Hunter

by Sharon Partington

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Cut out of the loop, Gina? I’m shocked. And here I thought your dad told you everything.”

  She offered an irritated shrug. “He’s gotten to be a secretive bugger in his old age. Maybe he wants to hire you.”

  I tried to keep the amusement from my voice. “He doesn’t need me anymore; that’s what he keeps Kenny around for.”

  “Kenny’s no longer part of the organization.”

  Well, well. That was an interesting little newsflash. Gina’s brother, Kenny, had been their father’s enforcer for as long as I’d known him. Never the family favorite, he must have really screwed up for the old man to exile him completely.

  “Gone into business for himself, has he?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ve never known your dad to get somebody else to run his errands for him. Why didn’t he meet with me himself?”

  Gina shrugged. “You know how he is.”

  Yeah, I did. Antonio Briani ruled his family and his business with an iron fist, and he expected everyone to play by his rules. I’d never been very good at that. Another reason Gina and I weren’t together.

  “He wants to see you. He says it’s important and, whatever it is, he won’t discuss it with anybody but you. Are you coming or not?”

  Good question.

  Curiosity warred with suspicion, and Gina’s perfume had cast this scented net over me that made it difficult to think clearly.

  “If I choose ‘not’?”

  “I’ll offer your apologies. He’ll be pissed, but he’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

  My gaze flitted around the bar. The number of uniforms had diminished, and the music level had increased along with the rowdiness. Gina watched me expectantly.

  Tony Briani was a proud man, he wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.

  “Where is he?”

  “Bay seventeen.”

  I downed the rest of my drink and got to my feet. “All right. Let’s go see what he wants.”

  ◆◆◆

  We made our way along the crowded circle toward the lower rings, stopping at my rooms just long enough for me to recover my weapons. Gina lounged on my bed, watching me fasten the fire-lance to my belt and slip the palm laser into its holster.

  “I seem to remember us spending a lot of time here,” she said as she stretched. It was a languid, sexy, feline movement that reminded me a little of Kayla.

  I smiled faintly. “We were pretty good at entertaining each other.”

  She got up and wrapped her arms around my neck. “I think we might have time for a little...mutual entertainment,” she murmured, her lips brushing my ear. “My dad can wait a few more hours.”

  I shivered, and it took all the self-control I could muster not to take her up on her invitation—my hands remembered her every curve and hollow, and my body ached to rediscover them all.

  Instead, I gently removed myself from her embrace. “Business and pleasure, remember?”

  She sighed her disappointment. “Rain check?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She kissed me lightly on the lips, and we left my rooms. I activated the door’s locking mechanism and we headed toward the lower rings.

  The outer circle was as crowded as ever, music and laughter drifting from smoke filled clubs that never closed. Voices jabbered in a dozen different dialects, and the acrid tang of Soldian incense wafted from a temple dedicated to Anwe, the goddess of Fertility and Prosperity. Female laughter and sweet Lyrian perfume hovered in the air as we passed Mother Rheah’s Pleasure House.

  The station’s floor to ceiling view ports offered a breathtaking view of Rhysa Six and her trio of moons; it only seemed natural that the rowdiest space station in the galaxy shared space with a pleasure planet.

  The crowds thinned as we neared the corridor leading to the lower docking platforms, and an uneasy voice whispered in my head. At least three ships were involved in the various stages of docking; the area should have been filled with randy crew members tripping over each other in their hurry to reach Mother Rheah’s.

  We reached bay seventeen and Gina unsealed the doors. During her military days, Jaraslad’s docking bays had been large enough to accommodate battle cruisers and fleet carriers. Since then, economic priorities had prevailed, and the massive bays had been partitioned to house smaller, civilian ships. Freighters, private shuttles, and passenger liners now took up space once reserved for their military cousins.

