Galactic Vice: A Jafla Base Vice Squad Novel

by Jake Bible

  That got him thinking of the steam showers he was going to enjoy when he was off Jafla and back home in his own apartment. Real steam. Hours and hours of it. Etch was so absorbed in the thought of a true shower that he didn’t notice the shadow that closed on him as soon as he stepped into Guska’s apartment.

  He did see the flash of light that reflected off the blades, but by then, it was too late.

  24.

  Two hundred thousand chits. Kalaka seriously thought about packing it up and leaving Jafla. Two hundred thousand chits wouldn’t get him far, but they’d get him far enough to figure out what to do next. The only thing stopping him was the thought of that McDade chick hunting his ass down.

  Kalaka had dealt with underworld scum for years and never once worried when or where the shot to the back of his head would come. Something inside him said that he was untouchable. It was hubris of the highest order, but so far he’d been right.

  Yet, when it came to thinking about Galactic Vice Division Operations Manager Lt. Angie McDade, Kalaka actually got a little nervous. He saw something in her, something he saw in himself every morning, or afternoon, when he got up and splashed water on his face to try to rinse away the night’s sins. She was playing the same dangerous game as him which meant she was not someone Kalaka wanted to make a true enemy out of.

  He hadn’t made it as far as he had by being wrong when it came time to size up a person. He sized up McDade and the conclusion he came to was that a happy McDade was the only way to play the woman.

  But, still, two hundred thousand chits would get him a good ways away from Jafla and the GV…

  “We’re here,” the roller driver said as the taxi pulled up half a block from the Club.

  Kalaka snapped out of his thoughts and frowned.

  “No, we’re not here,” he argued. “If we were here, then this door would be opened for me and I’d walk right up to the Club. You’re dropping me off half a block away. How is that here?”

  “You see that red line there?” the driver asked, pointing a fin at the space in front of the Club. “Laser barricade. No one is pulling in front of that place unless their roller is coded. This is a taxi, pal. I ain’t coded for shit except to accept fares from dickheads like you.”

  The driver was one of the fish races, but Kalaka couldn’t tell which. They all looked the same to him. What he did know was that the driver wasn’t going to give in. The guy held himself like he was ready for a fight. Kalaka didn’t have time to get into it with a fish-raced taxi driver.

  “Whatever,” Kalaka said and got out of the roller. He waved his wrist at the sensor on the door and it beeped. “No tip, asshole.”

  “Screw you, cop!” the driver yelled as he pulled away then did a U-turn in the street and was gone.

  “Cop?” Kalaka muttered as he turned around and inspected his reflection in the window of a posh restaurant. The diners seated on the opposite side of the plastiglass glared at him, but he didn’t care. He straightened his jacket and smoothed the front of his shirt. “I don’t look like a cop.”

  Kalaka was exhausted. The job had him drained. His constant hustle to keep the streets working for him had him drained. The snubs from the GVDs not on the take had him drained. The glares from the ones that were on the take had him drained. Everything about being a GVD, especially the type he’d become, had him drained.

  Two hundred thousand chits…

  His hand hesitated over his wrist. He was so close to calling back a taxi and heading straight for the docking hangars. He’d get a shuttle and be gone before midnight.

  Two hundred thousand chits…

  He’d also be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Who was he kidding? Angie McDade wasn’t his problem. Being himself was his problem and he’d never escape that. Two hundred thousand chits or two hundred million chits couldn’t buy him a new…him.

  Kalaka walked the short distance to the Club, his eyes straying to the massive billboard across the street that was flashing a holo for the next major Orb fight. People stared up at it and clapped as the two fighters –Bonca Rey Stru versus Haglia C’Penn– flexed and snarled down at them. Kalaka scoffed and turned away, ready to get the night over with.

  “Get lost, terpig,” the bouncer, a massive Urvein that had to be near ten feet tall, snarled at him. The being waved in three guests then locked down the plasma rope against Kalaka’s attempt to walk into the Club with them. “We got a no terpig rule here, terpig.”

  “Cute, K,” Kalaka said as he tried to grab the plasma rope and lift it himself. “But calling cops terpigs went out of fashion a century ago.”

