THE DUMAS JOB 4

Irya leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, her gaze sharp as it fixed on Roy. She studied him for a long moment, her expression a mix of curiosity and mild irritation.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she said finally, “I’d think you were planning to make that janitor gig permanent. Getting too chummy with the workers? Not a good plan.”

Roy smirked faintly, shrugging. “It’s not a bad gig, to be honest. Low stress. Regular pay. But yeah, the situation’s a bit tougher than expected. Those drunken tenants ended up increasing security. Feels like I’m just unlucky.”

“Who knows?” Irya replied, resting her cheek against her palm. “But you’d better have something worthwhile for me. I’d hate to think I’ve wasted my time — though, to be fair, jobs have been scarce lately.”

“CGOM giving you trouble?” Roy asked.

“Something like that,” she said, her tone clipped. “You haven’t been everywhere, so maybe you haven’t noticed, but things are tense outside. Some places on Mars are a bit… underdeveloped. Think of it as a wild-west. Alba’s stable though since it’s one of the cornerstones of this planet. Think of it as the foundation keeping Mars from sliding into chaos. The Maglev trains are the veins, connecting everything. The Space Elevator? That’s the heart and brain of the entire operation. This planet’s a trillion-dollar investment. The powers that be aren’t about to let that go to waste. Sure, we’ve got players like the Callisto Syndicate, the Feng Huan, and the United Blood Cartel, but compared to the nations on Earth? They’re nothing. Earth could crush them with a flick of its wrist if it felt like it.”

Roy squared his jaw, frowning. “Then why all this? Why the games? What’s the point of this job again? Because so far it hasn’t increased my credits.”

Irya gave him a thin, humorless smile. “Like I said — it’s about poking the bear. Testing how far they can go. Finding the line they can draw.”

“And if we poke the bear in the eye?” Roy countered. “What then? Just say, ‘Oops, my bad, bro?’”

Irya let out a quiet laugh, devoid of real humor. “Who knows? Dip your toes into political waters, and you’ll drive yourself crazy asking questions. Why this? Why is that? Our job is to do what they want. That doesn’t mean we’re supposed to throw our lives away. They’ve set up their little empires here — foundations they don’t want to shake. This is a power play. A way to measure just how big their stick is compared to everyone else’s.”

“So in the end it’s all just dick measuring contest,” Roy rolled his eyes. “Man, they can swing their sticks all they want. I haven’t been paid a cent beyond the apartment’s salary. Starting to think I’d rather be a Martian citizen than a Martian criminal.”

Irya tilted her head slightly, her lips quirking into a faint smirk. “It does suit you, you know. You seem comfortable here. Almost… at home.”

“Meh,” Roy said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know why I’m even here half the time anymore. I just do it because the money might be good if Boss Devond finds it heart to reward us even if we don’t take a shot at Dumas. Sure, working a chill job sounds nice, but not having to work at all? That’s the dream. Earn big, then laze around all day.”

“And here I thought you were a single-minded man, Roy Inman,” Irya said, her tone dripping with mock disappointment. “I’m a bit let down.”

Roy chuckled. “Guess I’m full of surprises. But seriously, I don’t want to be a wage-slave again.”

“Isn’t that why we’re doing this kind of thing anyway? Because we liked to earn big. But you worry too much, Devon isn’t that pretty. Even if we don’t shoot Dumas in the head,” she continued, leaning forward slightly, “we’ll still have to make it look like we tried. Hard. I’ve been doing some reporting, and passing down everything we know. Even Devon thinks that it’s not going to be easy.”

“Yeah, I don’t see this ending with a clean kill or anything close to that,” Roy admitted. “Honestly? I’d be surprised if we even get the chance. Maybe take a potshot and call it a day?”

Irya scoffed. “I’m not that desperate for the payout. No point in risking everything for a lowball contract.”

Roy shrugged. “Fair enough.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Anyway, here’s what I’ve got.”

Irya straightened, her expression sharpening as Roy began to relay the details.