  Bellissima rested in the center of the bay. A series four Star Class, she was almost all cargo bay, except for the command deck in her nose, and the crew’s quarters, which took up most of the forward deck above the engine room. She looked sort of like a metal praying mantis, blue running lights blinking along her hull and across her stubby wings. Light spilled down the gangway; I didn’t see any sign of Antonio Briani or his crew.

  Something about that deserted bay set my teeth on edge.

  “Are you coming?” Gina asked.

  I motioned her forward. “Ladies first.”

  She chuckled as she walked up the gangway. “Always the gentleman, eh, Gage?”

  The hair on the back of my neck tingled.

  This whole thing felt wrong.

  I paused at the bottom of the gangway. “So, where is he?”

  “He’s waiting for you in his cabin.”

  In his cabin. Right.

  I followed her onto the ship. Voices came from the direction of the engine room. She led me up a metal stairway to the upper deck. The door at the top of the stairs was closed. The command deck. Unmanned, no doubt, as most of the crew were probably off enjoying shore leave. She walked me down the corridor, stopping at a door midway down.

  “In here,” she paused to give me another kiss. “When you’re done, I’ll expect you to make good on that rain check.”

  I watched her return down the stairs then looked at the Captain’s cabin. This weird mix of suspicion and snarly instinct screamed that this was a mistake.

  I should leave. Now.

  I thrust my unease aside. Tony had asked to see me. Gina wouldn’t lie about that. I knocked twice on the door then pushed it open.

  The room was dark, the solar blinds drawn. What the hell?

  “Tony?” There was no answer, and I moved further into the room. “It’s Gage. Gina said you wanted to see me?”

  The door hissed shut and somebody shoved me, hard, face first into the wall, twisting my arms behind my back, securing them with restraints. The lights came on, and I found myself surrounded by a gaggle of blue and gray uniforms.

  Hands turned me roughly around as a man approached. At least I think it was a man, with the Doranis it was hard to tell. Black eyes glittered in the dark green scaled face, and a blue reptilian tongue flickered from between narrow lips. Silver captain’s bars gleamed on the collar of the uniform.

  “Surrender and you will not be harmed.”

  I closed my eyes against the rage that twisted my gut. Fucking Gina had walked me straight into a Dorani trap.

  My own fault for not listening to my instincts.

  “I’m guessing you have a charge to go along with this.”

  “Several,” agreed the Dorani Captain. He relieved me of my laser and unclipped the fire-lance from my belt, turning it over in his hands as he studied it. “You are aware that the Sirtan fire-lance is a restricted weapon?” I didn’t reply and he offered a grim smile as he activated it. “Of course you are.”

  He spun it once, attempting to show me what a man he was. The energy blade crackled as a shower of blood-red sparks erupted from the end.

  Oh yeah. I’m impressed.

  He muttered a startled curse, switching it off. The acrid scent of ozone filled the air. “You might want to practice a little before you try that again,” I suggested.

  He flushed purple with embarrassment and anger. “Gage Brassan, aka David Archer, we are authorized to place you under arrest for crimes against the Imperial Dora
ni Republic and the United Galactic Federation. To that will be added the additional charge of...possession of a restricted weapon.”

  They steered me toward the stairs. Gina stood at the bottom watching.

  The Dorani captain paused for a moment. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Briani, you and your ship are free to leave Jaraslad. You will find that the station manager has canceled the scheduled inspection of your cargo.”

  He motioned to his men, and they shoved me down the gangway toward the bay doors. Just for a moment Gina’s eyes met mine. She shifted her gaze to the floor.

  Bitch.

  ◆◆◆

  I spent a month in the station’s brig as the Doranis argued with a representative of the Galactic Federation over who had jurisdictional control over the prisoner: me. Apparently I was a very popular offender.

  The representative from the Galactic Federation stated that because I was a Terran national, I should be extradited to the Terran system and tried in a Terran court for my crimes. He was accompanied by a military adjutant who argued that the GSF had a six year old outstanding warrant for my arrest on charges of desertion that had never been rescinded. The Doranis pointed out that no extradition treaty currently existed between them and Earth, and since I had lived on a station in their sector of the galaxy for the past six years, that made me, technically, a Dorani national, and as such, I should be tried in a Dorani court.