  A huge paw enveloped Kalaka’s hand. Kalaka’s fur was lost in the tangle of bristles that covered the Urvein’s hand. The Urvein squeezed and Kalaka barely managed to get his hand free before crying out in pain.

  “Private party tonight, Detective,” K said as he let four more guests inside. “You got an invitation?”

  “I do,” Kalaka said and opened a small compression pouch to show the stack of chits he’d brought. “Two hundred thousand invitations.”

  K looked down at the chits and nodded, impressed.

  “Big stack there, Detective,” K said. “That all for me?”

  “I’m here for the game,” Kalaka said. “Tell Gants that I’m out here and ready to buy-in. Feeling like tonight is my night.”

  “You serious with this shit?” K asked then laughed loud enough that the front row of patiently waiting guests jumped in their overpriced shoes and knockoff designer boots. “I call Mr. Gants and tell him GVD Kalaka is out here and he’ll probably tell me to snap your neck. You want me to see if he’ll let you in on a tile game? Get lost, Detective. This is not your night.”

  “Come on, K,” Kalaka said. “You remember that time—”

  “No,” K said and let another four guests in. A fifth tried to sneak by, but received a cuff to the ear which sent the young Tcherian stumbling to the curb. K pointed at him. “Banned. Don’t come back, camo bitch.”

  The Tcherian looked like he wanted to argue, but he made the wise choice instead and picked himself up, wiped off the street dirt, and turned away, both middle fingers flying high.

  “Not the first time the little snot has tried that,” K said to no one in particular. Then he glared down at Kalaka. “You still here?”

  Kalaka hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the billboard holo. “You like the Orb fights?”

  “Yeah. Who doesn’t?” K asked. Three more guests were let inside. “Been sold out for months. Ain’t no way to get tix.”

  “Will you let me in if I can get you a pair?” Kalaka asked.

  “I work for Mr. Gants,” K said. “If he can’t get tix, then you can’t get tix.” K leaned down and pressed his hairy nose to Kalaka’s. “Terpig.”

  “How much you wanna bet?” Kalaka asked.

  K slowly pulled his head back, narrowed his eyes, then laughed as he let two more guests inside.

  “You can’t pull that off,” K said. “So get lost, Detective. I’m done with you.”

  “What’s your comm signature?” Kalaka asked.

  “You’re about to piss me off.”

  “Come on, K. What’s your comm signature?”

  “I’ll count to three.”

  “Give me your comm signature and if I can’t deliver the goods, then I’ll let you flatten me right here in front of all these finely dressed beings.” Kalaka turned to the queue. “You folks want to see a cop get his head bashed in by this Urvein?”

  The cheer was a little more enthusiastic than Kalaka would have liked, but it did the trick. K chuckled then held out his wrist. Kalaka pressed his to K’s and waited for the beep.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Kalaka said. “Be right back.”

  K’s hand clamped down on Kalaka’s shoulder. “No. You stay here. Right where I can reach you.”

  Kalaka grinned then nodded as he turned his back on K and activated his comm.

  “Morshulll?” Kalaka
asked when the other end of the comm was answered.

  “Yeah, so? Who dis den?” the raspy voice on the comm asked. “Who sig dis?”

  “It’s Kalaka,” Kalaka said. “I need something. Fast.”

  “How fast? What somedin?” Morshulll asked. “I bout sleep.”

  “It isn’t even midnight,” Kalaka said.

  “Big day. Hard day. What you want?”

  “Two tix to the Stru/C’Penn fight,” Kalaka said and waited. He was expecting the brief silence.

  “That big ask,” Morshulll finally replied. “Cost somedin fierce.”

  “I know. But I need the tix. Can you come through for me?”

  “I try. Morshulll always try. You good for chits?”

  “You know I am.”

  “I no know dat. You good for chits or no? Hear you say it.”

  “I’m good for chits,” Kalaka said as he stared up at the billboard holo. “You got my word.”

  Morshulll laughed. “I got your word. Dat good one.”

  “I need decent seats, Morshulll. Can you make that happen?”

  “Who you tink you talk to?”

  “I have to ask.” Kalaka looked over his shoulder at a glaring K. “Yeah, I for sure have to ask. How much?”

