The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3

by Nicholas Erik

  Don’t hold your breath on that, the gatekeeper had said. Don’t hold your breath anywhere. Bad for your health. He’d let out a booming baritone of a laugh which still rang in Keene’s ears.

  But he understood about not holding your breath. The ash combined with the smoke from all the fires—who knew what these people were burning, but it wasn’t anything good—was wreaking havoc on his lungs. The shantytown city, despite being only a couple miles from end-to-end, felt larger than the ashen wastes that had preceded it.

  The geo-locator beeped.

  Keene wiped his goggles and squinted.

  A strangely white building, two stories high, sat before him. In contrast to the houses fashioned of twisted metal and crumbling concrete with rebar jutting out from all sides, this establishment’s façade was completely intact, as if it had been erected with care and expertise.

  “A trap,” Catarina said, shouting to be heard over the whipping wind.

  “What do you mean?” But Keene’s heart stopped in his chest, as if someone had shocked it dead with high voltage wiring. If she thought something was amiss, then it was.

  “This isn’t for vehicle rentals.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at the sign.”

  Keene stepped forward, bringing his arm up to block the whipping wind. He read it aloud, annunciating each word in a dreadful monotone, thudding like shovels of dirt on a grave.

  “Coalition Outpost 079C, Thori.” Keene turned to Catarina, whose hands were already above her head.

  “Looks like you can’t save me this time,” she said.

  “We can run.”

  She shook her head and gave him a sarcastic smile. “I don’t think that’s an option.”

  The air filled with shouts and dust from a flurry of boots hurrying out to pick up the most notorious space pirate in the galaxy. Felled by a lowly gatekeeper’s trickery and desire to collect a massive bounty.

  Keene reached for his weapon, and a loud bang tore through the air. His dropped his own gun and screamed in pain, looking at the wound. A round hole and lots of torn flesh.

  The commanding officer came into view, carrying a still smoking pistol—one that fired actual bullets, like his own—after Keene and his crew were in cuffs and knee deep in the ashen turf.

  “So,” she said. “You’re Kip Keene.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I guess that depends,” she said, offering her hand. “I’ve been known to make deals.”

  “No.”

  “Very well.” She whistled, and Keene and his compatriots were hauled away, into the immaculate building.

  “Mr. Dash,” the woman said. “I understand that Mr. Keene has no affinity for deals. What about yourself?”

  “I’m with him to the end.” Derek placed his feet up on the table, the only piece of furniture present in the room other than two chairs. “But you.” His voice dropped a half octave, gaining a honey-coated edge. “You and I…”

  The woman gave him a matter-of-fact smile. “Mr. Dash.”

  “Miss?”

  “Fox,” the woman said. “You can just call me Fox.”

  “Appropriate.”

  “I’m aware of your tendencies from your file, Mr. Dash.”

  “What tendencies might those be?”

  “Your womanizing tendencies. Imagine our surprise, then, when our imagers picked up this two months ago in the Ragnarok system.” Fox placed a tablet before Derek and tapped the screen. A projected hologram played out on the table, showing him and Lorelei, hand-in-hand, sharing a drink in a backwater tavern.

  “You don’t touch her.”

  “This is not a threat, Mr. Dash. Rather, consider it an opportunity. An opportunity to do the right thing.”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “No need for that.” Fox strode over and took the tablet away, tucking it beneath her slender arm. “We can trade. You know where a rather notorious criminal is located.”

  “Why would you trade if you already have Keene?”

  “Mr. Keene and yourself, while irritants, are not murderers. More theater than danger.” She crossed her arms. “But Jack the Diamond is a man of tremendous evil and destruction.” She walked over to the door. “Think about it.”

  “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “You tell us where he is,” Fox said. “And we set you free. With one caveat.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re put into cryogenic exile.”

  “That’s a death sentence.”

  “Mr. Dash,” Fox said. “You are already sentenced to die for your crimes. Privateering is a capital offense. A guaranteed one.”

  Derek rubbed his eyes. “Can I think about it?”

  “I believe you already have. An answer, Mr. Dash.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  And Derek told her where to find Jack the Diamond. When he’d finished, Fox nodded and came over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “There is one final thing.” She extracted a sharp blade from her belt and extended it with a quick snap of the wrist. “A Coalition policy of which I am not fond. It is barbaric. Inefficient.”

  “What?” It was the first time during the interrogation that Derek had felt fear. Uncertainty. Knowing your fate—execution—is one matter, but the prospect of torture or some other mysterious punishment was another entirely.

  He shifted in his seat.

  “Only one deal may be struck of the sort that you just made. Should you be fortunate enough to be found and unfrozen, your current crimes are forgiven. However, should you commit further crimes thereafter, you will be executed without trial when your arresting officers see this.”

  “See what?”

  Fox answered with a grimace and then, in a swift, well-practiced motion, brought the knife down on Derek’s right pinky, severing it from his hand.

  “See that you have already made a deal with us once before.”

