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

by Zen DiPietro

  Even injured and sleeping, she had to be inscrutable.

  ***

  They didn’t have time to travel a day out of their way to visit a tiny PAC outpost, but they were lucky to be so close to one. After much deliberation, they’d decided that since the outpost offered both medical and mechanical services, they would gamble on the unscheduled tune-up giving them enough of a boost to compensate for the lost time.

  Factoring into that decision was also the fact that arriving with a member of their delegation in poor health would reflect badly on them. It would reduce the likelihood of a successful negotiation.

  Besides those factors, Nagali was in a lot of pain.

  Outposts were nothing like stations. They were way stations, designed to assist travelers and ensure the upkeep of communications relays. They had no official names, instead being given alphanumeric designations. The PAC might as well have named them, since their crews and the travelers who frequented the outposts gave them nicknames anyway. Those nicknames were not always flattering.

  The outpost that Cabot and his colleagues were fortunate enough to be near was known as Rusty. Never mind that the exterior of the station couldn’t rust, in the absence of oxygen. Cabot did not find the name reassuring.

  The staff was enthusiastic and friendly, though. Mostly young officers who hadn’t yet started a family, and had to earn their stripes by taking on less desirable jobs, as was the norm for such places.

  The outpost’s doctor looked like he must have just earned his license. He met them at the docking bay and escorted Nagali to the infirmary himself. Cabot wondered whether it was good bedside manner, or just that the doctor had no other staff.

  “Our mechanic will start right away on your repairs.” The lieutenant in charge of Rusty looked to be in his mid-twenties, and either Zerellian or an Earther. It wasn’t species-ist of Cabot that he sometimes found it hard to tell between the two groups of humans, since humans themselves had the same difficulty.

  He continued, “You can wait in our mess hall, or we have a small common area. But you’re more than welcome to hang out with us in ops control. It’s nice to have some new blood around here to liven things up.”

  Cabot looked to Arlen and Omar, who both made small it’s fine with me if it’s fine with you shrugs.

  Why not? It couldn’t hurt to see if these PAC officers had anything interesting to say. They had a unique perspective, being stuck on their own out here.

  They followed Lieutenant Davies through a passage so brief it barely qualified as a corridor. Likewise, ops control hardly looked like others of the name. It looked more like the cockpit of a tiny shuttle, with a jumble of control panels and devices crammed into too little space. Cabot eyed the floor-to-ceiling technology and spotted a couple switches on the ceiling. He wondered what those could be for.

  “Thank you for inviting us up,” he said to Davies and the ensign who sat at the science station. “It’s nice to see some fresh faces after our travels, even though it’s only been a couple weeks.”

  It was a mostly true statement, though it implied they’d been traveling straight through with no stops. But Cabot wasn’t responsible for what the good lieutenant might infer.

  He realized that he was, however, responsible for reporting this detour to Fallon. Or was it better not to send a message, to avoid possible interception?

  No, this whole thing was her brainchild. She needed to know about it so she could fit it into whatever war-shaped puzzle she was trying to piece together. He’d just have to figure out a coded way to explain the situation.

  Omar made introductions and they all exchanged polite PAC-approved bows.

  “How have things been out here? I imagine it’s been kind of rough.” Cabot asked, employing sympathy and vagueness to draw out whatever was most on these officers’ minds. It was a tactic that worked more than it failed.

  The outpost hadn’t furnished its ops control with many seats, as they’d take too much space. But Cabot didn’t mind folding down an auxiliary jump seat and easing into it. He’d sat in worse accommodations, back in the day.

  Arlen and Omar, being of Rescan sensibilities, opted to sit in jump seats along two other sides of the room, giving them all the greatest possible personal space.

  “Well,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully, “it’s always something. But out here, we’re kind of removed from everything, you know? We share this duty post in six-month rotations with a counterpart crew, and we’re at the end of this rotation. In a week, we’re headed to Jamestown. We’ll get back in the loop then.”

