Selling Out: A Galactic Empire Space Opera Series (Mercenary Warfare Book 1)

by Zen DiPietro

  SELLING OUT

  MERCENARY WARFARE BOOK 1

  ZEN DIPIETRO

  PARALLEL WORLDS PRESS

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dragonfire Station Universe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Message from the author

  About the Author

  COPYRIGHT

  SELLING OUT (MERCENARY WARFARE BOOK 1, A DRAGONFIRE STATION SERIES)

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 BY ZEN DIPIETRO

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without express written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations for the purpose of review.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  ISBN: 978-1-943931-10-1(ebook)

  978-1-943931-11-8 (paperback)

  Cover Art by Alexander Chau

  Published in the United States of America by Parallel Worlds Press

  DRAGONFIRE STATION UNIVERSE

  Dragonfire Station Book 1: Translucid

  Dragonfire Station Book 2:Fragments

  Dragonfire Station Book 3:Coalescence

  Intersections (Dragonfire Station Short Stories)

  Selling Out (Mercenary Warfare, Book 1)

  Blood Money (Mercenary Warfare, Book 2)

  To be among the first to hear about new releases, sign up for Zen’s newsletter.

  1

  Cabot reflected on his financial position as he dusted a hand-carved chessboard at the front of his store. His accounts continued to accumulate, resulting in higher and higher numbers. More than he’d ever had before.

  War was good for business.

  Not that the PAC was in a war. Technically. Yet. But over the past five months, the Barony Coalition had grown increasingly bold, going from minor transgressions against their treaty with the Planetary Alliance Cooperative to outright incursions on PAC planets. Nothing that amounted to much more than inconvenience and annoyance, but more than enough to foretell political upheaval. Cabot suspected he was watching the opening salvos of a cold war.

  Day-to-day life on Dragonfire Station had remained largely the same, in spite of significant internal restructuring within the ranks. Cabot hadn’t noticed a shift in buying habits of the station’s residents, and his shop remained busy.

  It felt like the calm before the storm, and few people even realized it.

  The station’s chief of security, Arin Triss, entered the shop, interrupting Cabot’s grim thoughts. The handsome Atalan had been promoted from legate to chief when Fallon found herself too occupied with internal affairs to see to the daily duties of being security chief. Along with that position, he’d taken over her place as the second in command of the station.

  Arin made a fine chief. He was well-liked, and a conscientious officer. But Fallon had earned her place as chief before him, and everyone on Dragonfire still used that title for her. Easygoing Arin didn’t mind sharing the title one bit. He continued to work with Fallon to ensure the station’s safety, though she now focused the majority of her efforts on the PAC’s BlackOps affairs.

  Not that Cabot knew about any of that. He was just a trader, after all. There was absolutely no reason for him to know about her life in clandestine operations. Not about her branch of PAC intelligence, known as Blackout, and not about her four-person team, called Avian Unit.

  Nope. All that was beyond a simple shopkeep like him.

  Cabot finished dusting the final chess piece and tucked the polishing cloth in his pocket.

  “Morning, Chief Triss.” Cabot gave him a proper bow of respect, as befitted a PAC officer. “Can I show you some Bennite sculpture today? Or I just got in a shipment of click-clack games from Blackthorn Station. They’re all the rage there.” As he spoke, Cabot crossed to the back of the store, pulled one of the handheld games from the shipping container behind the counter, and met Arin in the middle of the shop. He held the game out invitingly.

  “I’m just making my daily rounds. Thought I’d say hello.” Arin’s tone was dismissive, but his eyes had already snagged on the game. He accepted it and turned it over, causing the game to make a clicking noise.

  Rule of Sales Number 1: Most people feel obligated to take an item offered to them.

  Rule of Sales Number 2: Once a customer has an item in hand, they subconsciously begin to think of it as theirs.

  The game was deceptively simple—a person only needed to tilt it to activate or deactivate magnets inside, causing the pieces to shift. The goal was to get the marble into the slot at the bottom, but success was much more difficult than it looked. The little games had become quite a fad, probably because they were so different from the variety of digital comport games that people had become accustomed to. The physical weight of the game and the clicking noise of the magnets were highly appealing.

  “I’ve almost got it,” Arin said as he tilted the game this way and that.

  He really didn’t, but Cabot wasn’t going to point that out. “Yes, you’re a natural.”

  Rule of Sales Number 3: Always compliment the customer’s taste, talent, or business acumen.

  “How much is it?” Arin asked, his eyes still on the toy.

  “Ten cubics, but if you promise to direct people who ask about it my way, let’s call it a gift.”

