Empires: A Classic Space Opera Adventure (The Adam Cain Chronicles Book 2)

by T. R. Harris

  Above these rooms, balconies extended from the building, climbing the three stories up to Sherri’s penthouse suite. She had taken the entire top floor as her own, even though she spent a disproportionate amount of time in the upper reaches of Adam’s building, taking advantage of the small internal gravity generator he had installed there. The Humans needed to maintain their muscle mass and cardio-vascular strength in gravity that mimicked that of Earth, rather than that of L-3. Their secret strength and durability were a Human’s greatest advantage in the wilds of the Milky Way Galaxy. Remaining too long in light gravity would take away that advantage.

  At the corner of the building and above him, a balcony was draped in shadow, the room unoccupied. Either that or the occupants preferred their perversions in the dark. Adam made a note of it and moved on, following the siren call of John Fogerty’s unique vocal stylings.

  Adam’s sixth sense detected something only a hair’s breadth before a heavy weight landed on top of him. He was pressed face-first into the sand as desperate hands grasped his arms and shoulders, preventing him from rising. Then someone—a very strong someone—pulled his right arm onto his back, allowing Adam to roll to his left, going with the motion rather than fighting it. The person on top of him lost balance momentarily, allowing Adam more room to maneuver. He wrapped his left leg around that of his assailant and pulled. The positions reversed; Adam was now on top of his attacker, with the being’s face pressed into the sand and his right arm pinned behind him.

  In the dim light behind the hotel, Adam sensed a familiar form to the being. Could it be?

  “Hey, chill out, Captain,” a voice in the dark said off to his right. He looked over to see the bulky shadows of three other figures standing nearby.

  “Okay! I give up,” the creature below him coughed, spitting sand from his mouth. “This was a friggin’ mistake.”

  The voice was from Adam’s distant past. He took his assailant by the shoulder and flipped him over. Even in the dim light, Adam recognized the face instantly.

  “You’re supposed to be old and out of shape,” said Gill Norris—AKA: Peanut—a friend from SEAL Team Six, his old Navy unit from over twenty years ago. “Obviously, you’ve been working out.”

  Adam was speechless as he climbed off his former teammate. The other three men gathered around him, helping Peanut to his feet. Gill brushed the sand off his face and clothing.

  “Or maybe it’s just me who’s gotten old and out of shape.”

  Adam thought back; twelve, fifteen years—maybe longer—since he’d last seen his friend? And yes, Peanut was older and heavier. Adam was himself crowding fifty, even if that was a misnomer in his case. His body grew younger while he had the immortal mutant Panur’s cells within him. And even with them now removed from his body, his system mutated slightly to give him more natural strength and vitality. Chronologically, Adam Cain was forty-eight years old, but biologically he was still in his thirties and with physical strength easily twenty percent more than a normal Human with comparable training. Adam wasn’t ready to admit this to anyone. It was his ace-in-the-hole.

  “What…what the hell are you doing here?” Adam was finally able to blurt. “I haven’t seen you since … since Melfora Lum, when we took out the Juirean communication antenna.”

  “I’m glad to see your memory is still intact,” Peanut said. He was from Georgia, and his nickname was a natural extension of that fact. Adam quickly buried his nickname once he left the Team. He never liked it.

  Adam looked around at the other smiling faces. Gill Norris was the only one he recognized. Two of the others were of similar age—in their forties. The third was a dark-haired man with equally dark eyes, looking to be in his mid-to-late twenties. He seemed out of place with Peanut’s companions.

  “You ask: Why are we here?” Gill said. “Why does anyone come all the way out to this god-forsaken place: We’re here to get rich! We’ve been hearing of the Dead Worlds for years and thought it was time to try our hand at a little salvage. Of course, we knew you were here. It’s hard not to know what the famous Adam Cain is up to from moment to moment.” His face turned serious. “That was some shit about the whole merging universe thing. I’m sure you did what you had to do. It’s crazy to think you would have done anything that could have got us—and everything—wiped out of existence. But that’s another story.”

  A hand was extended. Adam shook it.

