The Predator and The Prey

by K. C. Sivils

  I picked up a worn menu from the booth's table. The seat was comfortable and not too lumpy from the years of use. I ran my hand over the red, faux leather and looked at my fingers, noting nothing nasty had stuck to them. The same was true for the table's surface. Another glance at the brown colored plastisteel walls indicated the place was not too dirty. It was just worn and darkly lit.

  A waitress approached, dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt. She looked tired and none too happy about my arrival. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She could have been pretty if she put on a little makeup and didn't have rings under her eyes. Her nose had been broken too and should have been set. Crooked teeth drew attention to her thin lips. My right eye caught a slight scar on her lower left lip.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Yeah. A cheeseburger. Fries. Large coke.”

  She laughed. “I didn’t figure you for a teetotaler.”

  “Don’t always judge people when you first see them. By the way, the two tough guys at the bar entrance, beers on me, okay. And there was a cabbie who brought me here. Beer for him too. Put’em on my tab.”

  “Ralph brought you here? Joe’s not going to like that. You showin’ up his guys and all.”

  I shrugged and looked away. She got the message and left to place my order.

  I sat quietly, minding my own business, checking out the joint. Lots of other interesting images and artifacts displayed on the walls. Early starliners and space freighters were another common item. Famous places from old Earth cities like New Orleans, Houston, Paris, London, Berlin, even Moscow.

  The sound of a glass hitting the table brought my attention back to my immediate surroundings. Sitting down on the other side of the booth was a man of average height and build with mouse brown hair slicked back. He was clean-shaven and smelled of decent cologne. I glanced at his hands and saw the scars and reddish skin of hands that had worked long hours in a kitchen. His clothes were nothing special, khaki work pants and a black shirt.

  “My name is Joe,” he said flatly.

  “You own the place.”

  “Yeah. Who are you? I don’t like people causing trouble. Sometimes we get a few idiots in here at night, and I don't tolerate it."

  “I can understand. If they had not pushed the issue, there wouldn’t have been any trouble,” I answered before taking a sip from my ice cold Coke.

  “Who are you?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Well, enjoy your soft drink and then leave. I like to know my customers.”

  I reached into my jacket quickly, startling Joe. Slowly I withdrew my badge and handed it to him. He examined it thoroughly, so much so that he told me a few things I wanted to know and wouldn’t have to ask around to find out now.

  “I’m sorry Inspector Sullivan. All you needed to do was show your badge as soon as you entered and my boys would have taken care of you.”

  “Joe, I like your place.”

  “Thanks, I suppose.”

  "I like a place where I can eat food that tastes like it from Earth cooked it, and I can be left alone to think. Is this a place where I can do that?"

  Joe looked at me carefully, thinking before he answered my question.

  "The food here is good, the best Earth food on Beta Prime. We even get rich people slumming here in the evenings to eat. Most nights the bar is pretty calm. It can get rough around payday, but most bars are like that near the plants or mines. Whether or not you'll be left alone has more to do with you than my customers."

  “Good. Now you just have to pass the inspection.”

  “What inspection?” Joe replied, the inside of his left eyebrow turning down to indicate his irritation.

  I smiled back at him to needle him a little bit as the waitress set my food down in front of me.

  “If your food is as good as you claim it is.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I CHECKED INTO A DECENT enough hotel after I finished eating. Decent enough they didn’t charge by the hour. Joe was right. The food was good. Good enough I might try to find a place to stay within walking distance. The neighborhood wasn't bad, but it was just rough enough that people knew to mind their own business.

  I locked the door after checking the room. I don’t particularly trust electronic locks, so I moved the dresser behind the door. At least it would give me something to dive behind when the door opened.

  There was nothing on worth watching on the screen, and I was pretty certain the monitor was two way. Not feeling like being watched, I cut it off and for good measure disconnected it.

  My feet felt better somewhat when I pulled my boots off, setting them right by the side of the bed. Opening my backpack, I pulled out a few of my safety devices I had collected over the years. I decided on my electronic jamming device and set the range to cover my room and nothing more.