He started with the mercenaries. “They’re not amateurs. Most of them are heavily augmented Earthlings, military veterans and are professionals, so they’re running a tight operation. Every floor’s locked down, with checkpoints near Dumas’s apartment. Emergency exits, dumbwaiters, service elevators — you name it, they’ve got it covered. They’ve even got snipers stationed around the perimeter. Which we already know.”

Irya nodded slowly. “And the staff?”

“Pretty normal, for the most part. The manager, Nakamura, plays everything by the book. The cleaning crew? Just a mix of regulars trying to get by. No real threats there. But here’s the thing — Dumas’s security team isn’t just guarding his suite. They’ve moved into the neighboring apartments, evicting tenants to set up their own surveillance zones.”

“Efficient,” Irya murmured. “What about the rooms themselves?”

Roy paused, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “That’s where it somewhat gets interesting. The apartments are all designed the same way — identical layouts, with minor differences in furniture. It’s like a blueprint, repeated over and over. Makes it easier to plan.”

Irya arched a brow. “How so?”

“I’ve been mapping them out,” Roy admitted. “Noting the placements of bathrooms, living areas, even the structural reinforcements in the walls. Some sections are thinner than others, but most of them are solid. If we need to, we could exploit that. Then again, I doubt we’d be able to get an ordinance.”

“Good,” Irya said. “What else?”

“There’s a module in the power box that’s connected to the lockdown system,” Roy continued. “I think you know this already, but whatever. It’s supposed to keep the building operational if something happens to the atmosphere — like a breach. But with Mars terraformed, no one takes it seriously anymore.”

“Why keep it, then?”

“No idea,” Roy shrugged. “Nostalgia? Bureaucracy? Who knows? There’s also this thing about every building in Alba City having bunkers underneath. If something really bad happens, that’s where everyone goes and supposedly, they’re networked. I doubt we can access that though, since it seems more troublesome finding the access code to the tunnels and bunkers just to get into the apartment. Maybe we could use it as an exit route.”

Irya’s eyes narrowed, her mind clearly working through the intel. “Useful,” she said after a moment. “Potentially.”

Roy leaned back, rubbing his temples as he stood up and prepared to leave.

“Going back to work already?”

“Yeah. Not much I can share. That’s about it for now. Honestly, the more I learn about this place, the more I wonder why we’re even trying. Dumas is practically untouchable.”

“At least here, he is,” Irya said, her tone sharp and matter-of-fact. “No doubt about that. We could try for a wilder options, but it’s too much trouble. And let me be clear — any options that involve civilian casualties are off the table. Devon doesn’t want to give them an excuse for city-wide martial law. Others can try, sure, but let them try first rather than us.”

“Martial law, huh?” Roy leaned back in his chair, arching a brow. “He can do that?”

“He doesn’t have to,” Irya replied. “The mayor and the governor would. That’s Dumas’s whole job — handling security. If we do anything reckless that spills over to the public, that would involve the Syndicate, we’re screwed.”

Roy sighed, rubbing his temple. “Are we overthinking this?”

In response, Irya adjusted her AR glasses. A few taps on her interface, and she sent a shared feed to Roy’s own AR glasses. He blinked as his vision filled with a web of connections: names, titles, and affiliations branching out from a central node labeled Alexander Dumas.

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“Mayor, governor, senators,” Irya said, gesturing toward the glowing lines. “Even officers in the CGOM itself. You’ve got to hand it to him—Dumas has a lot of friends.”

“Small-time politician, my ass,” Roy muttered, letting out a snort. “Call me crazy, but we’re starting to look more like private investigators than a couple of mercs trying to ‘retire’ a guy.”

“I have a feeling that’s exactly what Devon wanted,” Irya said, her voice toneless. She leaned back, her expression as stoic as ever. “This job was flawed from the start.”

Roy crossed his arms, frowning. “Maybe. Still, how long do you think this’ll go on? Surely, we’re not the only ones Devon tasked with this?”

“There were four teams,” Irya said, her tone carrying a faint edge of disdain. “From what I’ve heard, they all started with the same steps—research, surveillance, figuring out the lay of the land. Just like us, they quickly realized how ‘shit’ this job is.

