Set the Terms

by Mia R Kleve

  Perhaps the flat-toothed creature believed he had backup coming. Or backup was stowed in the bay already. Balin could keep being careful…

  Or he could throw a grenade in a direction as far from Teyhi as possible. Half the cargo was unregistered, meaning it could be vulnerable to concussive force, but, at worst, Sisseron would die with them.

  At best…

  The boom cleared his audial conduits in time for the howl of rage to register, and Balin restrained himself from rushing forward. He might have a best case, or he might have tagged a henchman.

  A spilled tower of crates blocked the way between him and finding out, so he put his claws to good use and tore through the worst of it.

  His luck held—nothing exploded. Better, no answering shots or motion fired. If anyone else was hidden in the storage bay, they were incredibly disciplined—or incredibly committed to staying hidden. Those were odds Balin would take, this time.

  “Go shove yourself in a Goka’s endhole, Peacemaker!” The Cochkala, scrambling desperately over a large crate, didn’t look like a ruthless ship-stealing menace who’d spaced hundreds and stolen enough from the Trade Guild for the guild to take notice. He looked, as all criminals did eventually, like he’d seen his end coming for him.

  Teyhi popped out from behind the tumble of crates and got off two shots. Balin rolled to the side, taking a glancing blow of return fire off two of his arm scales. Heat flashed along his nerves before dissipating, and Balin shifted so the same scales wouldn’t be as vulnerable to a second shot. He should have shot instead of digging his claws into rubble.

  Balin wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He laid down covering fire until Teyhi could get in a shot that fried the Cochkala’s helmet. Balin and Teyhi bounded across the remaining space before Sisseron could recover.

  Teyhi ripped a pair off cuffs from under his jacket, keeping his pistol level at the Cochkala. The Phidae shifted slightly, tossing the cuffs onto their target.

  “Put these on, you burning shitpile of entropy,” Teyhi snarled. “Death’s too good for you, you’re gonna—”

  The crack of the Human gun silenced him for a long moment. He stared, uncomprehending, first at the body, then at the Peacemaker.

  “It doesn’t matter to me that he suffers,” Balin stated, holstering the sidearm and tapping his claws against his leg. “It matters to me that he ends. That, Teyhi, is how you honor the threat.”

  The young Peacemaker swallowed hard.

  “Load him onto the ship. Our orders were dead or alive, but dead requires the whole of the body. Stow him in the back cabin, it stays cooler.”

  After a long pause, Teyhi moved. Balin checked his pistol and Cleric’s gun once more, trusting the younger Peacemaker would get the job done properly.

  The walk back to his ship remained uneventful. Cleric’s crew had handled their business, and there would be some living captives to bring back to the guild for questioning. He’d keep them unconscious and trail them behind in pods so they couldn’t pull any of their now-dead boss’s tricks.

  At Eletine’s airlock, he dialed his goggles down and closed his eyes, checking the time his body had left to him.

  More than enough, for one more mission.

  * * * * *

  Marisa Wolf Bio

  Marisa Wolf was born in New England, and raised on Boston sports teams, Star Wars, Star Trek, and the longest books in the library (usually fantasy). Over the years she majored in English in part to get credits for reading (this…only partly worked), taught middle school, was headbutted by an alligator, built a career in education, earned a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and finally decided to finish all those half-started stories in her head.

  She currently lives in Texas with three absurd rescue dogs, one deeply understanding husband, and more books than seems sensible. Learn more at http://www.marisawolf.net.

  # # # # #

  Jurisdiction by Jon R. Osborne

  Lars watched the lines of travelers crawl through the arrival gates at the Magdeburg Starport customs. A commotion arose as a huge form squeezed through the gate designed to accommodate larger aliens. An enormous spider picked its way between stanchions to the first open counter.

  The customs agent appeared nonplussed by the hulking Tortantula and inspected its Yack. The universal account access card acted as everything from identification to virtual wallet. The agent leaned over the counter to argue with someone Lars couldn’t see over the travelers filing by. After a few minutes of increasing agitation, the agent abruptly raised his hands and retreated behind his counter.