  I lay on my bed in my clothes and greatcoat. Next to my right hand was my trusted sidearm, a .500 caliber revolver with a laser sight, not that I needed it. By my left hand were two throwing blades I'd retrieved from my left boot. If tonight was the night they came for me, I'd take as many as I could with me.

  And so once again, I found myself in a strange place, not knowing anyone. Another hellhole of a planet crawling with criminals and corrupt officials and I’d been tapped to clean up the mess.

  Or die trying.

  Why I didn’t just hand in the badge and walk away is beyond me. I could do other things to earn my keep. The bitterness and anger I always felt when I thought like this came bubbling back to the surface. It’s not like I’m unjustified for feeling like I do.

  Six years in the Shore Patrol of the Interplanetary Alliance Space Marines. Signed up straight out of school. Bought the recruiting pitch hook, line and sinker. Even bought into all that honor and integrity stuff the Corps drills into us. I wasn’t real happy about the medical discharge.

  My unit was working crowd control in a town the Marines had just hit. Insurgents set off bombs, and I got caught in the blast. The Corp's doctors patched my face up okay, and I got a new eye and fingers for my left hand. Of course, if I'd been an officer or some rich politician's son, I wouldn't even have scars like the beaut I have on my face. I wouldn't have gotten a medical discharge either if I'd kept my mouth shut.

  The idiot Lt. leading the sweep didn't listen to me when I told him we needed to pull back and set up our road blocks at a more defensible location. Nine of us got hit that day. I was the only one who survived. Of course, the good Lt. didn't get a scratch. I filed the paperwork to have him brought up for review. It all came out at the hearing. All of it.

  The constant belittling of personnel he didn’t like. Endless bad decisions and incompetence on his part ending with getting eight of his personnel killed and me severely wounded. It all ended with my getting a medical and his getting promoted to Captain. Connections and money can cover up a lot of problems.

  I learned a lot from my mistakes in the Space Marines. Mainly, the laws that I had sworn to uphold had almost nothing to do with justice for the people I had sworn to protect. Not that the law is a bad thing mind you. See, most people, including criminals I’ve found, adhere to the law to varying degrees, just not the people who have the power and the money. The entitled believe they are above the law.

  With no other prospects and training, I joined the Interplanetary Alliance Police Force. Interplanetary Alliance. What a joke. It's the same it's always been. The wealthy and powerful rule for their benefit and the rest of us are just along to make sure our rulers have everything they want and need.

  It didn’t take me long to learn the politics of the IAPF. Didn’t like those much better than what I’d found in the Space Marines. But I like getting justice for people who need it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I DON’T LIKE MOST FIGURES of authority much even though I’m one myself. At the moment I wasn’t sure about my new chief.

  “Protocol says you report directly to me Sullivan.”

  “I n
ever read that anywhere in the regs.”

  “You shot a civilian the minute you got off the shuttle! In front of hundreds of people and then you just walked off!”

  “I shot a stoned perp holding a knife to the throat of a probably not too innocent young woman. I’m sure it’s all on the surveillance video.”

  “Have you ever heard of filing a report after a use of deadly force incident?”

  "Yes, Chief. I'm here today, and it was on my list of things to do."

  “The young woman’s father filed a complaint against you. Just wanted to let you know that Sullivan.”

  “He’s just embarrassed. Rich guy used to getting his way. Bet it was the first time he ever saw violence that wasn’t in a sports arena or on a screen.”

  “The rich guy happens to be a major stockholder in one of the biggest mines on this planet. The rich guy pays a lot of taxes that pay your salary.”

  I wasn’t impressed.

  “Rich guy got a name?”

  “Yes, his name is Spencer Deveraux. He is not someone we want to make angry.”

  “Chief, I’ll bet you my first paycheck here the perp knew Deveraux’s daughter.”

  I hit it right on the nail.

