The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12)

by Ian J. Malone

  Rex leaned in to examine Michael Genovese’s insectoid sketch. “Can’t say as I do, no.”

  “You’re sure?” Taylor said.

  “As sure as I can be, sans a photographic memory,” Rex said. “Sorry, T. I got nada.”

  Taylor sighed and put the device away. Of all the barkeeps in Jax’s Cocktail Junction district, Rex was among the most senior, having served countless drinks over the years to legions of GU species. If he didn’t know what the bug aliens were, Taylor wondered who would.

  “So what now?” Rex asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” Taylor sipped his beer. “I’ve got another contact over at the Stool Pigeon who might be able to throw me a bone or two, but he’s not nearly as connected as you are, so I’m not holding my breath. But a lead’s a lead at this point.”

  “Can I have a look?” Normitt asked.

  Taylor traded looks with Rex, then shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  The Jivool let out a seismic beer belch that could’ve downed a light cruiser, then slid off his stool and waddled toward the server’s station. “May I?”

  Taylor handed over the slate.

  “Can I ask you something?” Rex asked while Normitt swiped the device back to active. “These mystery aliens of yours. Why do you wanna find them so bad?”

  “Come again?” Taylor asked.

  “Not to be a heartless bastard or anything, but what’s done is done, where the Hawks are concerned,” Rex said. “Finding the aliens responsible won’t bring any of Torrio’s people back from the grave, nor will it get your company paid. So why get involved?”

  Taylor shifted on his stool. “Not all the survivors came back from Emza. We have reason to believe some of them were taken prisoner—Paulie included.”

  The Bostonian’s expression paled. “Holy Mary, mother of God.”

  “Yeah,” Taylor said quietly.

  “Ahem,” Normitt cleared his throat. “Don’t hold me to this, because I’ve never seen one in person. But I think this a KzSha.”

  “A what?” Taylor asked.

  “A KzSha,” the Jivool repeated.

  Rex snapped his fingers. “Wait a second, I think he’s right.”

  Taylor faced the bartender.

  “I had a pair of Dutya freighters in here a while back, killin’ time on a layover out at the starport.” Rex cringed. “Slimy bastards, those slugs. They also reeked worse than Norm here and were total assholes to my waitresses.”

  The Jivool rankled, wrinkling his nostrils.

  “Sorry, pal,” Rex said. “Anyway, these goons prattled on for most of the night about some bigtime payday they’d just scored, courtesy of an insectoid group out in the Jesc arm. They called them the KzSha, and based on the way the Dutya described them, these aliens could be the ones who jumped the River Hawks.”

  Taylor fidgeted with his bar napkin and considered the story. “I appreciate the insight, Rex, but the Galactic Union is filled with insectoid species. What makes you think these KzSha are the species we’re after?”

  Rex glanced around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “That bigtime payday the Dutya were gloatin’ about? It involved slaves.”

  Taylor wrinkled his nose.

  “As I understand it, that’s how the KzSha make their living,” Rex said. “They’re slave traffickers, have been for decades. They’re apparently very good at their occupation, too, especially the inventory procurement part. That’s why there aren’t that many people who know for sure what they look like. Anonymity keeps them protected against reprisals—and the Peacemakers, for that matter.”

  Taylor rubbed his temples. “That’s interesting. I’ll have to run that by my contact back at Jax Memorial and see what he has to say.”

  “Your contact?” Rex raised an eyebrow.

  “Torrio’s XO was among the survivors who came back from Emza,” Taylor said. “He’s the one who tipped us off to the KzSha involvement.”

  Rex’s gaze narrowed. “You know who he is, right? Torrio’s XO?”

  Taylor nodded.

  “You be careful around that one, T,” Rex said. “I don’t know Michael Genovese personally, but I do know the family. They’re bad news, brother. Real bad.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but I’m on it,” Taylor said. “Back to these Dutya you served. Are they still around?”

  “I don’t think so, no,” Rex said. “They blew through town about two nights ago en route to Piquaw for their next job. After that, I don’t know where they’re headed.”