  Arin smiled. “Word of mouth is priceless, right? But I’m afraid I can’t. It might look like improper gifting between officers and tenants. I’ll pay the ten cubics, but if anyone asks me about it, I’ll tell them where I bought it.”

  Cabot had known Arin wouldn’t accept it as a gift. He’d also known that the idea of passing Cabot’s name along would be planted in Arin’s mind, all the same.

  Cabot didn’t need click-clack games or other trinkets. Business was the only game he needed.

  He provided an infoboard and Arin transferred the cubics before slipping the game into his weapons belt, right next to his stinger. Cabot found it amusing for a game to be stored alongside a sidearm.

  “Everything been okay for you down here?” Arin asked as he wandered slowly around the store, noting a new painting here or an ornate walking stick there.

  “No issues, Chief. So far, the tension hasn’t caused any trouble here on the boardwalk.”

  Cabot’s shop was on Deck One, adjacent to the docking bays and alongside other stores and a wide variety of restaurants. A prime location for coming, going, and socializing, the boardwalk made for a great place to people-watch. It served as a major part of the social scene for people who lived on Dragonfire.

  “Good to hear. If you notice anything, even if it’s just a feeling, let me know, okay?” Arin looked too tense these days. Normally he wore a perpetual smile, but not in the past couple of months. Maybe the click-clack game would ease a little of his stress.

  “Count on it. First rumble of anything odd, you’ll b
e the first to know.”

  “Thanks, Cabot.” Arin gave him the small, polite bow of a PAC officer to a non-officer subordinate.

  Cabot returned the gesture. Such attention to cultural detail and manners was the cornerstone of running a business so closely associated with the PAC.

  After seeing Arin out, Cabot leaned one hip against the doorway of his shop and gazed out onto the concourse. Was it slightly busier than usual on the boardwalk, or was he just scrutinizing too hard?

  Young Nixabrin Maringo strode into view, looking mature and no-nonsense. Just months before, she had twirled around the boardwalk at the Solar Festival, wearing a pair of feathery wings. The young teenager had curbed many of her youthful ways when she began an internship with the security department in conjunction with her schooling. She was determined to prove herself to Fallon and Arin, as well as her parents, who were not enthusiastic about their daughter becoming a security officer.

  When Nix noticed him, her stern expression morphed into a broad smile and twinkling eyes. Every day, she seemed to grow a little bit more into the beautiful woman that, as an Atalan, she was born to be.

  “Hi, Mr. Layne. What’s new?”

  “Nothing much. Business as usual, for the most part. Except I did get a shipment of these.” He pulled a click-clack game from his pocket and held it out to her.

  Her no-nonsense posture disappeared and she jittered with the excitement of a young colt. “Ooh, I’ve seen these on the voicecom, but not in person yet!” She twisted it, rather than giving it the gentle tilt it needed.

  “Like this.” He briefly placed his hand over hers to demonstrate the slight movement.

  “Oh, I see. Tiny adjustments. This is harder than it looks.”

  “All the best things in life are.”

  She gave him a shrewd look, showing a hint of true maturity rather than the trying-too-hard variety he’d seen from her of late.

  “I met the captain the other day, doing a rotation in ops control,” she abruptly announced.

  “Oh?”

  “I never knew her very well. She always seemed kind of a—” Nix caught herself and changed her wording choice, “—a kill-joy.” She squared her shoulders and forged on. “But she seemed different the other day. She smiled and even talked to me, giving me some helpful information on tactical plans. It was weird, but kind of nice, you know?”

  “I imagine it was exciting for you to see ops control and talk to the captain.”

  “Yes. But I was thinking… Maybe the way she was before, maybe it was because being in charge is hard. Harder than it looks.”

  Cabot smiled. Aha, there was her point. Yes, Nix was growing up and probably observing a lot more than the people teaching her realized.

  “I’d say you’re exactly right,” he agreed.

  She extended the game toward him. “I should get going. I still have a few errands, then I need to grab a quick lunch and finish the second half of the day in school.”

  He waved away the game. “You keep it. I hear those things are a good stress reliever. You might need it, with your busy new schedule.”

  A tiny frown formed. “But I should pay for it. This is your business.”

  “It’s advertising. Make sure you show it to your friends and send them down here to get their own.”

  Her uncertainty disappeared. “Aha, so you’re just trying to sell more games.” She grinned at him.

  “You got me.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you later then.” She started to scurry off, then remembered herself and squared her shoulders, striding off purposefully.

  Cabot chuckled and shook his head as he watched her march out of view.

  He was middle-aged, for a Rescan, but her boundless energy made him feel older. The long brown hair he wore in a neat ponytail had started to show some strands of silver. He vividly remembered being her age, though. So much that it seemed impossible for so many years to have gone by.

