The datapad continued to chime, transmitting no information about who might be on the other end. Soren tapped the screen to accept the message.

  “Soren,” he said.

  The voice of Gree replied. “I was worried you might’ve found this and tossed it. Most people lose focus when I’m reading them, but you seemed astute.”

  Not astute enough to pick up someone planting a datapad on me, Soren thought to himself, relieved by the fact that the gomarii was unable to “read” him without those tentacles slathering all over his face.

  “Do you see another sled?” Gree asked.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry. I remember the pass phrase.”

  “Good. Make sure to ask it as well.”

  “What am I picking up?”

  Gree laughed, low and quiet. “How would I know? My job was just to get you to the meeting. They’re watching now. You wanted in… and they’re watching.”

  Soren nodded. “Thanks for the pep talk, I guess?”

  “Not a pep talk. I don’t care one thrist for you. Change of plans. I’m transmitting new coordinates. Burst them to your sled and then throw out the datapad.”

  And then the connection was dead. Soren looked ahead. The other speeder was still heading toward him, perhaps five kilometers away. On the datapad was a planetary coordinate. Soren beamed it to his sled’s navigation and waited for the dash display to show him his new route through the desert.

  “Hard right turn,” Soren said to himself. He performed the maneuver, abruptly yanking on the controls and causing dust and pebbles to kick up and swirl in his wake.

  He craned his neck to watch what the other speeder would do. It kept on its course. Soren waited until he’d traveled another kilometer and then tossed the datapad into a thicket of thorny vines with white, star-shaped flowers.

  Soren drove for twenty minutes, any sign of the sled he’d seen long gone. It was just him now. And that was troubling. Had someone figured out that he was with Nether Ops? Had his handlers caught up to him and sold him out? One of the easiest ways to eliminate a wayward agent wasn’t to send in a ghost team to finish them off—it was simply to expose them and let the bad guys do the job for you.

  After another ten minutes, he came to the end of his directions. The dash told him he’d arrived, but as best he could see, he was nowhere. Even the vegetation seemed to have given way to a crusty hard pan. There was no sign of the Ackabar Star Port, though once the sun went down, Soren imagined he’d be able to see the city’s glow. Or maybe he just hoped that would be the case. In the distance was an expansive russet-colored steppe with short brown mountains capped with sparse white snow looming beyond.

  Soren killed the repulsors and stepped outside the sled. It felt good to stretch out. His leg was feeling better but being stuck in the driver’s seat for so long had caused a lingering stiffness to flare up. He walked a few times around the speeder, careful not to wander too far from it. The last thing he wanted was to be caught away from his only mode of transportation should another Nether Ops shuttle descend on him.

  Of course, if the ghost team on board was worth their paycheck, they’d send a missile to end him long before he could hear them coming. Unless they wanted him alive. Which, in a very real way, was worse.

  On his fourth trip around the sled, just as his leg was feeling limber again, Soren spotted the dust trail of another speeder heading his way. He checked his blaster and made sure his knives were still where they were supposed to be.

  The sled closed the distance.

  Soren checked his weapon again.

  And then it was close enough that he could make it out clearly. It looked to be rented—like his. Shiny and relatively new, the dust covering its nose and undercarriage looking out of place. There was only one occupant—the driver—as far as Soren could see.

  This other driver was a human male with a quarter-inch buzz cut and a black leather jacket. He stopped the sled and stepped out, looking around for others before locking eyes with Soren and nodding a greeting.

  The two men stood at a distance, neither one leaving the side of his speeder. Soren’s arms were at his side, while the stranger kept both hands shoved in his coat pockets. It didn’t seem like the oncoming sled was large enough to transport anything in large quantities. Perhaps some rifles—uncrated—in the trunk. Maybe a case of fraggers. Hardly enough to equip an army, if that’s what the MCR was seeking to do.

  “Where you from?” asked the stranger, again looking from side to side as though looking out for a trap.

