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

by Zen DiPietro

  “Don’t forget to drop your shoulder for the attrition ritual,” he reminded Omar for the fourth time. “Every movement must be exact, with nothing added. If you tilt your head at the same time you drop the shoulder, you’re signaling sarcasm. And keep your thoughts focused. We don’t have the scent glands that the Briveen use for scent communication, but they can smell our pheromones. Never lie to them because they’ll know. Now, let’s see it again.”

  “Right.” Omar started over. His shoulder drop was too exaggerated, but at least it was there. They had been en route to Briv for four days, and, overall, his students were coming along well. There would be time to fine-tune the movements once the sequence had been memorized.

  He led them through the attrition ritual twice more. “Better. Now, I’m going to pop back up to the helm, but I want you three to remain. Take turns, starting with Arlen, performing the ritual for one another. The other two can critique and correct. Everyone takes two turns with attrition, then take two turns doing the introduction ceremony.”

  Two groans and a mutter answered him, but no one outright complained. Good enough for him.

  As he sat in the cockpit, he allowed himself a long sigh. It was difficult sometimes, projecting his customary affability. The mannerisms were so ingrained in him that usually they were instinctive, but when his nerves got raw, he had to work at maintaining his courteous pleasantness.

  Being around Nagali made his nerves raw. Her face, her voice, even her sense of humor were like picking at a half-healed burn from a laser torch: satisfying, painful, and irresistible all at once.

  So far she’d been nothing but pleasant. She ignored Cabot’s wariness and Arlen’s barely masked distaste. She smiled, she joked, and in doing so, she wove that spell that only Nagali Freeborn could weave. The spell that could make the sharpest of businesspeople take a tiny misstep. Just enough of one for Nagali to exploit.

  She was one of a kind, that woman.

  Thank Prelin, he reminded himself as he checked through his messages at the voicecom. The universe isn’t big enough for more than one.

  As soon as the Outlaw had gotten underway, he’d carefully inspected every bit of cargo Omar and Nagali had brought aboard. He’d been so sure he’d find something amiss that he’d been slightly let down when he confirmed that all cargo was within PAC regulations.

  Nagali’s failure to break the rules made him wonder what she was up to.

  He detected no ships in their vicinity, and the Outlaw continued to burn along according to plan. In three days, they would dock at Blackthorn Station for some scheduled maintenance that would get them on their way again within twelve hours. Hopefully less.

  He wondered what it was like to be able to arrange such a thing. Sometimes he wished he knew more about Fallon and Blackout, PAC intelligence, and PAC command in general. Then he came to his senses and remembered that he didn’t want to know. Life was simpler and safer if he didn’t.

  After indulging in a long sigh and a big stretch that started at his lower back and went all the way up through his fingertips, he sat up again and scanned the ISO market listings. He made some of his biggest profits on such transactions, providing something in his inventory to someone who had a specific need for it. Much of the goods in his storage were intended for just this purpose.

  Nagali had always admired his ability to anticipate market changes and the increasing value of items. His skill had combined handsomely with her charisma and smooth talking. The woman could fill a whole room with the brightness of her enthusiasm. She could make a bad deal sound like an irresistible opportunity. Plus, she was brilliant with numbers. They’d made a good team, back in the day.

  Until she’d left him on the receiving end of a lot of righteous anger for her misdeeds.

  He shook his head and forced her out of his thoughts. He’d traveled this same mental path too many times over the past few days. The nostalgia was no more welcome to him than her presence on his ship. Fallon’s ship.

  By the time Arlen relieved him, he’d immersed himself into his financials and the marketplace.

  “Anything interesting going on?” she asked as she waited for him to vacate the pilot’s chair at the helm.

  “Luxury purchases continue to represent a decreasing share of the market. Bulk purchases of commodities continue to rise.”

  She frowned. “People are getting more and more nervous about the state of the PAC. Barony’s incursions will destabilize the economy if they continue.”

  “Yes. It doesn’t take long for the price of a staple item to rise so high that the people who produce it can’t afford to consume it. If we get to that point, we’ll have many planets thrown into chaos.”