“The others? A few idiots thought they could just shoot him in the back and call it a day. Didn’t even get close. Dumas’s people ID’d them and took them out before they could try.”

Roy raised a brow. “And why not us?”

Irya raised her hand, ticking off points on her fingers. “First, we’re not loaded up with chrome. No flashy, combat-grade cyberware to make us stand out. Second, bioware and internal augments are subtle. They can’t profile us easily. Third, we haven’t done anything to raise suspicion.”

“Well, technically,” she added with a faint smirk, “I haven’t. You, on the other hand…”

Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh shit. They’re not following me, are they?”

Irya let her bomber jacket slide off her shoulders as she leaned back. “They were,” she said casually. “Three days. But all you did was work, go home, and eat in Chinatown. At first, I thought you were doing it on purpose. Turns out, you were just oblivious.”

Roy groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You could have told me! No wonder you were MIA for a week after tailing Dumas through that dome.”

“That’s right,” Irya replied, studying him with faint amusement. “Disappointed it hasn’t been as guns-blazing as you thought?”

“Kinda,” Roy admitted with a half-smile.

Irya let out a soft chuckle. “The best merc is the one who doesn’t cause trouble. They get the job done without commotion. Street-level jobs? Easy. Low stakes. You can get away with decapitating a low-profile idiot because no one cares about them. But reputation? That’s a double-edged sword. It can make a job easier—or screw you over completely.”

Roy nodded slowly, digesting her words. “Just having the title of ‘politician’ puts you on a different playing field, huh?”

“Exactly,” Irya said. “And Dumas isn’t just any politician. He’s got military-grade augmentations, actual influence, and enough allies to make our lives miserable. If he were some leech who did nothing but skim off taxpayers? I’d be at home right now, doing something else entirely.”

Roy exhaled heavily, slumping in his chair. “Yeah. This one’s a mess, no matter how you slice it.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

“You think Devon knew?” Roy asked suddenly.

Irya’s lips quirked into a faint, humorless smile. “Of course he did. He just didn’t care.”

Roy grunted in acknowledgment. He wasn’t sure which was worse—that Devon had sent them in blind, or that he’d done it knowing exactly how impossible the job was.

“Still,” Roy said after a pause, “we’ve come this far. Might as well see it through.”

Irya tilted her head, her gaze sharp as she looked away. “Unfortunately.”

* * *

Back at the hotel, Roy slipped into his cleaning overalls, the fabric snug and annoyingly stiff. Across the room, Auntie Tina sat near her locker, chatting happily with one of her many grandchildren. It was a daily ritual for her, connecting with her family before starting work. Most of them were still on Earth, and though the distance was astronomical, the connection was surprisingly clear.

Roy had overheard Josh explaining once that these calls were routed through satellite arrays attached to asteroids. Back in the day, the lag was unbearable, but advances in signal beaming had made near-instantaneous communication possible. Roy didn’t understand the technicalities, nor did he care to.

“Yo, let’s go,” Miguel called from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his usual bald head and grin.

Roy grabbed his cleaning tools and followed him. Before leaving, Miguel leaned over Auntie Tina’s shoulder, sticking his bald head into her screen. He waggled his eyebrows comically before darting out of arm’s reach.

“You really should stop bothering her,” Roy said, smirking. “She’s not going to share food with you if this keeps up..”

“Nah, she still will. She isn’t the type to hold a grudge because of a little foolishness,” Miguel shrugged. “Auntie Tina thinks everyone’s her kid. Considering her age, it’s not hard to guess why.”

Roy chuckled. “You’re fond of her, huh?”

“Of course I am,” Miguel said with a huff. “She’s a hardworking, sincere person. Not like those ancient bastards I’ve met. You know, the ones who lived past one hundred, but are just empty inside. Senile old fucks that just want to die, but don’t have the courage to die.”

Roy raised a brow. “Really? So you met a lot?”