  All three sides bickered back and forth for a while, finally deciding to bring the matter before the presiding judge of the intergalactic circuit court when he arrived at the station on his regular tour. Another couple of weeks dragged by as we waited for his honor to appear. All sides presented their arguments, and after due and careful deliberation, the judge ruled that without an extradition treaty, the Terrans and GSF were basically shit out of luck. The Doranis quickly shuffled me onto a transport and carried me off to the Tyrian system deep in Dorani space.

  My arraignment was a farce. My assets on Jaraslad had been frozen and they wouldn’t let me anywhere near a data-console where I might have been able to access additional funds, so I couldn’t afford to retain my own counsel. I was stuck with the Dorani equivalent of legal aid.

  I whined, long and loud, for a Terran attorney, spouting all kinds of bullshit about racial prejudice and my inability to get a fair hearing when I couldn’t properly communicate with my lawyer. After two weeks of listening to me bitch and moan, I was finally assigned a very young Terran public defender who had probably been caught fucking the senior partner’s wife at the company picnic in order to have drawn such a plum assignment. The poor kid looked to be more terrified of winning his case than losing it.

  The list of charges impressed the shit out of me; it took the court clerk close to half an hour to read them all.

  Forty-three counts of murder.

  Fifty-five counts of Conspiracy to Commit murder. Like I said, some clients got cold feet.

  Twenty-three counts of Fleeing across Interstellar Jurisdictions.

  Seventeen weapons violations.

  One count of Resisting Arrest.

  And, of course, one count of Possession of a Restricted Weapon.

  I could have pled “No Contest” and gotten the whole thing over with in about five minutes. I mean, they had me, right? Everyone knew I was guilty as fuck. For my own perverse amusement, and because I knew I didn’t have a hope in hell of getting off, I decided they could kiss my ass and work for their conviction.

  I pled ‘Not Guilty’.

  The trial, such as it was, didn’t last nearly as long as I might have liked. When the judicial farce ended and the legal dust settled, the judge found me guilty on all counts.

  What a surprise.

  He basically told me that I was a very bad boy, declared me a “dangerous offender and threat to galactic security”, then sentenced me to life imprisonment in the Blackgate Prison on Tyrian Six—a maximum security facility designed specifically to house those criminals and psychos deemed too volatile or dangerous to be incarcerated anywhere else.

  I’d heard stories about the Blackgate.

  None of them had happy endings.

  Chapter 4

  The Tyrian city of Azria sat along the banks of a slow-moving, mud-gray river, narrow bridges connecting the northern and southern districts. Pale yellow weeds swayed in the water and long-legged avian things that looked like a cross between a flamingo and an ostrich waded in the shallows. I didn’t see a single building over three stories tall and hardly any automated vehicles. Carts and wagons lumbered along the dusty streets, drawn by very large, very ugly reptiles. I saw two or three hover-bikes and one ancient public transit vehicle. The place was primitive bordering on prehistoric.

  Single-story, flat-roofed houses lined the streets leading from the space port. It was two or three hours past dawn, and even at that early hour it was hot enough outside to fry eggs on the sidewalk. The prison was five hours away. The blast proof glass of the transport windows had been reinforced with steel mesh, and the bleak desert scenery flashing by was only slightly more entertaining than the bare walls and floor of the transport itself.

  Maroon storm clouds billowed on the horizon and orange lightning flickered. Tension built in the air, a throbbing, electric hum that set my teeth on edge. Thunder growled, its rolling, rumbling echo fading into silence. The rain advanced for almost an hour before it reached us, a slate colored curtain sweeping across the desert. It hammered the roof of the transport, a deafening pinging roar that made my ears ring. Wind and rain turned the blowing sand to mud that ran down the transport windows. Despite the sauna-like conditions, I was infinitely glad I was inside that moving metal box and not outside in that.