  “Do you think we will? Get to that point, I mean.”

  He wanted to say no. The PAC had been a stabilizing force for hundreds of years. Until recent events, it had worked diligently at adding more planets to the alliance, which worked for the collective good of all the allies. Sure, the process hadn’t been seamless, or fast, but there were reasons for that, and efforts continued to combat those problems.

  But the idea of the PAC fracturing felt surreal. The galaxy was supposed to move toward greater civility, to cooperative behavior, for the greater good of all. For Prelin’s sake, the word “cooperative” was built right in to the PAC name. For one entity to halt all that progress and force the galaxy backward into divisiveness felt impossible.

  But it wasn’t. Greed, once it got a foothold, could destroy anything.

  “I can only hope things won’t go that far.” He switched places with her, leaving him standing over her shoulder.

  “We haven’t gotten to the point of no return.” Her voice held a note of cautious optimism, but wasn’t quite convincing.

  She’d never said as much, but he now realized that she saw war ahead, regardless of the outcome of this mission. His sadness at this epiphany surprised him. If the young couldn’t be optimistic, where did that leave the rest of them?

  Every time he went to sleep, he worried that each passing day pulled them closer to a tremendous fall. That the PAC had reached its height and, like many great civilizations before it, would come crashing down. He wondered if the ancient Viseeans or Earth’s Roman Empire had foreseen their demise.

  Eight years ago, he would have found it all largely academic. Perhaps even interesting, since war can be a tremendous business opportunity. But he belonged somewhere now, and that somewhere—Dragonfire—was at great risk if it all went bad. Along with all the people on it.

  He took a breath, finding himself in the unfamiliar position of morale booster. “I can’t put faith into faceless organizations, but I know some of the people fighting for us. If there’s anyone we can believe in, it’s Fallon and the rest of her team. You’ve seen some of what they can do. I’ve seen even more. And even that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the things I know they’ve accomplished—though I have no proof of it. Barony is, at its heart, a giant corporation. They can’t possibly have anyone who can touch people like Hawk, Peregrine, Raptor, and Fallon.”

  “Or Captain Nevitt.” Arlen’s lips curved into a smile. “She’s become a lot more personable, but she can scare the pants off me just with a look. You know the one.” She arched an eyebrow and attempted Hesta Nevitt’s regal disdain.

  “Oh yes. I know it well.”

  He wasn’t sure if he’d given her any real comfort, but at least he’d provided her with something to think about. Maybe it would be enough. For now, at least.

  “I think I’ll go eat dinner, then get some rest.” He leaned slightly toward and murmured, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but teaching Omar anything is positively exhausting.”

  As he’d hoped, she chuckled. Omar was learning just as well as the other two, but he and Cabot had a long habit of teasing one another. One of Omar’s best qualities was his willingness to be the butt of a joke. He was a good guy. Cabot regretted that they hadn’t remained closer since he and Nagali split up. It was h
is own fault, he knew. Deep down, he’d always worried that seeing Omar could lead to Nagali’s presence in his life. And even deeper down, he’d worried that if she were a part of his life, he might end up excusing her behavior.

  He walked slowly through the Outlaw, admiring its sleek surfaces and pleasing aesthetics. Only someone who truly loved a ship made sure it was maintained so meticulously.

  In the tiny mess hall, he tossed a pre-made packet of Rescan spiced noodles into the heat-exchange and waited. He carried the hot dish to a table, then peeled back the covering. Steam and the delectable savory aroma of butter and spices assailed him. It was a smell of home. Not exactly like his mother would have made, but darn close.

  “Oh.”

  Nagali’s leathery voice would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even one syllable put his nerves on edge.

  “I didn’t expect to find you here.” She sidled in along the wall, keeping as far from him as she could. “I’ll just heat up some food and take it back to my quarters.”

  He should tell her it was fine. That it was silly for them to avoid one another. That she should just sit.

  He didn’t.

  When she slid the container out of the heat-ex, she gave him a small, sad smile. He could tell she wanted to say something, but she held it in. She lifted one shoulder slightly, then left the mess hall.