  “Seventy. And two favors.”

  “One favor. Nothing bloody.”

  “No blood. Might need file go away.”

  “I can make files go away. Seventy and one favor then?”

  “Yeah. Dat good. Gimme ten minute.”

  The comm went silent and Kalaka leaned back against the wall next to K.

  “Not a problem,” Kalaka said.

  “I don’t have a ping yet,” K said. “Still a problem until I hear a ping.”

  “Relax, K.”

  K grunted as he let five more guests in. Then he stepped close to the line and crossed his massive, hairy arms across his massive, hairy chest.

  “Full up, people. Go home.”

  There were a few groans and some pointed words, but no one argued too hard over the disappointment. Slowly, the queue emptied out as the dressed up beings went in search of other entertainment for the night.

  That left K to focus everything on Kalaka.

  “He’ll come through,” Kalaka said as K moved uncomfortably close. Whatever deodorizer K used was wearing off and Kalaka had to struggle not to breathe through his mouth.

  Kalaka’s comm buzzed.

  “I send. Two tix. Second tier, front row. Dose best I could do.”

  “Second tier?” Kalaka asked. K began to growl. “Yeah, second tier front row will do fine.”

  K’s growl died away at the mention of front row.

  “Seventy and a favor,” Morshulll said before he hung up.

  Kalaka’s wrist pinged and he glanced down at the holo of two Orb fight tix. He swiped at the holo and K’s wrist pinged.

  “Nice,” K said as he tapped at the holo of the tix. “Go on in, Kalaka. You’ll want to check in with Schigg at the bar.”

  “Why Schigg?” Kalaka asked.

  “Because you’re a fucking cop, moron,” K said.

  “Never had to check in with Schigg before.”

  “I don’t make an Eight Million Gods damn rule around here, Detective, so why are you busting my hairy gonads?”

  “I’ll check in with Schigg,” Kalaka said. “At the bar.”

  “Hold up,” K said as Kalaka reached for the door handle. “You packing?”

  “Nope,” Kalaka said. “Honest. I may be a moron, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Better hope so,” K said and motioned for Kalaka to go inside.

  25.

  Schigg’s ember eyes bored into Kalaka’s slit-pupiled eyes. The two men faced off for a good thirty seconds before Schigg shook his head, poured Kalaka a whiskey, then set the bottle next to the glass. Kalaka waited for Schigg to nod before he picked up the glass and downed the whiskey in one gulp.

  “Good stuff,” he said as he set the empty glass on the bar. “Not real, but good.”

  “Not real?” Schigg asked. “Huh. Didn’t figure you for a connoisseur.”

  “Why? Because I’m a cop?” Kalaka asked. Two women that had been inching closer to the bar, both looking ready to order drinks, quickly turned about face and waded back onto the dance floor. “Oops.”

  “Because you’re a piece of shit being,” Schigg said as he pushed the glass and bottle to Kalaka. “Take those with. No table service tonight.”

  “This is a big game, right? And no table service?” Kalaka frowned. “Short staffed?”

  “Request from a couple of players,” Schigg said. “Once the door closes, it doesn’t open until the game is over. Security concerns.”

  “Sounds a bit paranoid, Schigg,” Kalaka said and poured himself another glass. He sipped it, eyeing Schigg closely. “Did I pick the wrong night to make my fortune?”

  “Every night is the wrong night for you, GVD Kalaka,” Schigg said. “By the way, Dark ever have a chat with you?”

  “About what?”

  “So Dark never found you and warned you off one of the tile players?”

  “No. Which one was he supposed to warn me off of?” Kalaka laughed. “You do know how ridiculous that sounds, yeah?”

  “Does it?” Schigg asked, his ember eyes flashing with anger. “You didn’t try to shake down a tile player named Etch Knowles?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Kalaka said.

  Schigg reached out and took the whiskey bottle back. He held out his other hand for the glass. Kalaka groaned.

  “Okay, I know the guy,” Kalaka admitted. “Etch Knowles. Halfer piece of terpig crap. New in town. I may have lost some chits to him then made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  “He’s refusing the offer,” Schigg said. “Knowles works for Mr. Gants. You understand what that means, Kalaka?”