  The spider turned toward Lars and clambered over the rows of stanchions and barriers. Humans and aliens alike gave way to the arachnid while sidestepping something below Lars’ line of sight. An oversized chipmunk emerged from the maze of barriers shaking its fist and squeaking at the spider.

  Lars pulled out his phone and summoned the controls for his translator. The alien-tech device synched with his phone and earpiece. Lars waited for the software to parse the language.

  “—walked off and left me, you big jerk,” the chipmunk-like alien chittered. The phone displayed “Language: Flatar.”

  “It serves you right for threatening the Human,” the Tortantula replied, its own translator emitting German. An armored harness covered the spider’s upper thorax. A blue Peacemaker emblem adorned the harness between the first set of legs and the neck.

  “I’m too old for this shit,” Lars muttered. At 51, he could have retired last year. Two things kept him at Interpol: boredom and a distrust in the so-called safety net. The recent invasion of Earth had reinforced the latter.

  “You’ve never seen an alien before?” the Flatar squeaked at Lars.

  “Excuse my partner,” the spider interjected. “He’s grumpy from…well, he’s grumpy. I am Peacemaker Ozor, and this is my partner Peacemaker Qivek. If you prefer another language besides German, please say so.”

  “Lars Nilsson, Interpol Special Detective.” Lars balked at offering his hand; he didn’t know what the spider would use to shake, and the rodent would probably bite him. “I’m Swedish, but German is fine.”

  “You don’t look so special,” Qivek quipped, glaring up at Lars.

  “Yeah, only my mother think’s I’m special,” Lars replied, making sure the little beast knew Lars understood him. “However, I’m shepherding your furry butt around, so we’re stuck with each other.”

  “I apologize for my partner’s rudeness, Detective Nilsson,” the spider remarked. “Perhaps we can adjourn somewhere to discuss the case.”

  “Yeah, sure. Follow me,” Lars said. Qivek scrambled atop the spider. While the Humans in the starport terminal had grown jaded to seeing aliens, when Lars led the Peacemakers from the terminal and past the taxi lane, heads turned. Traffic in the busy arrival lanes slowed as drivers gaped at the Tortantula.

  The café across the parkway displayed a sign proclaiming “Aliens Welcome.” The staff and patrons seemed at ease with the pair of Zuul arguing over the upcoming soccer match, but many grew visibly alarmed as Lars led his charges to a table on the patio.

  Lars claimed the seat facing the sidewalk and road beyond. Ozor lifted and set aside a chair to make space at the table. Qivek hopped down and stood on one of the remaining chairs. Lars resisted the urge to suggest a booster seat or highchair.

  “Hopefully they serve something you can drink,” Lars said. “Input your selection on—”

  “I can read,” Qivek interrupted. “I don’t see Tequila Sunrise on the menu.”

  “It’s not that sort of establishment,” Lars said.

  The Flatar emitted a low chitter of exasperation. “Humans.”

  Lars waited until the aliens settled on their choices before broaching the assignment. “According to the brief, Lockerbie Insurance hired you to validate Binnig’s claim regarding the loss of their CASPer manufactories during Peepo’s invasion.”

  The Peacemakers exchanged a glance. There must be more to the story. “Do y
ou know the value of the automated assembly lines Binnig lost during the war?” Ozor asked.

  “Each line consisted of a billion credits worth of hardware,” Qivek remarked. “Binnig had eight of them around the planet, plus another at a Human colony.”

  Even spit-balling a credit at 40 pounds sterling, it added up to a huge fortune. “Lockerbie doesn’t want you to confirm the claim. They suspect some sort of fraud.”

  The server eyed Ozor as she edged toward the table bearing their drinks. She was cute enough that Lars sat up straight, conscientious of how his tie draped over his middle-age paunch. He gave her what he hoped was a disarming smile. Half of the Tortantula’s ten eyes swiveled to watch the drink the trembling woman set on the table and slid toward the spider. She showed less trepidation approaching Qivek.

  “Careful, the rodent bites,” Lars remarked in German. Startled, the server narrowly avoided spilling the cup of hot chocolate as she placed it in front of Qivek. As an afterthought, she set down Lars’ coffee and retreated.