  Half an hour from the prison the storm blew itself out and the sun emerged to bake the moisture from the sand. The temperature inside the transport climbed, and sweat soaked my gray coveralls. It stung my eyes, matted my hair. I raised manacled hands, wiping my face on my sleeve. A jug of lukewarm water rested on the floor. I fumbled with the cap and took a long, deep swallow, grimacing at the bitter, metallic taste.

  The Blackgate sat in the middle of a sun-blasted desert, polished steel walls towering above a desolate, rock strewn wasteland. Guarded by wall mounted pulse cannons and armored sentries carrying high-powered laser rifles, nothing could approach without being seen. I was willing to bet even birds were shot down if they flew too close. We passed into the main compound. Through the rear windows I watched the blue-white energy barrier that served as the main gate flicker back on.

  The transport stopped and guards hauled me out. They wore silver-gray body armor, heat reflective, probably insulated, the visors a mirrored black. If I thought it was hot inside the transport, it was worse outside—like walking into a blast furnace. The air felt heavy and thick. It dragged at me, making movement difficult.

  I’ve always prided myself on been resourceful, and up until now I’d been pretty good at getting myself out of sticky situations. But as I saw those pulse cannons reflected in the guard’s visors, a shiver ran through me despite the heat.

  I might really be screwed this time.

  The interior of the prison was stark and functional. Pale sunlight shone through high, narrow windows that reminded me of the arrow slits found in medieval Terran fortresses. The ceiling was a lattice work of steel beams that caught and amplified the smallest sounds, sending them bouncing around the rafters before they ricocheted into silence.

  Our footsteps echoed on the polished black floor as I was escorted to the main guard station. It sat on a raised platform in the middle of a central intersection, the various corridors jutting off it like spokes on a wheel. The processing guard looked over the transfer orders carefully.

  “The prisoner’s name is Gage Brassan?” He looked up in surprise. “It says here he’s The Hunter?”

  “Yeah,” replied the transport driver.

  The guard blinked. “The assassin?”

  “Yeah. Apparently his hunting licen
se has been revoked.” The driver snickered at his own joke.

  Sure. Real funny, asshole.

  The guard’s data screen flickered. “He’ll be housed in maximum security, level thirty-nine. Central Holding is down that corridor to your left. Wait there. Someone will come get him.”

  The driver prodded me in the direction the guard indicated.

  Blast proof glass enclosed the central holding area, iron rings bolted to the walls. Security cameras hung in every corner. The transport driver clipped the metal leash attached to my restraints to one of the rings then sat on a narrow bench to wait. I paced as far as my leash allowed, the driver watching me with wary eyes. His hand rested casually and conspicuously on the grip of his sidearm.

  Fucking moron. Where the hell was I going to run to?

  I drew a deep breath and tried to regain a small measure of calm. It was a losing battle. I’d been here twenty minutes and already felt jittery and confined.

  Get used to it, Gage. You could be here a long time.

  Footsteps approached. A man in a black uniform walked towards us. He was Terran, as were most of the guards I’d seen, his red hair cut GSF short. He was probably an academy washout and this was his backup career: the closest job to ‘soldier’ he qualified for. His gray eyes were cold and expressionless, and there was a cruelness to the lines around his mouth. If he smiled I was sure it would emerge as a sneer.

  “I’m Alden Healey.” His voice sounded like he’d swallowed a sheet of sand paper. “I’ll take your prisoner from here.”

  The transport driver nodded and, after a final glance at me, walked back towards the guard station and exit. A flash of envy swept through me.

  At least he could leave, the prick.

  I shifted my gaze back to Healey. He had this exaggerated opinion of himself, I could tell. It carried over into the way he stood—like a toy soldier on parade.

  Yeah. Definitely an academy washout. Probably failed the psych eval.

  “So, you’re the infamous Hunter,” he said at last. “I must say, your reputation precedes you.”