  “Not personally, no,” Kalaka said. “I like staying a free agent.”

  “Nothing free about you, Detective,” Schigg said. He wiggled the bottle at Kalaka. “He’s off limits from now on. Are we understood?”

  “We are understood, Schigg,” Kalaka said. “Loud and clear.”

  Schigg gave him the bottle of whiskey then cocked his head towards a door directly behind the bar. “In there. One hundred and fifty chit buy-in with fifty added for the house.”

  “Fifty for the house?” Kalaka scoffed.

  “Or you can leave,” Schigg said.

  “Let me ask you a question.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, come on, Schigg. How long have we known each other?”

  “Longer than I care to admit.”

  “I get that a lot. But, seriously, say, what? Ten years now? Longer?”

  “Feels much longer.”

  “Okay, okay, back off, asshole. I get it.”

  “I don’t. What is this all about, Kalaka?”

  “How rigged is this game?”

  Schigg shook his head.

  “None of Mr. Gants’ games are ever rigged, Detective.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m throwing in my entire fortune here. If I’m about to lose it all, a heads up would be nice. I can make a couple comm calls and make sure I’m covered.”

  “Covered? How? What does that mean, Kalaka? Covered?”

  “If this is a setup, then I want to make sure I don’t lose everything.” Kalaka tapped at his temple. “Gotta play smart at the table as well as away from it.”

  Schigg sighed and leaned across the bar. “Speak plainly, Kalaka.”

  “I have a bead on more than one of Gants’ stim houses. I might be persuaded to not pass on important security information to my Squad.”

  “And how would I persuade you to be so considerate?”

  “By making sure I’m not walking into a trap.”

  “You’re a GVD, Kalaka. Everywhere in Jafla is a trap for you. If you walk into one, it is due to your own ego, not because any outfit, especially Mr. Gants’, has set you up.”

  “Mayb
e I should reconsider tonight,” Kalaka said as he pushed back from the bar, a finger to his ear. “Gonna make a call or two or three first, though.”

  “You are not being set up,” Schigg said reluctantly. “This game is legit. The only way you lose is by being beat. No hidden agenda once you enter that room.”

  “Just wanted to make sure I’m not the mark,” Kalaka said, patting the bar. “One more question.”

  “You are truly unbelievable.”

  “Who is the mark?” Kalaka asked with a huge, sharp-toothed grin. “Give me that intel and I’ll owe you a favor.”

  “Like you owe Morshulll a favor?”

  That caught Kalaka off guard, but he recovered fast, his huge, sharp-toothed grin barely faltering. “You’ve upgraded your snooping tech.”

  “We have,” Schigg agreed.

  “Makes it hard to trust you, Schigg.”

  “Why would you expect trust from me, Kalaka?”

  “Fair enough.” Kalaka glanced at the door behind the bar. “Who’s the mark?”

  Schigg held up two fingers.

  “One,” Kalaka insisted. Schigg’s fingers did not move. “Fine. Two favors. Who? Is? The? Mark?”

  “Man by the name of Keer,” Schigg said. “His brother was some councilman.”

  “Fleet Council?” Kalaka asked, unable to hide his surprise.

  “Do you know of a different council that I would care about?”

  “Making sure I have the facts. Is this the same Keer that lost a son a couple years back? Something about Edgers and…?”

  “Now you are getting it,” Schigg said. “Collari is very interested in Mr. Keer losing so that he owes Mr. Gants.”

  “And that is where Etch Knowles comes in,” Kalaka said, nodding.

  “When he arrives,” Schigg said.

  Those three words were worth the payment of two favors. Kalaka was more than surprised that Knowles hadn’t already arrived. The halfer should have been one of the first ones at the table.

  “I’ll tell you what, Schigg,” Kalaka said as he moved around the bar and towards the door. “I may owe you two favors, but you’re doing me solid here. I can help Knowles out and make sure that Keer fellow falls hard. How’s that sound?”

  “Do what you want, Kalaka,” Schigg said. “I could care less. I have two favors owed by a Galactic Vice Detective. My night is made.” He stood up straight and turned to regard a couple of female Halgons that had been waiting patiently at the bar. “What may I fetch you fine women this evening?”