  “You aren’t wrong, Special Lars,” Qivek said as he sniffed the steam rising from his mug. “If one more Human picks me up, I will bite them.”

  “Binnig hid their factories and reported them destroyed or stolen?” Lars asked, blowing on his coffee. “Sounds hard to pull off.”

  “An entire assembly line will fit in a transport,” Ozor said while sipping iced chai through a straw. “At least one was stolen, taken off world, and lost.”

  “Lockerbie confirmed three facilities destroyed, presumably by guerilla fighters to keep them from falling into Peepo’s hands. Two are missing.” Qivek hefted the mug in both hands. Foam dripped from his muzzle when he set his cup down. Lars stifled the temptation to make a “rabid” joke. The humor would be lost on aliens.

  “So, the two were taken by Peepo’s forces,” Lars said, trying not to stare at Qivek. “Couldn’t they be off world?”

  “Intelligence indicates Peepo wanted to utilize the manufactories to equip Human mercenaries loyal to her,” Ozor stated.

  “Or at least loyal to her credits,” Qivek added.

  “So, if Peepo didn’t take them, and freedom fighters didn’t blow them up, where are they?” Lars asked. “How would someone ‘fence’ stolen alien factories?”

  “That’s what Lockerbie contracted us to find out,” Ozor said.

  Lars shook his head. “Justice for the highest bidder. Earth doesn’t need alien cops-for-hire.”

  “Your Terran Federation gave Peacemakers authorization to operate on Earth as though it were already a full member of the Galactic Union,” Ozor stated.

  First the aliens invaded, and, when that failed, the new government let them waltz in. Lars hid his expression behind his coffee cup. He’d read the mission brief regarding Peacemakers. They could serve as judge, jury, and executioner with few rules to hold them in check. Lars required special permission to bear a sidearm. Most Interpol officers went unarmed unless a specific operation dictated otherwise.

  “If it wasn’t for the Peacemakers, Peepo would still have Earth under her paw,” Qivek said, wiping his muzzle then licking his hand clean. “Think on that while your snout is bent out of shape.”

  “We have something called jurisdiction,” Lars countered, setting his coffee down. “On this world, you—”

  A white van slowed and its side doors swung open. Men wearing black bandanas and goggles aimed rifles at Lars’ table.

  “Guns! Get down!” Lars dove for the patio, pulling his sidearm in the process. Three shooters equipped with military battle rifles sprayed the café patio with automatic fire.

  Qivek jumped under the table and scampered beneath Ozor. The Flatar hauled an oversized pistol off its back. Lars crawled forward using a concrete planter as cover. Screaming patrons and shattering glass competed with the staccato reports of the rifles.

  Ozor turned side-on to the van, keeping her head low. Bullets ricocheted off her chitin as an armored panel on her harness flipped open. A weapon on a powered gimbal emerged. Lars had seen a laser before, but not one this large.

  “I’ve got the driver,” Qivek called.

  Lars peeked out from around the planter. He couldn’t see the driver past the passenger in the front seat.

  “I’ll take care of the rest,” Ozor responded. The laser hummed.

  Lars drew a bead on the passenger. If he could drop the man, it could expose the driver. He ducked as another spray of bullets raked the café.

  Qivek hopped onto the planter and leveled his pistol.

  Crack!

  Lars watched the passenger spasm and slump. The driver stiffened and collapsed onto the steering wheel. The van lurched forward.

  Snap!

  Super-heated air created a minute thunderclap as the laser beam swept along the van. The beam left a ragged, red-hot glowing line in the metal of the van. Where the laser intersected the gunners, the path became charred meat and incinerated Kevlar. The gunfire from the van ceased as the vehicle plowed into the raised center of a roundabout.

  The back doors of the van burst open and a man fled into traffic. The Tortantula leapt into the roadway, giving chase.

  “Wait for me!” Qivek yelled.

  Lars shoved himself upright and followed the spider. Something impacted his back, causing him to stumble a few steps. Had someone shot him from behind? A tiny hand grabbed the collar of Lars’ jacket as Qivek clung to him.