  That struck Soren as odd. Maybe the man was only being careful, but Soren was the one out of his element and in unfamiliar territory.

  “Porcha,” Soren answered, feeling a thrill of adrenaline at this. Gree had told him what the stakes were should he forget. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m from Mynar.”

  Mynar. Soren searched his memory for any mention of that name. Gree had specifically instructed him to ask where his contact was from. But he hadn’t said what the answer was. Or had he? Was it Porcha? Was it always Porcha?

  Soren noticed the man begin to take his hands out of his pockets. Casually. He looked around nonchalantly, but there was something about the way he was moving—the way he was positioning his body—that made Soren think that when those hands came back out, they’d be holding a compact blaster.

  Porcha. The answer was supposed to be Porcha.

  Soren went to the blaster pistol concealed at his side. The instant he moved for it, the stranger violently pulled his hand free from his jacket, fingers wrapped around a deadly little Python blaster pistol.

  Each man’s life hung in the balance of who was faster. Soren thought that he’d been got, but the sight at the end of the Python snagged the man’s coat pocket, delaying it just a single, fatal second.

  Soren brought his pistol up as the man swung his arm to get on target. He fired two blaster bolts that slammed into the man’s chest, a brief licking flame erupting from the entry wound.

  The man—Soren’s contact—went down without a sound, his Python held in a death grip as he lay face-down in the Ackabar dirt.

  Soren became acutely aware that he was breathing heavily—almost panting. He looked around, expecting to see others appear from the sled or horizon intent on meting out vengeance.

  Had he somehow gotten mixed up?

  Porcha. That was the right phrase, Soren was sure of it. So why had this man tried to kill him?

  Had Gree gotten things mixed up? If so, Soren had the feeling that he’d be the one taking the fall. Especially if whoever was now dead before him was an important link in Scarpia’s chain of operations.

  “Now what?”

  Soren asked the question to the very universe itself. He didn’t have answer. And as his thoughts shifted to ordering Heywood to fly out here and pick him up, he heard a comm chime coming from the dead man’s body.

  It went on incessantly. Long after Soren imagined anyone would give up trying to get through. Whoever was on the other line didn’t seem willing to be ignored. Soren bent down and rolled the man onto his back.

  The dead man’s head rocked from the activity, as if he were somehow protesting his fate with a vigorous shake. His eyes were vacant, staring up at the sky. A wet coating of blood stained his teeth pink and his lips red.

  Blaster still in hand, Soren searched the man, opening his jacket and retrieving a ringing datapad from an inside pocket. He had only avoided shooting it by a few inches. It was the same make and model as the burner that Gree had planted on him. He squeezed the device to answer.

  “Yeah?”

  The screen stayed dark, conveying only audio. “Soren Voss.”

  “Yeah. Listen, I—”

  “The owner of this datapad is dead?”

  Soren clamped his jaw down tightly before answering, “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  The word almost caused Soren to jump in surprise. He said nothing.

  “Can you still see the body? Tracker shows you in the meeting area.”

  Of course they would be tracking them. And of course they’d know if he took this datapad from the coordinates they’d sent him. Soren looked to the skies from company, but all was clear.

  He looked down at the corpse. “Yeah. I can see him.”

  “That is what happens to those who don’t belong, Soren. Mr. Scarpia has no use for Pretenders.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  Soren bit his lip. “Am I… supposed to make a pickup?”

  “No. You’ve done what we wanted. Return to your ship and dispose of the cargo. Then standby until your new cargo arrives. Welcome to the future of the Republic, Soren.”

  “Thank you,” Soren said, allowing the dignified officer’s gratitude he’d learned in the Navy to come forth. “I’m ready. Ready to do my part to fix things.”

  “That you will.”

  Soren looked down at the man he’d killed. “What about the body?”

  “We’ll take care of that. Leave this datapad in his speeder.”

  The call ended.