  He’d had the luxury of growing up in far simpler times.

  ***

  Cabot had only just returned to the counter of his shop when the voicecom indicated an incoming message. He didn’t always answer such calls, often preferring to listen to a playback so that he could better prepare for a conversation.

  But it was Fallon calling, not some business associate. She didn’t bother with polite bows or smiles or inquiries about his health. They knew each other well enough to dispense with all that frivolity.

  “What can I do for you, Chief?”

  “Cabot, could you please meet me in my quarters? I need to discuss something with you.”

  If she was inviting him to her personal quarters, it must be quite a discussion, indeed. His feeling of dread was only tempered by his tremendous curiosity.

  “Of course,” he answered smoothly, letting none of his concern show. That was the trick to inspiring trust: always show confidence, always appear to be ready for anything.

  He nodded politely before closing the voicecom channel.

  Cabot’s relationship with Fallon was unlike any he’d experienced. Though they’d never socialized, he’d worked with her under high-stakes and high-stress circumstances, and as far as he was concerned, that was the truest way to know a person. Fallon was cunning, professional, and ruthless when necessary.

  Which, of course, he respected immensely.

  She was also far more than an average officer with the rank of commander. Officially, she and her team of intelligence personnel had taken up permanent residence on Dragonfire Station because it was one of the most important strategic installations in this sector of space. And because it was only practical to have a backup intelligence division to provide checks and balances.

  But unofficially, Fallon and her team did work normal citizens never heard about. The division of intelligence known as Blackout was a mere rumor to most people. During the course of assisting Fallon in her operations, Cabot had revealed some of his own unofficial connections and ability to discreetly operate in gray areas.

  He and Fallon now existed in something of a clandestine partnership of their own. She, the officer on the inside of the ugliest, grittiest realities, and he, someone who had connections in places that PAC officers could not go.

  It was an entirely off-the-books partnership, which pleased him. However, it was also a high-risk one, which did not. He’d known that, eventually, Fallon would ask something of him he wouldn’t want to provide.

  Cabot’s nose for business never failed him, and his nose told him today was that day.

  He sat for a moment, wondering what Fallon wanted. Despite his respect for her, and even a secret fondness, he would approach the meeting as he would any other. Business was business.

  When he locked up his store and strode down the corridor, it was with the determination of a soldier marching into war.

  2

  Cabot eased into Fallon’s quarters with a casual air, but he noted every detail that had changed from the last—and only—time he’d been there.

  Fallon still shared the two-bedroom suite with one of her teammates, but appearances indicated that teammate was no longer Peregrine. Cabot suspected Fallon and Raptor had begun a domestic living situation. He’d never mention his observation to anyone, but information was always valuable. He hoarded it like the Briveen hoarded Brivinium. Personal facts like that could eventually provide nuance to some scenario, allowing a much greater understanding of events.

  It paid to be observant.

  Fallon gestured at the living area, allowing Cabot to select his seat. She settled into a padded armchair with a relaxed grace that whispered of restrained lethalness. At least to him, it did. She was charismatic and genuinely good, but she had it in her to do things few people could. Cabot respected that.

  “How’s business?” She leaned back against the chair.

  “Nothing to complain about.” He ran an idle thumb along the seam of his chair. “But did you really invite me here to talk about my work?”

  Her ey
es sparked with amusement, though the rest of her face remained impassive. “I did, actually. I have a business proposition for you.”

  Those were, perhaps, his favorite words. But he said only, “Oh?”

  “A job, more specifically. I want you to take on a mission for me.”

  Suddenly the conversation seemed to be more about her work than his.

  “I doubt I’m the right person for that sort of thing. I’m a trader, not an operative.” It was the closest he’d ever come to saying aloud what she actually did.

  Likewise, she refrained from asking him details about the gray areas of his own work. What they did not know about each other wouldn’t harm them and would allow them to benefit from their association.

  Fallon did not seem perturbed by his lack of enthusiasm. “A trader is exactly what I need.”

  His nose itched, sensing a potentially bountiful payout. Outwardly, he maintained his doubtful attitude.

  Rule of Sales Number 4: Never appear eager.

  “What do you propose?” he asked.

  “Something you’re uniquely qualified to do. I want you to broker a deal between Briv and the PAC government.”

  He’d been prepared for any number of scenarios, but not this. “I’m no ambassador, and I’m certainly not a diplomat.”

  “Exactly. You can cut through all of the pomp and ceremony, approaching them on a purely business level. You know how involved Briveen rituals are, and you’re impeccably versed in them. Diplomatic endeavors take weeks. Trade negotiations are, of necessity, a more expedient matter. You can get the result we need in far less time.”