  “I’m Toby Wills, EM7, U.S. Navy, Retired.” The man’s smile stretched across his face from ear to ear. “I served with Peanut a few years back. “He tapped his right leg, which sounded artificial and hollow. “Had a little issue with my legs a while back. But the disability benefits are good and helps supplement my retirement pay. In all honesty, I think I’m better now than I ever was. I guess it’s true: They really do have the technology to rebuild a person, even if it is alien technology.”

  The other older man introduced himself as former Navy Senior Chief Tim Robertson—also from the SEALs.

  “Life can get rather boring after spending twenty-plus years on the Teams,” Tim explained. “And when Peanut floated the idea of a run out to the Dead Worlds, we jumped at it.” He indicated the more stern-faced, younger member of the team. “This is Mike Hannon. Former Delta Special Forces. We ran into him at the waystation on someplace called Dasnon. The dude has his own ship. It ain’t much to look at, but it does the job. We talked him into joining us on our treasure hunt.”

  The man extended his hand, a firm, confident grip.

  “Gill told us about the others,” Tim said. “This Riyad Tarazi guy and the hot Sherri Valentine. They’re here with you, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” Adam confirmed. He pointed to the hotel behind them. “This is Sherri’s hotel, and Riyad runs the outfitting business. But are you guys sure you want to go salvaging? It’s not as easy as it looks, and most of the good stuff has already been removed. Most salvage these days is being done by the big boys and involves large machinery and other equipment that require huge ships and massive operations.”

  Peanut smacked Adam on the shoulder. “That’s why we have a plan! Is there someplace we can go to have a drink and talk about it?”

  “I might know a place,” Adam smiled. “And it’s not too far from here. But first, what was that music all about? How did you pull that off?”

  Peanut looked into the sky behind the hotel. “You can’t see it, but we strung a black line from your bar to the end of the hotel. Then we put an old cellphone on it and Tim pulled it along as we lured you into our trap. That’s when I jumped down from the balcony. Cellphones aren’t good for much of anything these days except playing music. I’m old; CCR was in my playlist. If I remember right, they were also one of your favorites.”

  “At another time, and on another world. A lot has changed since then.”

  “No shit, buddy. Now … how about that drink?”

  4

  Adam and his four guests entered Cain’s through the wide, open portal at the rear of the bar. They pushed together a couple of tables and sat down. Riyad noticed and left his usual spot at the bar—where he homesteaded most evenings after closing the outfitting business next door—and joined the group.

  Kaylor and Jym were at the table a moment later. “It is Mister Gill Norris, is it not?” Kaylor asked. The Belsonian worked with Peanut for a few months after Adam and his team of SEALs and scientists escaped the Earth just as the Juirean firebombs were falling. That was over twenty years ago, yet Kaylor remembered the huge, red-haired SEAL. Adam and his team would go on to lead a behind-the-lines guerrilla movement against the Juireans before Peanut and the rest of the SEALs rotated back to Earth.

  “That’s correct, Kaylor; it’s been a long time. I see you’re still kickin’ around with this renegade.”

  Kaylor had spent the past twenty-five years around Humans, so he understood their slang better than most aliens.

  “It has been to our advantage to do so.”

  The tiny bear-
like Jym snorted. “Although it has been problematic at times because of Adam’s often reckless behavior.”

  “I hear you, my friend,” Peanut said. “B.A. has always been like that.”

  “B.A.?” Riyad asked.

  “Yeah, that’s his tag, just like mine is Peanut.”

  “For badass?”

  “Nah, for Bad-Attitude! Adam’s always been known as the man with an attitude. You—better than most—should know that by now.”

  Riyad looked at Adam and flashed his trademark white smile. “Why haven’t I heard of this before?”

  “Because I never liked the nickname,” Adam mumbled. “I never thought it fit.”

  “Look in a mirror sometime, my friend,” Riyad said with a laugh. “It fits you perfectly. So, Mr. Norris, what brings you to our fair planet?”