  “Turns out the dead perp was a dealer. His daughter Melanie hooked up with him during the visit. Love of her life she claims.”

  “Nah, just a way to get under daddy’s skin. Dad’s more worried about his reputation than anything else.”

  The chief just glared at me. “Since you figured that out, why did you just walk off?”

  "Because I didn't appreciate his attitude. I just saved him and his daughter a whole lot of hurt, and he gets to go off on me? Nope. Not in the regs Chief. What's more, I had just hit dirt and wanted to eat."

  “What am I going to do with you Sullivan? You can’t treat citizens like Mr. Deveraux like that! What’s more, I didn’t request you. You were forced on me.”

  I decided it was time to let the Chief know I knew the score.

  “I didn’t ask to come here, Chief. But you have a mess on your hands. Too much crime and corruption on a planet marked for massive economic development. Tourism for the snow resorts. Massive mineral deposits, favorable trade routes to get raw materials out not to mention opportunities for manufacturing. But you let things get out of hand. So I got sent in to bring order.”

  The look of pure hate the Chief shot me told me I’d hit the nail, if such things were still used, right on the head.

  "Do your job. Don't cause problems, especially with important investors and citizens. As soon as things are better, I'll see to it you get a transfer off this frozen rock."

  I stood up to leave. I’d wasted enough time.

  “Sullivan, where are you going?”

  I looked back at the Chief. “Got things to do. Perps to catch.”

  “See Captain Markeson. He’ll explain how things work around here.”

  I’d pushed the Chief enough for one meeting. He’d figure things out eventually.

  “Markeson. Right Chief.”

  As I left the Chief's office, I stopped the old sergeant at the desk where I could find Markeson's desk. She pointed me in the general direction, and that was about it for help. Walking past the desks of the detectives and inspectors, it was pretty obvious the place was not an efficient precinct. Not that I like pushing electrons around, but it's part of what a cop does, computer work.

  I did find the coffee machine. Lousy coffee, lousy even by cop standards. No wonder the cops here couldn’t function.

  Tossing the cup in the trash, I made my way over to the tiny office with Markeson’s name on the door. I knocked and stuck my head in.

  “Captain Markeson?”

  “You must be Sullivan. Have you ever heard of waiting till someone says enter?”

  I didn’t like him right away. He was a handsome man, with the refined features of a pretty boy. Not that there is anything wrong with being a pretty boy as such, the problem was he knew he was a pretty boy. His suit screamed custom tailored. Sewn from the latest synthetic material, the name of which escapes me. The dark blue material contrasted by a white dress shirt and red neck adornment. His black hair was slicked straight back, making it easy to see the diamond stud in his ear, a real diamond. Blindingly white teeth contrasted with his tan, clearly a product of chemical coloring on this frozen planet. Nobody had a tan like that from sunning themselves in the cold. His cologne was expensive but subtle. At least he had the decency not to have a kilo of gold jewelry on while he was at work.

  I sat down in the chair across from his desk without being asked to take a seat. His desk didn’t look like a Captain’s. Too neat. No paper in piles or flash drives lying about. No stains from spilled coffee and no writing styluses lying about.

  Markeson gave me a once over before speaking again.

  "You were forced on us; we didn't ask for you."

  I just shrugged in response. I didn’t bother telling him I hadn’t asked to be transferred to Beta Prime, even though I had jumped at the opportunity to take the job. I had my reasons.

  "Don't cause problems; you got it? If you can keep your nose clean, I'll help you get a transfer off this rock."

  “Why is everyone worried I’m going to do my job?”

  Markeson flinched.

  “What?”

  “Why is everyone worried I’m going to do my job?”

  “Like you did yesterday? Shooting that perp? Which reminds me, I’m going to need your side arms until after the final review of the deadly force incident.”

  I smiled as I reached into my left boot for the little .22 automatic I kept there. I unloaded it and put it on Markeson’s desk. “I’d like a receipt if you don’t mind.”

