. He preferred using guns to
discussing them.
Danny stood and took in the whole picture. Capo dead. His link
to the informers in the Troopers – gone. Danny rubbed his chin.
His link. Not everyone else’s.
‘It’s hot out, boss. Can we get back to the ‘butcher’?’
Danny didn’t reply, but he did withdraw his fedora to wipe his
Troopers couldn’t have known about Michel, but the informers
did. And disloyalty was an informer’s business. Raise the bid, and
the snitch will cross the floor.
‘Zito, we’re going for a drive.’
Zito grinned.
‘We blasting tonight, boss?’
Danny laughed. ‘When are we not?’
Despite his nonchalant jovialness, Danny was not pleased.
Blasting was never what he wanted to do. But he was good at it. So,
despite other preferences, Danny kicked down the door of the only
informant he knew – Mac “Machine Gun” Corvette. While Michel
had maintained the cover of his snitches well, Danny had happened
across Mac’s identity after a run-in with a corporation who had
wanted him dead.
As the scrap-metal door fell off its hinges, a bullet drove itself
into the doorframe, clinking and ricocheting off the steel-frame into
the concrete floor. Danny fired once, hitting the assailant in the leg.
Zito followed through, tackling the gunman to the ground.
‘Apologies for not phoning ahead, dear Mac.’
Danny sauntered towards the struggling man as he bled on his
plastic-fibre carpet. Danny didn’t pity him. The blood would wash
out.
‘Grako! Skiting grako! Get off me!’ the man swore, wincing at
the bullet in his leg.
Danny squatted beside him, as Zito grunted.
‘That’s no language to use… wait…’
Danny looked closer. The man was a thug. Thick muscles.
Tattoos. Green-dyed mohawk.
‘You ain’t Mac!’
‘Who the vok is Mac? Get off me, grako!’
Danny indicated to Zito to stand up. Zito grunted again, but
stood up with a feigned struggle, lifting the man’s gun with him,
pocketing it.
Danny offered a hand. The mohawked man sneered as he pulled
himself up onto a nearby couch, wincing.
‘Zito, clean him up.’
The fat man rolled his eyes and drew out a small first aid kit.
‘Now, tell me. What you doing in Mac’s apartment?’
‘This ‘ere is my place,’ he replied, eyes angry but voice calm.
Danny glanced around the room. The man hissed as Zito used a
tool to pull out the bullet and stitch the wound.
It was a clean room – Spartan, except for the couch. Grey walls.
No artwork. A single, barred, window. There was a table and two
chairs. Another door, to the right of the entrance.
‘What’s through there?’ Danny asked, indicating to the door with
his thumb.
‘Bathroom,’ the thug replied, a little too fast.
Danny raised his eye brow.
‘Zito, didn’t you need to go to the bathroom?’
Zito grinned and drew his gun.
The thug balke
d but noticed Danny’s gun pointed straight at him.
Danny smiled and brought his finger to his lips.
Zito sidled to the door, taking cover by the side. His hand drifted
to the handle…
‘Mac!’
The door burst open. The thug pounced. Danny fired as he
jumped to his feet. The thug fell to the ground. Mac came speeding
out of the bathroom towards the exit, meeting the butt of Danny’s
gun along the way. He fell to the floor with a harsh crunch and
oomph.
‘Well, well, Mac. First, you snitch on your handler,’ Danny
squatted, staring the man in his eyes as he blinked away the
inevitable concussion. ‘And then try to get your boss killed.’
‘D-d-don! I didn’t know it was you. I swear.’
‘Swearing is bad, Mac. Your bodyguard did too much of it and
look at him now.’
Mac gulped. A bloody lump was forming on his forehead.
‘Michel’s dead.’ Danny was no longer smiling.
‘R-r-really?’ Mac stuttered. ‘No wonder he didn’t make the meet.’
‘What meet?’
‘Michel was arranging meet-ups with all the informants. Said
‘Do you know what these changes were?’
‘No…no. I went to meet him two hours ago. He didn’t show.
When I left the meeting place, a car started tailing me. Spooked me.
So, I hired this guy…’
He indicated the corpse.
‘…for protection. Come on, Don. I ain’t a bad snitch. I’m just a
snitch – but I snitch for you. I don’t know what’s going on. Really.’
‘But you do know some of the other informers?’
‘I’m not supposed to…’
‘Spare the pretence.’
Mac sighed. ‘Yeah. I know a guy. But he’s not one of us. He’s
Galis Blade.’
‘That mercenary crew? How they afford an informer?’
‘Blades been raking in notes, boss,’ Zito interjected. ‘They know
what they’re doing.’
Mac nodded. ‘This guy I know has been their link to the patrol
schedules. They need the info to fulfil operations for their clients.’
‘We aren’t on bad terms with the Blades,’ Danny thought, aloud.
‘Let’s go pay them a visit.’
‘That wise, boss?’ Zito was concerned, but didn’t show it.
Danny turned and grinned. ‘The Blades are professionals. I’m a
professional. This is just business.’
‘If you say so, boss.’
Danny hated and loved this city. He hated what it was. Its dirt.
Its lack of class. The greyness. He hated the desperation that could
be smelt in the form of sweat, blood and faeces. He hated how
everything in this city had to be a firefight. He hated that Zito
glorified the ‘blasting’ that had become their nightly routine. While
not adverse to killing – Danny had done too much of it already for
it to affect him anymore – he did see it as a waste. Why kill the
denizens of this glorified slum when you could charge them? Why
rob them when you could sell to them?