“Yeah, I used to clean in this retirement home and it was so fucking miserable that it didn’t take long for me to get out,” Miguel nodded, his expression unusually serious. “Not many people really want to live forever, man. Sure, they don’t want to die, but longevity? That’s different. People extend their lives with bioware and treatments, but the brain? That’s a whole other beast. Cognitive decline is still on the table. No matter how good the tech gets, the brain’s too complicated to fix perfectly.”

Roy glanced back toward Auntie Tina. “She doesn’t seem slow or senile to me.”

Miguel snorted. “She’s one of the rare cases. She says it’s the power of love and all that bullshit.”

“More like she has a reason to live,” Roy countered.

Miguel grinned. “Sounds about right.”

The elevator ride to Alexander Dumas’s floor was unremarkable, save for the slight nervousness in Roy’s chest. As they stepped off, Miguel called out to the mercenary stationed at the checkpoint leading to the hallway where Dumas’s apartment room was. Most of the Mercenaries were with Dumas.

“Yo, fuckhead, we’re here to clean,” Miguel said, waving his tools dramatically.

The merc rolled his eyes and groaned at the sight of Miguel. “Hold up,” he said. “Stop right there.”

Miguel and Roy stopped as the merc approached, gesturing for them to spread their arms. “Frisk time,” he said curtly.

Miguel grinned, holding his arms out. “Just don’t touch my fucking cannon, alright?”

The merc sighed, suppressing an amused smirk as he patted Miguel down. “You’re clear,” he muttered. Turning to Roy, he added, “You too.”

Roy submitted without a word.

As they passed through the checkpoint, a second merc joined them. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

Miguel raised a brow. “What, scared we’re gonna steal something? Are you biased or something? Where’s the boss anyway?”

The merc snorted. “Are you trying to learn his schedule or something?”

Miguel looked horrified and made the sign of the cross. “Santa Maria, don’t even joke about that, man. Nakamura would fire my ass if he thought I was even thinking about that.”

The merc barked a laugh, shaking his head as they entered Dumas’s apartment. The room smelled faintly of old paper and leather, a surprising contrast to the antiseptic cleanliness of the rest of the building. Dumas seems to like printing his papers instead of just staring at the screen. Roy’s eyes wandered over the stacks of books and datapads cluttering the private study. The titles on the shelves suggested a deep focus on law and policy.

Miguel immediately got to work, whistling a soft tune as he started cleaning the mess. Roy followed, more methodical in his approach. He wasn’t here to impress anyone — his real purpose was observation.

“Man, what’s with all these books?” Miguel muttered, setting aside a precarious stack. “Boss, a lawyer now or something?”

“Nah,” the merc replied. “He refers to them, though. Keeps his arguments airtight. Want to learn why?”

Miguel raised a brow but shrugged. “Not my business. I’m just here to clean. Fuck, don’t try suspecting me, bastard. You’ll give me a stroke. I don’t need your boys trying that shit on me.”

Roy kept his head down, his gaze darting around the room as he worked. The reinforced walls, the positioning of the furniture, everything screamed paranoia. It wasn’t just Dumas’s military-grade augmentations or the security outside. The man had thought of everything.

“Man, ain’t this overkill?” Miguel asked suddenly, wiping down a desk. “Who’d be dumb enough to come after Dumas anyway?”

“The kind of idiot who could,” the merc replied.

He didn’t elaborate, and his tone suggested he wouldn’t even if pressed.

Roy focused on his task, cleaning quickly but carefully. He noted every weak spot, every detail that could be exploited, all while feigning indifference. Miguel, oblivious to the deeper purpose of their visit, kept up a steady stream of chatter with the merc.

Just as they were finishing up, the merc’s earpiece crackled to life. His posture stiffened, and his expression darkened.

“Shit,” he muttered, stepping away. “Secure the area. Move them out, now.”

Roy glanced at Miguel, who frowned. “What’s going on?”

The merc turned back to them, barking an order. “Hurry up and get out of here. Now.”

Miguel raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, no need to shout.”

They left quickly, escorted back to the hallway. As the door closed behind them, Roy caught a snippet of the merc’s conversation over his comms.

Someone had taken a shot at Dumas.