  “Be careful with him, now.” Fox surveyed the team of Coalition soldiers situating Keene’s body inside the cryopod. The Captain had been irritatingly insubordinate, and as such had been sedated. It wasn’t unusual, having to do this with prisoners. What was curious was his level of animosity for Mr. Dash, calling him a traitor and a treasonous wretch, amongst the nicer terms he’d heaved before succumbing to slumber. His clothes had to be removed in order to repair the bullet wound—fixing the shoulder, antibiotics to combat infection jammed into his thigh. A sedative in his other thigh. Time was short, and there was none to redress him.

  The men strapped Keene’s naked body into the cryopod and began to lower the hood.

  Fox waved them off, stepping forward.

  “Is it on?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “I’d like to record a message.”

  “Ma’am?” The soldier looked at her, eyebrows furrowed. But after a second he shrugged and complied with the order.

  “Everything that has been will be again, Mr. Keene. We shall meet again.”

  Fox pressed a button on the nearby console, and the lid to Keene’s cryopod creaked shut. She turned around to survey the others. They, too, were sealed shut. Her team had vacated the ship, a small merchant-class vessel with a number of illegal after-market upgrades.

  She smiled. Not bad for a bandit. If only she could do more.

  But the rules were the rules, and the law was the law. Hopefully physics, time and this small craft would be kind to Mr. Keene and his compatriots.

  Fox walked into the hallway and down the lowered walkway, clutching her coat tight against her torso as the cold winds whipped ash in her face. She nodded to the commander after she was a safe distance away from the liftoff zone.

  “Send her off.”

  The man pressed
a button and, with that, The Blue Maybelle’s remote autopilot engaged, the ship winking out of sight shortly thereafter.

  20 | Guardian Angel

  Keene woke with a heaving start, his eyelids flinging open at rocket speed. His body shot upright, straighter than if he was in the captain’s chair of The Blue Maybelle. His brain was sharp enough to be a buzz saw, so alert were his senses. The sensation was not uncomfortable, but unusual, having been roused from a semi-dormant state into immediate super consciousness.

  Then he slumped back flat on the table, the sudden burst of energy dissipating as quickly as it had surged through his veins. He stared at the ceiling, the masonry so tight that you couldn’t slip two sheets of paper between the stonework. Incan?

  “This device saved your life.” A woman’s voice came from the shadows of the room. Despite Keene’s heightened vision, she was only a shade, an idea, her words the only tangible thing about her.

  He rolled his head to the side, and saw his ankle bracelet—cut into three neat pieces—lying on a silver tray table. He appreciated the circular nature of the situation—the anklet had gotten him into danger, and now had saved him.

  “My heart.” To Keene, it felt as if the poor thing were trying to run away, straight out of his chest, in some sort of hurry to escape a psychotic killer or elope with a mysterious lover in an exotic locale.

  “Adrenaline.”

  What a voice it was. Like that of an angel, or what Keene imagined an angel or goddess to be. Feminine, but with a hardened, worldly edge, the type that gave men chills, for it signified real courage, hard won, not just empty bravado.

  Or it could’ve been that Keene, his torso still stinging, suspected that this was the afterlife.

  “Am I—?”

  “Dead?”

  “Well, no, not—”

  “Do not backtrack so fast, Mr. Keene.”

  “How do you—”

  “So many questions,” the woman said. She stepped out of the dim light to reveal herself, short, slender, agile in her movement. The white tail of her red dress trailed along the stones, but didn’t pick up any dirt along the way. Her hair, like the dress, was a bright, brilliant red. Its color made for a remarkable contrast against her fair skin. “But what of your friends?”

  “You.”

  “Me.”

  “But how?” Keene tried to get up. Despite the mixture of emotions and drugs churning in his chest, he was only able to rise a few inches before hitting the hard table.

  “I would be careful.”

  “It’s your fault I’m here.”

  “I suppose you could consider it that way, yes.” The woman paced about the room, the dress rippling as the fabric worked its way across the cracks and bumps in the stone floor. “But you should be more concerned about your friends.”

  “My friends?” Keene blinked. The pain in his stomach was now becoming a searing sensation, as if someone had branded him. He grunted and tried to ignore it, but his thoughts clouded, and it was the only thing that mattered. His friends. The pain. His friends. The pain.

  It was no use.

  “They have been captured. I cannot save them. Only you.”

  The woman grabbed a hypodermic needle from the table. “This will grant you one hour.” She pressed the plunger to test it, and a little clear liquid squirted out, spraying the floor. Keene cringed and tried to turn away. His muscles failed him.

  He screamed.

  “Maybe two.” She smiled. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Keene.”

  “How romantic.” The words came out between frantic pants.

  “Ever adversarial.”

  “You shot me.”

  “Not this time.”

  “The last time,” Keene said, and let loose a gasp of pain. He looked over. She held a stem-cell pen in her hand. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “From your apartment, Mr. Keene.”

  “You’ve been watching me?”

  “You are important.”