  “For better or worse,” Ensign Casey Ahra added, looking oddly chipper when making such a dire statement.

  But it provided Cabot with a conversational opportunity. He nodded knowingly. “Are you thinking it will be worse? I’ve heard some troubling predictions.”

  Davies and Ahra exchanged a look.

  Ah. Despite their warm welcome, these two wouldn’t confide in them. It was like this sometimes. Some people, especially those within the PAC, thought little of Rescans. They judged them all by the worst-of-the-worst rippers.

  “I’m sure everything will work out fine,” Davies said with a smile. “The PAC will sort it all out.”

  “Of course.” Cabot gave his most benignly pleasant smile. The smile he gave to customers in his shop who were obviously going to be impossible to please. “You know, I think I could do with some water. I tend to get a little dehydrated when traveling. All that recycled air, you know.”

  Davies nodded. “Oh, we know. There’s biogel in the galley, right with the water. It’s better for hydration.”

  Cabot gave the lieutenant an amused grimace. “That’s true, though I’ve never cared for the taste. But I’m probably due for some.”

  “I think I’ll join you.” Omar stood.

  “Arlen?” Cabot asked.

  “I’m good. I’ll stay here.”

  Cabot gave another of his pleasant smiles before leaving, with Omar in tow. Arlen was smart. She’d done as he’d hoped, remaining behind. Being closer in age to these two, she’d be more likely to get useful information.

  In the mess hall, Cabot plucked a biogel from the cooler and sat with it. He did feel a little dry. He didn’t, however, mind the taste of the hydrating drink. He downed it.

  Omar, however, shuddered. “I hate that stuff, man. Don’t know how you drink it.”

  “Yes, I seem to remember you dry-heaving once, when the choice was either biogel or severe dehydration.” The mental image of big Omar, on his knees dry-heaving after drinking it, still amused Cabot.

  Omar grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and gestured with it. “I’m sick of people treating me like I’m a liar and a cheat just because I’m Rescan.”

  “To be fair, you are a liar. And a cheat.”

  “Only sometimes. In specific situations.” Omar scowled, then downed some of the water. “Never with the PAC.”

  “And that’s why you don’t do all that much PAC business, right?”

  “Whose side are you on?” Omar sent Cabot a hostile look, but it was blatant posturing. Cabot saw right through it.

  “I’m just saying, there’s a reason people think that. It’s not always fair, but you know what? Sometimes it is.”

  “I guess.” Omar reopened the cooler and poked around at the food. “Ah, meatballs. Nice.”

  “I don’t recall them offering you their food,” Cabot noted.

  “They didn’t say not to eat it, either. The way I figure it, they deserve for me to eat their food if they’re going to assume I’m a bad guy.”

  Cabot smiled. “That’s circular logic, isn’t it? You’re going to eat their food because they suspect you might be a ripper, but taking things that don’t belong to you doesn’t exactly dispel that notion, does it?”

  “I’m just one guy, Cab. If I pulled out a kidney and offered it to them, they’d just think I was working some angle. So screw it. I’m going to eat all their meatballs.” He dropped two
packets into the heat-ex and slammed the door.

  “All of them? I imagine they’ve got a pretty good supply.”

  “Every damn one,” Omar confirmed. “Or as many as I can before the ship is ready.”

  Which proved to be a lot, but not all.

  Two hours later, Arlen and a fresh and healthy-looking Nagali joined them at the docking bay. Cabot had already paid for the ship’s maintenance and was more than eager to get back on their way at the greatest speed possible.

  Once on board the Outlaw, he sent a message to Fallon.

  “Just letting you know that the item you wanted had a slight defect. I’ve had it repaired, though it caused a slight delay. Hoping to make the time up en route.”

  Making it seem like she’d asked him to find a trade good for her seemed like a good cover. She’d figure out his meaning.

  Given their proximity to Dragonfire, Fallon would receive the message in a matter of minutes.

  “Did you send the message?” Arlen asked when he met her, Nagali, and Omar in the mess hall for a quick debriefing. Arlen had set the autopilot and they were hurtling toward Briv at the highest speed that wouldn’t have the ship coming apart before they could arrive.