  Soren walked to the man’s speeder, his boots crunching the dust and fragmentary stone beneath him. He tossed the datapad onto the front seat through the still-open door, then walked back to the body.

  There was something about the word used to describe how the man he’d killed offended Scarpia: Pretender.

  In what way? And to what purpose?

  Soren surreptitiously took out his personal datapad and took a holo of the man’s face, being careful to avoid looking like that was he was doing. Likewise he didn’t search the man.

  Whoever Scarpia was, he had the resources to set up elaborate plans with relatively short notice. It was reasonable to believe there was an observation bot fling somewhere overhead, watching him now.

  He got back into his speeder and gunned the accelerator, leaving his deceased rival in a cloud of dust.

  “Heywood, do you read me?”

  “I can hear you, sir.”

  “Sell the cargo in our hold.”

  “At what price, Sir?”

  “Whatever will get it off our hands as quickly as possible.”

  12

  Soren sat in the Iago’s mess and blew soot out of his dissembled pistol before running a laser pick down the barrel, removing the last of a smudge that he was reasonably certain was dried blood. He took a sip of broth and glanced up at the empty seat across from him.

  As much as her banter annoyed him, Soren missed Zelle’s company.

  “Sir? It appears we have visitors. Well-armed visitors,” Heywood said through the ship’s comm.

  Soren snapped his pistol back together and slapped a fresh charge pack into the grip. “How many?”

  “Four. One human, two Hool and one undetermined.”

  “Undetermined?” Soren primed the first bolt and left the mess.

  “The individual is humanoid but his/her/its gait doesn’t match my pattern recognition files. Oh, I also have a report on that gruesome holo you wished me to run through the database.”

  Soren frowned and went to a screen next to the ramp controls. “Report’ll have to wait.”

  Video from the external cameras showed just what Heywood had described, two hools, a human, and a humanoid who seemed to be held just out of holocam view. As though the visitors were aware that they were recorded and knew how to avoid it. One of the Hool raised a rifle and banged the barrel against the hull.

  “No cargo…” Soren holstered his pistol, but kept his hand on the grip.

  “Shall I engage with the swivel guns? The lack of ethical restraints has greatly expanded my available reactions.”

  “What does your base programming suggest?”

  “Tea and biscuits for our guests. But as any sort of locomotion is impossible in my degraded state, I can send for takeout. Or shall I shoot them?”

  Soren let his hand fall to the side and hit a button to lower the ramp.

  “Stay alert,” he said. He waited at the top of the ramp and kept his arms slightly bent, ready to react should the new arrivals prove hostile.

  The two Hool charged into the ship with their weapons ready against their shoulders, but they didn’t draw down on Soren. The aliens did a quick search of the bay, the poisoned quills on their heads taut. One rapped a clawed toe against the deck and stared at Soren, drool glistening on its teeth.

  The other bodyguard went back down the ramp and the lone human came aboard. He wore a cloak lined with Rigellian lion fur, an expensive fashion statement as the lions had gone extinct during the Savage Wars. Platinum links held the cloak against his shoulders and over a tailored suit. He cracked knuckles laden down with rings and looked around, lights reflected off his bald head.

  “The Iago,” the man sniffed. “Not much of a ship. Still a good sight better than a lot of those in my employ.”

  “Welcome aboard,” Soren raised his hands to his side. “You’re Mister Scarpia?”

  “I am, indeed, dear boy.” Scarpia continues to walk around the cargo bay, examining tie down latches and the refrigeration ducts. “You, I don’t know. In fact, no one knows you but you seem to know about us. Why is that, Soren?”

  “On Qadib, when I was new in town, I got to talking to a crew who was obviously former Navy. Like me. We lamented the state of the Republic over drinks… they shared a vision for a better tomorrow. I wanted in.”

  “Just like that?”

  “A worth cause requires little prodding from those it seeks to free.”

  Scarpia smiled. “Kohloth. I see the Naval academy continues in its tradition of teaching everything except proper warfare. Ha!”

