Primal Planet Captive
Fire Shifters of Veloria Book One
Skylar Clarke
Contents
1. Tessie
2. Jari
3. Tessie
4. Jari
5. Tessie
6. Jari
7. Tessie
8. Jari
9. Tessie
10. Jari
11. Tessie
12. Epilogue—Jari
Need More Primal Planet?
1
Tessie
Cults aren’t usually so hard to track, and I wonder if this group shouldn’t be reclassified as something else. Usually, cults are all about attention, soaking it up and trying to, in the process, suck new people in. But this one is quiet to the point that I could call it stealthy; each movement carefully chosen to avoid drawing attention. That is what makes them dangerous. I’ve been tracking them for two weeks now, getting tips on their movements from various sources and jumping in my small ship from one location to the next. They seem to be ferrying supplies, always returning to the same system before heading out again. So far, I have remained one step behind them, but today, I might just strike gold.
I consult the map on the vid-screen display affixed to the control panel of the cockpit, making sure I’m still on their trail before heading into the living quarters of the tiny ship to gather my things. They’re headed for Morda-6, a planet I’m familiar with. I have picked up several bounties there, all of which involved tracking criminals to their safehouses. It’s a veritable cesspit of criminal activity, and if I make it to the planet before they leave, my only problem will be finding them among all the others. With any other cult, I would expect to pick them out from the crowd by their matching outfits, but I doubt a group that has been this crafty so far will succumb to such stupidity.
As for my own outfit, it takes no thought at all. The space suit I’m already wearing will serve me well enough, and as bounty hunters don’t subscribe to traditional uniforms, it should not appear much different than anyone else’s. Other than slaves that have been dressed up to catch eyes in the market, there isn’t generally much in the way of fashion to be found. I settle for throwing on a set of armor, the sort most other mercenaries wear, battered and dented in several places from use. I comb my fingers through my hair and leave it as it is. After leaving the military and setting out on my own, I had chosen to grow it out from the short regulation cut that it had been in for years, but soon regretted the decision, as I know little about making it look presentable. I tuck a few stray strands behind an ear and move on to the supply room where the weapons are stored on a rack made to hold them. An alarm sounds, alerting me to our proximity to the planet.
I grab two blasters from the rack, one to wear at my hip and a second to sling over my shoulder. Most planets that are even remotely civilized have someone at the docks policing the number of weapons that are carried off each ship, but on smuggling planets like Morda-6, such things are unheard of. Anyone trying to stop an alien from bringing a second, or a third, or a seventh weapon into the market would likely be summarily shot. That’s also why making arrests on Morda-6 is so tricky—everyone there is armed to the teeth, and when push comes to shove, criminals often band together against the law, or anyone representing it.
Stowing the weapons in my tiny ship’s sad excuse for a kitchen, I head to the cockpit, slip into the familiar pilot’s chair, and begin the work of guiding the ship down into the safest landing I can pull off. I never had my license to pilot in the military—I got the training after, when I realized that it was one of the many necessities if I wanted to work solo. I know many pilots who love sitting in the cockpit with their hands at the controls above all else, but even after a few years of experience, I’ve found no similar joy in it. Truth be told, being the sole person in charge of a large vessel that I could easily crash with a too-rough turn of the controls or the wrong sequence of buttons pressed still makes me nervous. By now though, I know what I’m doing. The landing goes smoothly, as they usually do. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve almost turned the ship into a smoldering pile of debris.
I spot several ships in the landing zone that seem plausible to peg as belonging to the cult member’s I’m tracking, but nothing definitive. I power down the ship and affix my weapons into their proper places. I’ve already opened the exit ramp when a vid call pings from the cockpit, demanding my attention. The chaos of Morda-6 ahead of me, I very nearly decide to ignore it. But there is an unofficial rule among bounty hunters, especially those of us who work alone, and that rule is to never let a call go unanswered. It could always be a distress call, and it very often is. If the recipient isn’t in a position to assist due to problems of their own, they can always forward the call to someone else. I turn from the ramp with a sigh, leaving the door open as I head to the cockpit. I’m half hoping someone will try to jack it from beneath me while I’m distracted. After so long spent tracking the group, I’m itching for a showdown, and I’m not too picky about who it’s with.
A fellow mercenary is indeed waiting for me to join the vid call. I bite back a smile, schooling my face into mild irritation.
“Vince,” I say. “You don’t look like you’re in need of rescue, which means you must be calling to give me a tip.”
The man grins, a quick, crooked smile. “Looking good, Owens.”
The use of my last name harkens back to different times. Vince and I had once been in the same company. We’d never been close friends, but there was a connection in the sense that we had fought the same battles and known similar losses. We had worn the same uniform once, and both of us had given it up—though for vastly different reasons. I’d rejoin the Federation military in a second if they’d have me, while Vince had left willingly after serving his contracted term.
“Flattery won’t get you very far,” I say. “You’ve interrupted me.”