  Gill grinned widely. “Besides the desire for a Human-like beer? We’ve come to do some salvaging, and I hear you’re just the man to see about that.”

  Adam sent Kaylor and Jym off to fetch the first of many rounds of alien beer-like substance. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best one would find for a thousand light-years in any direction.

  Riyad frowned at Peanut’s statement. “I don’t want to discourage you, my friend, but salvaging in the Dead Zone isn’t as easy as it once was.”

  “That’s what Adam says.”

  “He’s right. It’s gone corporate now. Most of the easy pickings are gone. Now it’s about heavy equipment, machinery and the sort. That takes big operations. MK, Prirous, and others are moving in. MK even has plans to de-con entire planets at a time.”

  Peanut’s wide smile didn’t fade. “Yeah, but we have a plan,” he said, bouncing his red eyebrows.

  Adam and Riyad shared a look. They’d heard that too many times in the past; in fact, Adam was surprised Peanut didn’t say he had a secret treasure map he’d bought off an old alien somewhere in the Fringe Worlds. That was another common scam being pulled on gullible fortune hunters.

  “So, what’s this plan of yours,” Adam asked, trying not to sound too discouraging.

  Gill looked at his companions. The three former SEALs each wore expressions of anticipation, even excitement. Adam was sure their lives had become more mundane following retirement, after long careers as members of one of Earth’s most-elite fighting forces. The one exception was the dark, almost brooding, former Army Delta, Mike Hannon. Although Adam didn’t detect any opposition, the younger man didn’t seem to share in the enthusiasm of the others.

  The beers came, and Gill chugged half a mug before frowning at Adam. “Close, but no cigar. I can tell you’ve been off Earth for a while if you think this passes for real beer.” The statement didn’t stop him from draining the rest of the mug before continuing.

  “Well,” he began. “The way we see it, Riyad is right. All the easy stuff is gone. But that’s because everyone has been concentrating on the major population centers, with the most stuff and the biggest banks. But I come from a small town in Georgia called St. Marys, population twenty-one thousand. Even there, we had a bank, a couple of small jewelry stores, and a whole lot of other businesses lined up along Main Street, U.S.A. I figure all these alien planets would have the same thing, thousands of smaller towns just like St. Marys. I tried to imagine what would have happened in my hometown if it were the Earth that was attacked by Kracion. First of all, the people there would not have received the advanced warning like the bigwigs in government or big business. Even if they did, no one would have the means of grabbing their wealth and leaving the planet. Most would rush home to their loved ones and head for the hills, thinking that would save them. Of course, it didn’t. Radiation goes everywhere and it’s indiscriminate. So, the way I see it, there have to be thousands of these smaller places with enough wealth still sitting there in the form of Juirean credits and precious gems to make it worth our while to go take a look. I can’t see there being that many salvagers to have raked over all these places. And by concentrating on just cash and jewelry, we don’t need no big cargo ship or crew, either. And hey, we ain’t greedy. Just a little will be enough to make us happy.”

  Adam and Riyad once again shared a look, this time one of wonderment. Peanut had a point. There hadn’t been the time nor the manpower to check out every small town or hamlet on a hundred worlds. And he was also right that the inhabitants of these places would be the less-fortunate, part of the billions of unfortunate souls who fell to Kracion’s reign of terror. Sure, treasuries, reserve banks, museums, and other places where most wealth was held had already been raided by either those fleeing the worlds or by the first round of salvage teams. But that left trillions of unclaimed credits hiding in out-of-the-way places, like St. Marys, Georgia.

  “By all that is great, that is a brilliant plan,” Riyad stammered. “Why did we not think of that?”

  “Because the two of you are big-picture guys. We’re just a little private enterprise operation willing to take a little from a lot and do it over and over again. And with Hannon’s help, we already have a ship. We don’t need anything big and flashy, something that will attract attention. And before you ask Adam, we didn’t come here looking for a handout. We have money to pay for the equipment and supplies we’ll need. But it would be nice to have a guide along—for a split of the profits, of course. After all, we don’t know the lay of the land as you do.”