  Soren smiled meekly. “There are still a few good hands…”

  “I know, I know. Only teasing. So… Qadib.” Scarpa looks to his entourage. “That place certainly is in turmoil at the moment.”

  Soren nodded. “I picked a hell of a time to show up and barely made it back out. The zhee always this ornery?”

  “Ha!” Scarpia went to the empty pallets the cargo had been on and Soren began his battle math, trying to figure out if he could get the drop on Scarpia and the Hool if it came to that.

  Scarpia kicked at the straps holding the pallets down, knocking a bit of slack loose. “Bit sloppy.”

  “Good help is hard to find,” Soren said.

  “And you came here on Ackabar looking for crew? Probably a better deal to be had before you’d left Qadib.”

  “I’m looking for work. Word was that you’re looking for reliable haulers.”

  “Always.” Scarpia smirked. “But you see Soren, there are times you think you’ve found help and everything just goes sideways. I had a crew dirtside that was properly vetted on Qadib, then the zhee attacked their hotel and probably ate their hearts with a side of spiced wine.”

  “Maybe don’t play so near the zhee,” Soren offered.

  Scarpia arched an eyebrow. “I’m in a bit of a rebuilding phase, but wheels are turning. Even the zhee are useful, at times.”

  If Scarpia knew Soren was at the hotel when everything had gone ‘sideways’, he wasn’t letting on. What the agent needed to know was how this man was connected to the legionnaire weapons still in the zhee temple on Qadib.

  “I was told in the desert that you’d bring cargo,” Soren said. “I’m clean into the core, made runs as far as Utopion.”

  Scarpia bulged his eyes in a façade of surprise. “Oh, then let me just give you the family jewels to drop off with my sainted mother.”

  The remaining hool spat, leaving a sizzling hole on the deck.

  Scarpia held out his hand and asked without humor, “What could go wrong?”

  “I’ve done what’s been asked of me,” Soren said, keeping his voice low as if some unseen judge might take his words for a confession of murder. “And this ship’s got a clean registry.”

  “You said that.”

  “You know I can charge a premium for that. Instead I’m here, willing to work at a discount for the cause. So if you’ve got a run for me…” Soren raised his hands and motioned towards him.

  “And I said I don’t know you. The desert… that’s all instinct once a man is in that situation. Gree said you were a killer—he sensed it, amazing species the gomarii—and you proved him right and did help me out. So let’s do something easy while I have my feelers out.” Scarpia reached toward the ramp and snapped his fingers.

  The other Hool waiting below pushed a hooded figure up the ramp. The sound of clinking chains matched the figure’s steps. The Hool shoved his charge to the deck in front of Scarpia.

  Four arms—Soren had to double check the count—broke the figure’s fall. Hands swept the hood back and Soren’s jaw dropped as he looked at a Cassari female, whose beauty should have been captured in a sculpture.

  The Cassari looked up at her captor with mournful doe eyes. “Scarpia, my love please—”

  The smuggler slapped her viciously across the face and she collapsed into a ball, sobbing. Soren’s hand went to his pistol but pulled it away after a sharp hiss from the Hools.

  Scarpia shook his hand out and then smiled, as calm as ever as he met eyes with Soren. “You have to be harsh with this one. Illuria looks like arm candy but oh…she’s got a devious side.”

  “D-don’t,” she said, fumbling with her words. “Don’t send me back to him.” She reached for Scarpia’s foot but he kicked her away.

  Soren’s brows furrowed. What in the world was going on here? This seemed to have nothing to do with the MCR, stolen Legion weapons, or anything else. He’d ended up killing for Scarpia once already. Is that what this was about? Did Gree size him up not as a smuggler, but as an enforcer? He swallowed at the idea of having to be a contract killer to make his way into the organization. Certainly, that wasn’t beyond the scope of acceptable work for Nether Ops, but it wasn’t what Soren wanted, make no mistake.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24