“Shit,” he says. “You caught ‘em already?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Close though. If you manage to set a record and end this conversation in a normal period of time, there might actually be a chance.”
Vince looks behind me, eyes scanning what little he can see of the ship in the background. “You’re hunting solo?”
I feel my eyes tighten.
He looks uncomfortable, which isn’t an expression I see often on Vince’s face. He gives the back of his neck a nervous rub. “I know you don’t respond to criticism well—even the constructive kind—but have you maybe considered … not. It’s one thing going after a guy or two, but anyone can be overwhelmed by superior numbers, no matter how good they are.”
I don’t answer him.
He takes his chance and bulldozes forward, doing a remarkably good job of playing the concerned older brother despite the fact that I have a year or two on the man. “Are you even sure of their numbers?”
“My contacts say six tops, unless they pick up more on this stop. But I’m only after one. If I can get my hands on a straggler, there’s a chance I can learn something about their activity. Besides, the Velorian government and the Federation are paying big bucks for these guys. It doesn’t matter if you deliver a complete set or not.” I shrug, doing my best to seem relaxed and nonchalant. “I’ll happily settle for the paycheck I’ll get for one.”
I won’t stop at one, and Vince knows this.
“Is your leg up to it?” he asks. “You were limping a little when you walked to the cockpit. I—”
I feel the openness of my face slowly shut down. Vince notices, and ducks his head in apology. “Fine,” I say shortly and that is all he gets. The guilt I feel for s
napping at him is nearly immediate. It is not an abnormal question to ask, and Vince is right about the limping. It’s lucky we’re both soldiers. It takes a particularly harsh set of words to leave a lasting scar.
“I’m on Morda-6,” I say, because I know that is what he wants to ask, even if he won’t. “If you don’t hear back from me in a few days, feel free to come looking.”
“I’m sure your mother will appreciate me sending your ashes home,” he says. The words are the sort that might cause a real wound in someone else, much more so than his previous, seemingly harmful question. But battlefield humor is a black thing, and I find myself laughing.
“You’re nearby?” I ask.
He nods once. “Jobs for those of us who aren’t insane were few and far between last I looked. I’m visiting a friend.”
I have no doubt that Vince has scores of those. He isn’t in the habit of cutting ties so often as I am. “I hope it goes well,” I say, and then, softer, and more earnestly. “I’ve faced much worse odds than this and come out on top. Don’t waste your time worrying.”
He snorts. “I see now that I was mistaken to do so. Don’t get dead, Owens.”
“You too, Vince.”
The screen goes from Vince wearing the same cheerful smile he began with, bright scenery in the background, to pitch black. I readjust the strap of the blaster across my shoulder and give the knife in my boot a pat, double-checking for its faithful presence, though it has yet to let me down. I head down the ramp at long last, and begin traversing the docks. They’ll be in the market mostly likely, but before I head that way, I slip a tracker onto each of the ships that look like viable candidates. I know from a tip that they were headed this way, to make a pickup on Mord-6. Of their ship, I know the make, but not the model. With the trackers in place, if I don’t manage to catch them here, I can continue to follow them without relying on tips of uncertain validity, possibly even to their hideout.
With the first task done, I head into the marketplace. I do not look out of place here. The planet is small and crawling with mercenaries of every sort. The only thing that distinguishes me from the rest is the badge held in the inside pocket of my space suit that declares my actions to be Federation sanctioned. It allows me to operate within Federation space without being arrested for my actions. It isn’t worth much outside of the Federation’s reach, but it is better than nothing, and has gotten me out of a few tight situations. The flash of badge can have the nearly immediate effect of making someone bolt or freeze, which can come in various degrees of useful.
The markets are not as crowded as I have seen them in the past. I blend in well, and purveyors of goods call out their deals to me as I pass, the same as they do anyone else. I am not particularly large for a human, which means I am smaller than most alien species, but over the years I have learned to look intimidating regardless of this disadvantage. A lot of it comes from the look on my face as I wade through the crowd, the set of my jaw and the straightness of my shoulders. In places such as this, it is simply about looking confident. Humans in such places are a rarity, but if I look as though I belong, no one thinks to question my presence. I pass vendors selling drugs that result in an immediate high, needles and pills strewn across the counters like candy. I pass an auction stage, thankfully empty. Even when drawing attention to myself is a detriment to a mission, I cannot make myself let slavery go uncontested. It’s nearly gotten me killed a few times now, but my aversion to the practice has never faded.
I traverse much of the city, eyes always scanning for Velorians, as I know their species makes up the bulk of the cult. It is a vicious homegrown group, whose members wish to see their prince removed from power so badly that they tried to assassinate him several months back. In the aftermath, their leader rotting in a jail cell, they scattered, going deep into hiding, which is what made them so much more difficult to track than the average cult. I pass several lone Velorians before I find what I am looking for. On a street whose sole purpose seems to be selling weapons, I spot a group of aliens loitering near a stall. My guess was right, and I count no more than six, only four of whom seem to be Velorians. Still, in a species with such a small population, the odds of seeing that many together away from Veloria are too great to ignore.