  “Yes. Did you learn anything interesting on the outpost?”

  “They’re nervous.” Arlen stood against the bulkhead, her arms crossed. “They just don’t know if they should be more nervous about being on the outpost, or returning to Jamestown. I don’t think they know more than we do. Actually, they probably know a lot less.”

  “Well, that doesn’t tell us a lot, but it does tell us something. It means PAC command hasn’t put auxiliary stations on high alert. That’s a good sign.” Cabot didn’t take it as a great encouragement, but it was something.

  Nagali, seated at a table, spoke up. “The doctor was a little more helpful. He said that his last shipment of medical supplies contained four times the normal quantities. In particular, he received medications used in treating deep-tissue trauma and radiation exposure.”

  They all looked at her.

  “Why would he tell you that?” Arlen asked.

  Cabot and Omar exchanged a knowing look.

  “She has a knack for making people want to talk,” Cabot explained.

  Arlen’s expression was dubious.

  Nagali’s lips twitched with amusement. “I did nothing untoward, I assure you. The doctor was just glad to have someone to talk to about such things. Seems his crewmates have no interest in his profession unless they’re in need of his services.”

  “So PAC command is preparing its outposts, and presumably its stations and bases, to receive casualties. That’s not promising,” Omar mused.

  “It’s definitely not good news,” Cabot agreed.

  The other three wore brooding expressions, and he took it upon himself to boost their morale. “But we have a chance to make a difference, maybe turn the tide. So let’s focus on what we need to do. Shall we work on the attrition ritual?”

  “What should my face look like when we do that one?” Omar asked. “Should I look sorry?”

  “Not sorry.” Cabot shook his head. “It’s attrition, not contrition. It’s an acknowledgement of a breach of protocol, and the knowledge that it must be atoned for. Rather than being something emotional, it is an honoring of the social construct.”

  “What if I forget and I look sorry?” Omar wore a frown of uncertainty.

  “Depends. If you’re directing it toward me, that would be acceptable, since I am the one you’re attending. If you direct it toward the Briveen, they will believe you are weak and that I should gut you.”

  “So I guess I’ll just try not to look sorry.” Omar smirked.

  “Good plan,” Arlen agreed.

  “Okay. Let’s go through it together, from the beginning.” Cabot steeled himself for a long three days. It was cram time. If they didn’t perfect everything, they could forget about success.

  Cabot would not accept failure.

  7

  Cabot became so entrenched in the lessons that when Briv finally came into view on the Outlaw’s sensors, it came as a surprise, like something out of context.

  Or a bill he wasn’t ready to pay.

  They’d actually made it on time, in spite of everything.

  But ready or not, the time was now. As Arlen docked the ship at the planet’s orbital docking station, Cabot gathered the items he would take with them, and focused his thoughts. He mentally ran through the greetings, the words he would speak, and the negotiation itself.

  The four went through the airlock, all wearing the cloaks of the Briveen business caste. Omar and Nagali, as the attendants, took the lead. They also carried the majority of items. The Briveen frowned upon using anti-grav carts for carrying luggage. That was what attendants were for. Omar looked a little amusing, carrying the large bag that held the scythe.

  An orbital elevator had been held for their arrival, allowing them to board it right away and begin the descent.

  During the hour-long ride down, Cabot continued running through the coming events in his head while the other three occasionally exchanged observations.

  As the orbital elevator settled at the transit station, Cabot closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He imagined himself in his shop on Dragonfire. In control. A master trader. Ready for any transaction.

  They waited for the handful of other passengers to exit the elevator. Normally, on one this size, there would be dozens of people riding. Especially considering Briv had only two elevators. But few Briveen cared to leave home, and few offworlders visited because of the inherent difficulties in interacting with the Briveen. Instead of the traffic one would normally see at such a prosperous planet, most offworld transactions were arranged by proxy via the voicecom—usually in text-only messages. Deliveries and pickups happened en masse at the docking station, without requiring contact with the planet’s surface.