  Pretty Boy looked at the tiny pistol and back at me. “That is not the weapon you used.”

  “No, but it’s the one you’re going to hold on to until I’m cleared.”

  Markeson frowned but thought better of saying anything. He picked up his tablet and thumbed a few screens, picked on and scratched away with a stylus. He glared at me one more time for good measure while the printer spit out my receipt.

  "Look, Sullivan, acting like a tough guy is not going to go over well here. Morning roll call is at 0630. Now get out of my office."

  I left as instructed, picking up my receipt as I left. Don’t let anyone tell you I can’t take orders. One thing was for sure. Not only did I not like Pretty Boy Markeson, I didn’t trust him.

  MARKESON GLARED AT the door before picking up the small kinetic energy weapon the new Inspector had left. Whoever had sent this Sullivan was indeed no friend to his cause. He would have to be careful in dealing with the Inspector. Too much was at stake for him personally.

  With a quick, practiced motion, Markeson ran his hand through his carefully groomed hair, making certain each strand was in its place. No, there was no doubt; this Sullivan would have to go. He had come too far, invested too much time. With his goals within reach, there was no way he would allow a single individual, a single man, to stop him.

  Markeson felt the old emotions he had pushed down come flooding back, filling him with the strange combination of anger and remorse. Feelings of anger didn’t upset Markeson, in fact, he often welcomed the emotion. It fueled his efforts, allowed him to do things most men couldn't bring themselves to do.

  Remorse was something different altogether. Remorse made him weak, hesitant, too much like other men. Men who would never be anything or have what he wanted. Worse, remorse made Markeson remember how his journey had started.

  Unable to stop the memories from flooding back, Markeson thought back to the first time he’d killed a man. His own father no less. Why the old man couldn’t look past the fact he just wanted to have a good time on occasion, kick back, cut loose and blow off a little steam, was still beyond Markeson. Hard working and honest to a fault, his father just couldn’t bend, not on the slightest thing.

  Catching Markeson stoned and with a girl for the umpteenth time ha
d been the final straw for his father. He'd thrown Markeson out. That Markeson could have lived with, it was, after all, the old man's house, his rules. His father telling him he couldn't, and wouldn't, amount to anything was something Markeson could neither forgive nor tolerate.

  After living on the streets of Marlon IV for over a month, he’d decided to leave the planet to make his way in life. To do so required money. His father had come home unexpectedly, catching Markeson in the act of stealing the hard credits his parents kept hidden in the house along with his mother’s jewels.

  In a rage, he’d beaten his father to death. His only regret about the act was his father hadn’t suffered enough for the humiliation he’d inflicted on Markeson over the years. If his father had wanted to live a boring life and work hard all the time, never stopping to enjoy the things money could buy, that was his choice. Inflicting that choice on Markeson and his brother once they were of age was unacceptable.

  Hard work did bring profit to the individual willing to expend the time and effort. It was the one thing Markeson agreed upon with his father. Not enjoying the rewards of that effort in the manner of your choice was something he would never agree about. Hard work and the benefits it produced, benefits like money and power, should be exploited, for pleasure and to gain more, always, to gain more. What good was having more if you didn’t flaunt it; hold it over those who were weaker?

  What fueled Markeson's remorse was not the murder of his father, it was saying goodbye to his mother. Having committed murder, he had to flee Marlon IV, probably never to return. He had cried when he told his mother goodbye at his father's funeral. It was the last time he had ever shed tears.

  Unlike his father, Markeson’s mother had always been kind to him, accepting of his ways, the choices he’d made, even though she disagreed with how he lived his life and made him aware of that fact. Why couldn’t his father have done the same?

  Markeson shook his head in disgust with himself. No remorse. Never again would he allow himself to feel remorse for what he had done on Marlon IV. He would return one day, that much he'd promised himself. He would return as a man of great power and wealth. When he did so, Markeson vowed he would go to his father's grave. To taunt the man he'd killed, letting his father know how wrong he'd been about his oldest son.