  “How am I—”

  She jabbed the needle into his torso, right into the heart of the gunshot wound. A terrible sound emerged from Keene’s lips, but he soon quieted it of his own accord, on account that the awful burning was replaced by a warmth, like waves washing over a sunny shore.

  He smiled as the feeling permeated his body, leaving him not numb, but pleasantly entranced. She tossed the hypodermic needle on the floor and walked across the small, ruined room. For the first time, Keene noticed the sunlight streaming in from above. There were many cracks in the ancient stonework, all the gaps no longer perfect.

  “What’s that,” he said, his lips heavy when she returned bearing another medical syringe.

  “So you can save your friends.”

  As the needle went in and the room began to spin, Keene asked, “Fox?”

  “Yes, Mr. Keene?”

  “You should relax more.”

  “I will consider that when we meet again.”

  Then the room went black, the last image to hit Keene’s retinas a lengthy dress walking out the door, the white tail shining like some sort of star in a haze-filled sky.

  When Keene awoke some fifteen minutes later, the sensation of absolute euphoria had subsided, replaced by a Teflon sort of painless determination. His mind operated at a heightened state, and his physical abilities also were enhanced.

  Keene touched his torso, and found that his wound had been tended to quite well.

  Strangely, as he stood, his neural implants whirred to life, the heads up display interface coming online before his eyes. He blinked, to make sure it wasn’t a side effect of the drug cocktail or traumatic shooting he had just endured.

  But when he opened his eyes again, the heads-up-display was still there, the diagnostic check running down the series of modifications Keene had sprung for. A language translation implant. Thermal imaging, which had been good for avoiding ambushes in the expanses of deep space.

  Plus a map had been downloaded into his neural cortex, which showed a direct pathway to the Last City’s secret entrance, as if it was the route to the nearest Marriot.

  Whoever Fox was—and whatever her plan might be—Keene didn’t have much time for contemplation.

  He closed his eyes and focused on shutting down the system, as he’d been taught when it’d been installed all those years ago. The heads-up-display disappeared, leaving his vision once again unmodified and unimpeded by useless diagnostics. He didn’t need to know it was ninety-nine degrees to understand that it was hotter than hell.

  Something beeped on a nearby table. He walked over to the standing medical tray and looked at the instruments. A bloodied bullet sat in a metal dish next to a crimson stained scalpel. A roll of medical tape and surgical gauze were next to them. And a little grenade shaped object that Keene recognized as an emergency vaccinator, to cure a large room of infected people at once during the outbreak of contagious diseases.

  It must have been from his apartment, too. Could come in handy.

  He pocketed it.

  There was one final object on the table. A watch with a two line note next to it.

  One hour, Kip Keene.

  All that has been will be again.

  The time ticked down second-by-second.

  He grabbed the stainless steel band and slipped it on to his wrist before rushing out the door, into the leafy jungle and whatever was to await him next.

  21 | Prison

  Strike awoke with a start. She was immediately seized by a coughing fit. What a mistake lifting that package off of Ruslan had been. Her head pounded and swam. She dry heaved. Cocaine withdrawal at a time like this. If only she hadn’t been snorting rails all week chasing her own tail with leads and half-cocked ideas that led nowhere.

  If only that son of a bitch Keene had told her about this deranged woman in
the first place.

  Then again, she hadn’t been forthcoming with all the details on her end, either.

  Strike shivered, despite the unbearable heat.

  And to top it all off, the back of her skull had a large knot on it. Whoever had taken her away had given her a good crack, snuck right up on the group. Not that it was that hard, them being tied to a tree, gift-wrapped for any psycho jungle kidnappers to whisk away.

  The only thing that had registered before the blow was the smell. Hideous, like she was being mugged by a trash bag of animal carcasses.

  She reached into the inky blackness, but felt nothing but emptiness. Her eyes were wide open, but the darkness was so total as to make her consider whether or not she’d gone blind from head trauma.

  Just as the thought began to gnaw at the corners of her mind, a faint shape moved in the shadows.

  “Hello?” Strike’s fists balled up as she brought them in front of her face. Cell mates were something new. Not that she’d be landing any jabs in this type of light. But the illusion of control was something, and her breathing slowed. “Show yourself, asshole.”

  “Hard in this light.”

  The voice lilted across the darkness, like it was carried on magic carpets and clouds.

  “Derek? Jesus, I thought you—”

  “Were here to kill you?”

  Strike smelled the faintest wisp of rustic aftershave—cedar, sandalwood, the type they sold in men’s magazines.

  “I figured you were dead,” Strike said. “But ghosts don’t smell good.” A sudden, sharp throbbing reminded her of the knock to the head and her lack of drugs.

  She’d chalk up acting like a ditsy teenager to that.

  “Hey,” Lorelei said. “Focus.”

  The voice made Strike’s heart leap, and she let out a little gasp.

  “Christ, doesn’t anyone announce themselves?”

  A thin flame sprang up from the corner. It might as well have been a searchlight given the circumstances. Strike’s eyelids rocketed shut, and it was only after a minute that she was able to squeeze one open, squinting through burning tears.