And that is what Danny loved about Galis. The potential. In
every grey window, Danny saw a red light. Above every dingy
drinking hole, a neon sign, trucks filled with pleasure drugs and
booze. Real tobacco, real narcotics. Danny hated what this city was
– a warzone – but loved what he knew he could make out of it. A
business. A utopia of vice, pleasure and credits. Without a city
charter or council like in Dead Stone, there was nobody to stop him
from turning this shanty sea into his dream.
But no empire, of glitz or grit, was easy. The Marzio Mafia, his
gang, dressed in the manner of his dream. From a small crew of
fedora and suit wearing gunslingers, he had grown his business.
While the Troopers failed to protect the people in the outer districts,
the Marzios reigned supreme, protecting businesses, households
and communities – at a price. Marzio turf was safe. But it wasn’t
good enough. Danny didn’t want to own Galis – far from it – but
he wanted to make Galis suitable for profit. Keeping the psychos in
line was part of the job.
Losing employees was never good for any business. Losing a
Capo, a trusted officer, was disastrous. As such, Danny was forced
to partake in what he hated, but was so damn good at. With Zito,
born killer that he was, he went blasting. When a crew spited a client,
Danny put a bullet through their noggin. When some hoods tried to
sling drugs in his alleys, they either joined up or found themselves
in a highway ditch. He hated all of this, but even so, he did it all with
a smile.
Zito turned right. Danny jumped up in his seat as they hit a bump
in the road. Two hooligans were illuminated by the headlights and
ran into the alley.
‘How’s that associate of yours doing,’ Danny asked of Zito.
‘Passed his test. Blew that scab’s head off.’
Danny nodded. Zito didn’t continue. That was the end of the
conversation.
They pulled up by Galis Blade turf. While most of the gangs of
Galis maintained control over a wide area, tormenting or
‘protecting’ its residents, the Galis Blades conservatively utilised
only a single compound. Despite not being as large as Marzio turf,
however, Danny was impressed by the Blades’ fortress. Ten-metre
high steel-enforced concrete walls. Guard towers and kill holes at
every strategic location. Only a single noticeable gate. A dried-out
canal as a moat. This mercenary group could be so much more.
Danny was relieved that they didn’t want that.
They pulled up by the bridge to the fortress. A man wearing a
leather jacket with Kevlar padding leaned in.
‘The Don himself? You wanting to play dress up with us, then?
Sorry, sport, but we don’t have time for kiddie games.’
‘Charming. Jherad, right? You did a job for us awhile back.
Despite your mouth, you did a good job.’
Danny nodded, then continued.
‘Here for information.’
Jherad scratched his head with a sheathed knife.
‘Well, can’t hurt. Come right in.’
Danny smiled in thanks, as the gates opened and Zito drove right
in. Past the walls and fortress, the compound opened into its own
community. Men and women in similar uniforms to Jherad were
socialising and working, even at this late hour. Zito parked in an
indicated bay, in front of some Blades who were playing cards. They
didn’t reach for their guns. They felt safe behind their walls.
One of the players looked at Danny and voicelessly indicated the
door behind him. Through the door, Danny found the leader of the
Galis Blades – Immondo Jefferson.
The man had light chocolate skin, short-spiky hair and a well-
shaved face. He turned as the door opened and grinned.
‘Don! Got a job for us?’
‘Always, Immondo. But later. Here for information.’
Zito leaned against the wall as Immondo indicated for Danny to
take one of the two seats.
‘Forgive the lack of pleasantries, Immondo. You know me. I’d
love to chat, but things are pressing.’
‘No worries, Donny-don. This is Galis, eh? No time for
pleasantries. What ya need?’
‘My snitch-master is dead. Only snitch of his I know only knows
one of your snitches. Not making accusations, but need to fish at
any pond I can.’
‘Don’t think Troopers did it?’
Danny shook his head. ‘Too messy. And doesn’t make sense.
Troopers would have interrogated him somewhere else. There
wasn’t any sign of struggle. It was an assassination.’
Immondo nodded. ‘Gang killing. Got to be. This is odd, though.
Only gangs who’d want a piece of you don’t have informants – that
we know of. They rely on our information to dodge patrols.’
Danny looked him in the eyes.
Immondo laughed, but then looked serious, meeting Danny’s
gaze.
‘The Blades don’t want any piece of your empire…’
‘Business.’
‘Whatever. We’re running a tight operation. You’re a good client,
but you might not always be. Got to have our own connections. But
we aren’t going to go around killing your guys. We make too much
credit from you. We are in different businesses, Donny-don. You
don’t skite in our canals, we don’t skite in yours.’
‘But,’ Danny whispered, all semblance of a smile gone, ‘there’s
always room to grow. And skiting in someone else’s pond may be
risked when the reward is great.’
Immondo enhanced his glare, hand slowly drifting to his front
chest holster.
The door burst open. Immondo and Danny spun their heads to
the new arrival. Zito yawned and gave the young man a glance.
‘Commander! Spymaster’s dead…’
He saw that they were not alone.
‘Uh, um… sorry, Commander.’
Immondo waved him out. As the door closed, he stood up and
walked towards a liquor cabinet. He started to pour some cheap
brandy. He spilled a glob onto the table top. Danny didn’t flinch as
the Blades’ boss tossed the glass at the wall, letting the glass collect
in a shining pile on the floor.
‘Well, well, Immondo. Please accept my apology. It seems we’re
both victims here.’
Face red, and through gritted teeth, Immondo replied, bottle in
hand.
‘It seems so, Don. It may also seem that we may need to work
together in this. Someone is skiting in our canals, and I like clean