  Cabot shared a long look with Arlen, Nagali, and Omar in a moment of solidarity before embarking on this task.

  Omar and Nagali led, with Cabot and Arlen lined up behind them. In tandem, their two attendants rolled their shoulders forward, ducked their heads, opened their arms wide, stepped to the right, then bowed. All the while, they kept their posture, shoulders, and head positions held just right.

  Satisfaction and relief ran through Cabot’s veins.

  The Briveen attendants did the same, then all four attendants stepped to the side, allowing Arlen and Cabot to face the Briveen they would be working with.

  They were not unfamiliar faces. In fact, they were so familiar that Cabot felt a tremendous flood of gratitude. Brak and Gretch were both frequent visitors of Dragonfire.

  Regardless, the formalities had to be followed without fault. As the petitioners, Arlen and Cabot bowed. They performed the movements in tandem, just as the pairs of attendants had. Only after they completed the sequence of postures and gestures did Cabot speak.

  “I am Cabot Layne, of Dragonfire Station. I present Arlen Stinth, of the ship Stinth. Also, our attendants, who wish to express their gratitude at being in your presence.”

  Nagali and Omar performed synchronized bows, their eyes fixed on the two Briveen hosts.

  The two Briveen performed the movements Arlen and Cabot had, but with far more grace and finesse. When they performed the ritual, it looked like a dance. Cabot had never engaged in such a formal encounter, and suddenly, the ceremony looked different to him. Not a stodgy clinging to tradition, but a celebration of life and unity.

  Brak and Gretch combined slight head tilts to the side with a sweeping arm gesture, stepped back, and made a soft chirruping sound. Then they each turned clockwise in a full circle with their arms held to their sides, bent at the elbow, so that their hands were cupped toward the ceiling. They stepped forward, sweeping their arms ahead of them and holding them as if presenting a gift. Then they bowed. A chime rang behind them, struck by one of the attendants.

  Cabot felt overwhelmed with the beau
ty and the feeling of ancientness.

  The Briveen woman spoke. “I am Honorable Eighth Daughter Brak, of the House Grakaldi. I present to you the Honorable First Son Gretch of the House Arkrid. Also, our attendants, who wish to express their gratitude at being permitted to welcome such respected visitors.”

  All eight of them bowed again, a different bow with the shoulders rounded forward, to acknowledge the introductions.

  “If you will permit us, we will show you to a meeting room so that our conversation may begin immediately.” Brak tilted her head, and the light reflected off her blue-green, scaly skin.

  “We would be honored,” Cabot responded.

  Two more attendants appeared, relieving Nagali and Omar of their luggage burdens. Omar retained the large bag with the scythe, while Nagali kept the bag containing the cat armor.

  With a nod from Brak, the Briveen attendants led Omar and Nagali. Brak, Gretch, Cabot, and Arlen lined up side-by-side and followed behind, carefully ensuring that none of them stepped further ahead than the other. Good thing the corridors at the transit station were wide.

  The Briveen attendants walked toward a room and the doors ahead whisked open. They entered, followed by Omar and Nagali. Then Brak and Gretch stepped in, followed by Arlen and Cabot.

  He prepared himself for a great deal of such choreography.

  Brak called the names of her attendants and dismissed them. After some bows, the attendants backed out of the room.

  Brak let out a sigh and her posture softened. Cabot smelled the herbaceous scent of her relief.

  “It’s good to see you, Cabot.” She smiled.

  He appreciated her effort. Smiling wasn’t natural for Briveen, and he knew she’d had to work at learning to do it. She and her people didn’t have faces as expressive as the so-called “simian” species did. They were unique in their reptilian ancestry and used posture, hand gestures, subtle head tilts, and scent communication in place of facial expressions.

  Which was no doubt how all these rituals got their start.

  Gretch stepped in and offered his arm in a Rescan greeting. “I was glad when Brak told me it would be you. Fallon chose well.”