  Riyad looked at Adam. “Although I have been advised by my partners not to engage in reckless flights of fancy any longer, I see an opportunity for me to help. I can supply all the de-con foam, suits and other equipment you’ll need. And I know the Dead Worlds better than Adam does. And I just happen to have some free time coming up.”

  “What do you mean?” Gill asked.

  Adam joined the conversation. “What he means is that Cain’s is to be the location of a high-level peace conference between the Union and the Expansion. It’s set to begin in four days. Because of security concerns, they require that we also shut down the hotel and the outfitting business during the week of the conference.”

  “Great!” said Peanut. “Then you can come along, too, B.A.! It will be just like the old days.”

  Adam grimaced. “Unfortunately, I can’t leave. I’m hosting the damn conference, so I have to stick around. But Riyad’s right; he can go. But a word of warning, it’s a dangerous time to be flitting around the Dead Zone. There are both Juirean and Human fleets headed this way, along with trigger-happy squadrons already here. That caused the problem in the first place.”

  “I beg your pardon, my friend,” Riyad said. “But it is also true that both empires are making a point of keeping the peace, as a demonstration of who can best rule the Zone. Most large-scale pirate operations are on hold until they leave. In truth, this may be the best time for such an adventure.”

  Adam couldn’t argue with that. He shrugged. “I hope it works out for you,” he said to Peanut and the others. “It sounds like a pretty simple plan.”

  “Fantastic!” the former SEAL exclaimed. “How soon can we go?” he asked Riyad.

  “Since you already have a ship, we only need a day to stock the vessel. I have a few places in mind already that would be perfect for this kind of salvage; the formerly most-advanced planets in the Zone with the most diverse populations.”

  Although Muslim Riyad Tarazi didn’t drink alcohol, he took the carbonated beverage Jym knew to supply him with and lifted the glass for a toast. “Here’s to a smooth journey and a fruitful endeavor. It’s about time something went easy for us.”

  Adam accepted the toast and drank from his mug, even though he knew it was too early for them to count their chickens before they hatched. His cautious—if not negative—attitude came from years of experience in such matters, and not because his nickname in the SEALs was bad-attitude. He hated to admit it, but looking back over his lifetime, the moniker was apropos.

  5

  Although the conference wasn’t to start for four days, everything had to be closed down a day e
arly to allow for security protocols. Adam still wasn’t comfortable holding the event at Cain’s. In his opinion, it was too risky.

  First of all, the bar was located on a major road, with the entrance only a sidewalk-width away from traffic. A car bomb or RPG fired from a passing vehicle could mess things up. And secondly, the rear of the building was exposed to the beach and ocean beyond. From a SEAL’s point of view, it would be a perfect place to launch an amphibious operation against the building. However, no matter how much he protested, the powers-that-be still insisted on holding the conference at Capt. Cain’s.

  His protestations became less fervent as Sherri kept reminding him how much they needed the money. She was a broken record in that regard; they could never have enough money or the business secure enough. She was always going on about how close she was to pulling up stakes and moving on, even while the receipts recently were on the uptick.

  In spite of that, Sherri was considering the week-long conference as a welcome reprieve from the constant need to moderate the daily conflicts taking place at her hotel. With no law on the planet, everything was allowed, if the customer was willing to pay for it. This brought out the pragmatic side of Sherri’s personality. She often explained to Adam and Riyad why she tolerated the often obscene and perverse activities in the hotel more than she would if only Humans frequented the establishment. These were aliens, she explained. As a way of life, they were often obscene and perverse naturally. So—according to Sherri—why not get paid for it?

  But now she was looking forward to a week off from playing referee, hostess and housekeeper. After learning of Riyad’s latest adventure, she was even tempted to go along for the ride, but Adam talked her out of it. He would feel more comfortable having a large group of opposing parties crowded into this bar if Sherri was there to help keep him sane—and from doing anything rash. The specter of his SEAL moniker haunted him. He was determined not to let the bad-attitude side of his personality get the best of him. However, with a houseful of Juireans—along with their smug and superior attitude—that would take a Herculean-effort on his part.