I walk past them, noting the species of the other two and filing it away. A Kandalun and a Draxl. Like the Velorians, they are far from their home, a journey of three days even on a good ship. I keep my head facing forward, only noting what details I can see from my periphery. People committing crimes, I have noticed, often have an acute sense for when they are being stared at. It’s best not to tempt fate by giving them a lingering glance. I see red and blue tones, which means both fire and ice Velorians are entangled in this mess. It’s no wonder that the Prince of Veloria is offering such a large reward for information or capture. I cannot imagine how disgusted I would be at seeing other humans plotting to throw us into a war we did not need and did not wish for.
There is a nearby stall boasting fried street food of some sort. It is out of place in the gaggle of weapons stalls, but I decide to head there, quickly ordering one of the unidentifiable things the cook is preparing. It gives me an excuse to stand nearby for several minutes as I wait for it to finish cooking. As I lean against the counter, I turn an ear toward their conversation.
“We’ll need seventeen,” an ice Velorian says.
The salesman balks. “You will empty my stores,” he grumbles. “That is more than we agreed. I will want compensation.”
The Velorian gives him a dangerous smile, but the Draxl of his group steps forward, hands held up in an attempt at placation. It doesn’t surprise me that he is the one to negotiate. Draxls are generally more known for their skill with their tongues than their weapons. “You will be compensated,” he says. “But it will have to be at a later date. You know our organization is not brimming with wealth.”
The salesman snorts, a huff of air through the single nostril in the center of his face. The sound is loud as a foghorn, though mostly muffled by the bustle of the market. “That would be an understatement,” he says.
A Velorian steps forward, a different one, with skin that is fire-engine red. “Do not insult us,” he warns.
The Draxl speaks again, his tone still attempting to be mollifying. Beneath that though, there is confidence that says he expects to come out on top in this negotiation. “Give us what we came here for,” he says. “And the coming war will make us both rich.”
The cook clears his throat, and I realize abruptly that he’s been trying to hand me my food for at least a few seconds. Ducking my head in mimed embarrassment, I fish some coin from the outer pocket of my armor and hand it over in exchange for whatever I’ve bought. It is so hot that it very nearly burns my hands even through the foil it’s wrapped in. I idle in front of another shop, hoping to hear more, but the talk has turned to useless things—idle chatter with which they keep each other busy while the vendor and his employees load a sizable amount of cargo onto two automated carts. The packages are large, and from the strain of the workers who move them, heavy. There’s no telling what’s inside, but from the weaponry spread out over the salesman’s table, I can guess it is meant for no peaceful purpose.
As they finish things up, I do my best to trail them, hoping they don’t notice that the same individual has been within their sight for such a long period of time. It helps that nearly everyone here has the look of a mercenary or a criminal and that most of us wear an armored suit that has seen better days. We have traversed what seems like the whole of the city and are finally, blessedly, heading back toward the loading docks. If my mental map is correct, their errands and my tracking have simply taken us in one huge circle. My bad leg is beginning to ache, the slight limp that Vince had commented on becoming more pronounced. I am grateful when, close to the docks, they make a stop at another stand, and duck behind a pile of crates to catch my breath, one ear on their conversation. This seems much less formal, not like the previous me
eting, which had seemed to be arranged beforehand. From what I can hear, one of the Velorians is simply picking up a gun that he dropped off beforehand for repair.
Speaking of repairs, my leg has gone wonky. I grip the prosthesis with both hands, trying to determine what the issue is as I test its placement, fingers exploring the place where my leg turns from smooth skin into scar tissue into nothing. It’s off center, but this is neither the time nor the place to fix it. I ignore the ache and the feeling of wrongness, focusing instead on the fact that the majority of the group have begun to trickle toward the loading dock, leaving the Velorian alone at the gun stand. I hold my breath, waiting until the others are out of my sight before I allow myself to remove the blaster from where the rifle-type weapon has been strapped across my back, and lay it across the crate in front of me, switching it from kill to stun with practiced fingers. I have to fiddle with the settings a bit before it will be effective. Hitting a Velorian with the normal level of power is like stabbing a bear with a fork.
My finger curls around the trigger and prepares to pull. Just as I do, my bad leg gives way, sending the shot wide, into the empty space behind him. Abruptly, the small portion of my weight that I had been leaning against the crate becomes much larger as I crash to the ground, the knee of my prosthesis bending without my permission.
“Damn it.”
The Velorian is already moving away, drawing his own blaster and scanning the area for the threat. He likely thinks he just escaped an assassin’s bullet as opposed to a relatively harmless stun. By the time I am standing once more, leg unsteady as a newborn colt’s, the cult member has left my sight. “Damn it again,” I say, slinging my gun back into place.
Primal Planet Captive: SciFi Alien Fated Romance Page 1