  It didn’t make him feel bad. Nope, not a bit. He was far beyond having any sympathy for Nagali. He’d had eight years to practice not caring about her.

  He’d be glad when this job was done. He would return to Dragonfire, and she would return to being a distant memory.

  ***

  “No, Nagali. In the gratitude ritual, you must drop your eyes when you bow.” Three hours into another lesson on Briveen etiquette, Cabot was tired.

  “But you said it’s insulting to not maintain eye contact. That it implies I think they’re too weak to be a threat to me.”

  “Not in the gratitude ritual. By the time you get to it, you’ve already established that you see the Briveen as a worthy adversary. So to show deference, you look down, making yourself vulnerable.”

  Nagali repeated the motion, correctly this time.

  “Good. Now the entire thing, from the beginning.”

  They were all doing well at learning. Much better than that pair of human traders he’d once guided through some basic Briveen learning. That had been a frustrating ordeal. But he’d helped Arlen out of a tight spot, and it had upgraded their cordial business relationship to a friendship.

  Fortunately, she, Omar, and Nagali were far smarter than those dullards.

  That still didn’t make this a fun process. As they neared Blackthorn Station, Cabot looked forward to the twelve-hour reprieve. Sure, it would be only twelve hours, but a dozen hours without a single Briveen bow, head tilt, elbow lift, or shoulder drop sounded like paradise.

  They’d all agreed that they’d use the time on Blackthorn as a sort of shore leave. As much as Cabot enjoyed Arlen and Omar, the tight confines of space travel could make it hard to stay pleasant. He anticipated no real difficulties, given that their trip would take only two weeks. But a break from one another would only ensure their continued mutual admiration.

  Nagali continued to avoid him, casting him sad looks whenever she had to reverse course.

  Not his problem. From what she’d said so far, she’d probably remain on Briv when he and the others left, and that was fine with him.

  More than fine.

  Setting foot on Blackthorn was a breath of fresh air. Technically, it was no fresher than any other recirculated air from a closed system, but the change of pace was welcome.

  Blackthorn had several things in common with Dragonfire. They shared a similar shape and layout, with five decks that started at the bottom with the docking bays and moving upward in both number and location. Deck Five housed the crew quarters, and therefore visitors like Cabot didn’t have access. He’d remain on Deck One for the entirety of his brief visit.

  This station had its differences too. In size, it was almost double that of Dragonfire. As far as PAC space stations went, the people-housing capacity of Blackthorn was second only to Jamestown—the location of headquarters.

  Most of the PAC didn’t realize that Jamestown had been briefly out of commission a few months ago. After scuttling the station for security reasons, the highest of the high and PAC command had passed off the repair efforts as a scheduled renovation. Many engineers and mechanics had been drafted into the project, with Dragonfire’s own Wren Orritz right there at the head of the repair efforts.

  All of that ridiculousness had been handled, but the fallout remained in the form of Barony’s little potshots. They knew at least some of how tenuous things had become at PAC command, and it had emboldened them.

  Without all of that, Cabot wouldn’t even be on Blackthorn, must less be headed toward Briv to do his best at being a diplomat. Or maybe it was less about diplomacy and more about brokering a deal that both sides would find beneficial. But when he thought about it that way, it seemed like diplomacy and trading were the same thing.

  Maybe they were, in all the ways that mattered.

  Like Dragonfire, Blackthorn’s docking bays led right out into the boardwalk, where shops, restaurants, and travelers saw to all manner of needs and desires. Well, all legal needs and desires, anyway. PAC stations were havens for citizens, and as such, they were required to abide by many regulations to keep their inhabitants safe.

  Cabot strode along the boardwalk with a small bag over his shoulder. He knew exactly where he was going, and he’d contacted Jim Iwo ahead of time to let him know of his arrival.

  Just as Cabot’s shop was the trade hotspot of Dragonfire Station, Jim Iwo’s shop was a center of activity on Blackthorn. Their clienteles varied somewhat, because although Blackthorn was also a trade hub and a way station, it served an additional purpose as a meeting place for diplomacy. Many admirals, ambassadors, and delegates attended endless trade and peace negotiations here.