  “Don’t lose sight of them!” the Flatar shouted over screeching brakes and honking horns.

  Lars sprinted, regretting the bagels and beers he’d accumulated over the years. The Tortantula wove between and climbed over swerving vehicles. The suspect dodged cars as he angled for the far side of the road.

  “You’re going to lose him!” Qivek chittered.

  Lars didn’t waste breath replying. Pedestrian tunnels dotted the roadway around the starport, and one lay ahead. They could cross under the traffic instead of weaving through it. Lars managed to swing over the railing without falling and breaking an ankle. Pedestrians jumped out of his path as he ran pell-mell through the tunnel. A few even noticed the big chipmunk clinging to his back.

  Lars spotted the runner 20 meters away as they emerged from the tunnel. Ozor jumped from a truck and landed nearby. The laser tracked the fleeing man.

  “I got this,” Qivek announced.

  Lars saw the pistol out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t you—”

  Crack!

  Lars stumbled, pitching the Flatar over his shoulder and onto the grass. His earpiece spared him from going permanently deaf in his right ear, but the ringing made him dizzy. However, the projectile only took 20 milliseconds to punch through the fleeing man’s hip and bury itself in the engine block of a parked sports car.

  Lars shook his head and righted himself. The runner screamed in pain as he sprawled on the ground. The screams rose an octave as Ozor arrived and loomed over the fallen man.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. How much of an incident would it cause if the local police mistook the alien Peacemakers for aggressors? Lars pushed the thought aside. They were aliens tromping over Human jurisdiction, but they were still cops. However, maybe this fiasco would prompt someone in Earth’s government to send them packing.

  “Don’t eat me!” the man on the ground shrieked as Ozor regarded him.

  Lars approached. “The spider’s appetite depends on how forthcoming you are with answers.”

  Ozor brushed the man’s legs with her pedipalps and clicked her fangs. Lars fought not to shudder.

  “Why did you shoot up the café?” Lars asked.

  “To kill the aliens!” the man cried. “Earth won’t be safe until they leave us alone!”

  “That’s not the important question,” Qivek remarked as he brushed off grass.

  Lars leaned forward. “Who told you about these aliens?”

  German police vehicles screeched to a halt nearby. Nervous law enforcement officers emerged with weapons drawn.

  “O
ur chapter leader,” the man admitted. “He told us to be on the lookout for a Tortantula.”

  “Where do we find this chapter leader?” Ozor asked.

  “Freeze!” the police shouted. “Raise your hands…paws…whatever!”

  Lars held out his Interpol badge as he raised his hands. “Don’t shoot.”

  * * *

  Superintendent Richter glared through the window at the aliens waiting in the conference room before turning her baleful gaze to Lars. “Bad enough these aliens poke their noses in my jurisdiction, but they engaged in a firefight in the starport commercial zone!”

  “To be fair, Superintendent Richter, the terrorists attacked first,” Lars remarked, standing his ground. Local police commanders bristling under Interpol’s presence was nothing new to Lars. However, his gut reaction to the Peacemakers’ intrusion gave him a new perspective. “The sooner they conclude their investigation, the sooner they can leave.”

  “How quick can you get them out of my jurisdiction?” the superintendent asked, her eyes straying back to the Peacemakers.

  “I have a ride on the way,” Lars replied. If the transportation had been waiting when the aliens arrived, this whole mess could have been avoided. Unless the terrorists went after them on the road—a distinct possibility since someone knew of the Peacemakers’ impending arrival.

  Richter crossed her arms. “Good.”

  “Any intel from the suspect we arrested?” Lars asked. Whoever provided the anti-alien terrorists with the intel could lead him to the thieves who stole Binnig’s equipment. Cracking the case would not only send the aliens away, it would prove Humans didn’t need Galactics interfering in their police business.

  “No. The groundhog put a hole through the suspect’s hip, so he’s in the hospital. There were no other survivors. A year ago, I would have said he and his buddies were part of the Remember Iran crowd, but now all sorts of people have an axe to grind with aliens.” Richter shook her head. “Let us deal with the locals. These aliens are worse than gung-ho Americans. Resolve their case one way or the other and send them packing.”