  That explained why, when Cabot stepped into Jim’s shop, the goods on display had, on average, a much higher price.

  “Cabot! So good to see you!” Jim stepped in and gripped his right arm firmly at the elbow, in the Rescan style. Jim was human, but was almost as much of a fan of different cultures as Cabot.

  “And you, my friend. How long has it been?” He gripped Jim’s elbow before letting their arms drop to their sides.

  “Six months. Since I dropped by Dragonfire on my way back from a vacation on Sarkan.”

  “Ah, that’s right. It seems like longer.”

  Jim gestured to a table usually used by customers. A stout brown stoneware tea set had been neatly arranged, with steam curling from the end of the teapot. “Have a seat! I made your favorite.”

  “Alturian Mountain Blue tea. Very kind of you.” Cabot sat, and, according to Rescan courtesy, poured his own tea, then Jim’s.

  Jim’s passion was to serve his customers in the manner they’d expect on their homeworld—unless they preferred otherwise. He even had an excellent knowledge of Briveen communication skills. Almost as good as Cabot’s.

  “It’s not hard to keep some in stock. It doesn’t go bad.” When Jim smiled, he did it with his whole face. His eyes lit while his mouth created happy lines all the way back to his ears.

  Jim was as thin as Cabot was sturdy. Cabot had thick hair he wore long and put in a low ponytail, while what little hair Jim had on the back of his head was black. They didn’t have looks or backgrounds in common, but they’d always gotten along wonderfully. Jim had a natural warmth and friendliness—a genuine kindness compared to Cabot’s slightly removed bland courtesy.

  “How have things been here?” Cabot asked, taking a cautious sip of the scalding tea.

  Jim thought for a moment, looking upward before saying, “A little unusual. Lots of comings and goings, as always, but meetings are briefer and tenser. Or else they’re unusually long and even more tense. There’s a
feeling on the boardwalk when things are normal, you know? It’s like a pulse. But it’s been different lately.”

  Cabot understood perfectly. He was in tune to the feeling on his own boardwalk. “Yes, things are different on Dragonfire too.”

  “I’ll bet they are! Word is, it’s become a sort of auxiliary station for PAC intelligence.”

  Cabot had to skirt that comment carefully. Officially, yes, Dragonfire served as a remote location for PAC intelligence, as a fail-safe. If anyone hinted about Blackout operating from there, though, he’d have to play dumb.

  So he said only, “Yes, it caused a little excitement at first to have a little piece of PAC command right on our station, but in truth, we hardly know they’re there.”

  Jim sipped his tea. “I guess it makes sense that a small intelligence department would be pretty quiet.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh, you know what would be perfect with this tea? Some Sarkavian wafer cookies. I’ll be right back.” Jim popped up from his seat and returned a moment later with a sleeve of the fragile desserts. He opened it and spread them on the tea tray.

  Cabot plucked one and bit it. “You’re right. That’s perfect. Not too sweet.”

  Jim nodded and took a cookie of his own. “A customer recommended them, and now I keep them in stock all the time.”

  Silence fell between them as the doors to the shop opened. A Zerellian man stood in the doorway, looking uncertain, then shrugged and moved on.

  Cabot chuckled. “Get a lot of those?”

  “Probably a couple each day, on average. People unfamiliar with the station aren’t sure which shops they want, so they take a quick peek. It’s kind of funny. I doubt they realize what they look like, appearing, doing nothing, then walking away.”

  “I’m sure they don’t.”

  “If you have anything private to talk about, I can lock up,” Jim offered.

  “No need. Just a social call.”

  Jim’s face lit with a gentle, good-humored smile. “I feel like it isn’t entirely, but okay.”

  They both chuckled. Jim was an extraordinarily good guy, but he didn’t have the nose. He made a good living, but not nearly as good as he could. It didn’t matter. Jim was a station-dweller. An ingrained part of the community. Just like Cabot had learned to be, but Jim had done it naturally rather than by accident.