  “Did they say when they were scheduled to transition out through the stargate?” Taylor asked.

  “The next morning, I think,” Rex said. “That would’ve been yesterday.”

  They’re still in hyperspace. Taylor slammed down the last of his beer and got to his feet. “Thanks for the time, fellas. As always, I’m grateful.”

  “Anytime,” Rex said beside Normitt. “Watch your ass out there, T. I mean it. If what the Dutya said is true, these KzSha are not to be screwed with.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Taylor doffed his cap to the other regulars, then exited the bar, and keyed his pinplant comm en route to his Harley across the parking lot. “Frank, it’s me. I think I know who attacked the River Hawks. They’re called the KzSha.”

  “Never heard of them,” Frank said.

  “Round up what’s left of the crew and prep the Osyrys for launch,” Taylor said. “We’re going to Piquaw.”

  “What about Genovese?” Frank asked.

  Taylor chewed his lip as he strapped on his helmet. “Paulie’s XO is the only one who’s seen these aliens in action. Ex-mob or not, we can’t afford not to have access to that intel when and if we cross paths with these things. Genovese goes. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.”

  “Ayew,” Frank said with a clear note of hesitation. “I’ll make the call.”

  * * * * *

  Part Two

  Chapter 8: Piquaw

  The Osyrys emerged in the Piquaw system a little over a week later, carrying scarcely more than a skeleton crew, since most of their company had deployed with Billy on the Duplato contract. That left Taylor with parts of Talbot and Atlantic Companies to work with—about 85 troops with hardware—plus Frank and the Farts comprising his slimmed down command staff.

  “What, no welcome wagon?” Frank asked from nav station once the scene in the main Tri-V had returned to stars. Like the others, he was still dressed in civilian attire, since the Eagles weren’t there on official business.

  “Minor systems like Piquaw don’t typically have an emergence control facility,” Jack said from tactical. “You’ll have to get closer to the planet for traffic control to pick us up.”

  Frank ported over a batch of scans from Smitty’s vacant science station and looked them over. “You sure about that? I don’t see anything in orbit. Nothin’ freighter sized, anyway. There’s a small orbital transfer station, but so far as I can tell, there’s not much there, either.”

  “Take a look at their starports,” Taylor said as the planet drew nearer in the Tri-V. “It’s a decent bet our Dutya friends are already here and on the ground. See if you can find where they put down.”

  “Looking,” Frank said.

  The radio crackled to life. “Osyrys, this is Piquaw Approach.”

  Right on cue. Taylor cleared his throat. “Piquaw Approach, this is Osyrys. Go ahead.” He glanced to nav. “Gonna need some info real quick.”

  “Cut me some slack, will ya? I’m pullin’ double duty here with Smitty out.” Frank poured over the data on his console. “I got two freighters at Zeltar City, but neither one meets the Hertzal-class description we got from Rex.”

  “Look for smaller starports, then,” Jack said. “The local yokel officials in places like that tend to be easier to bribe. That’s where I’d go if I were a smuggler.”

  “On it,” Frank said.

  The radio crackled again. “This is Piquaw Approach. State your intentions, Osyrys.”


  “Whatcha got, bud?” Taylor asked.

  “Stand by,” Frank said. “I got some possibilities here.”

  Taylor was really starting to miss Smitty’s proficiency at science station, but he kept that to himself while his Buma pilot swiped frantically through data streams on his console.

  “Osyrys, Piquaw Approach, I say again, state your intentions.”

  Taylor palmed his face. “It’s now or never, Frank!”

  “Looking,” Frank murmured. “Not there. Not there…there! We got ‘em!”

  “Where?” Taylor asked.

  “Siler City starport,” Frank said. “I’m layin’ in our decent vector now.”

  “Siler City, huh,” Jack muttered. “Holy, Moses, what a hellhole.”

  “Piquaw Approach, this is Osyrys,” Taylor said. “Our destination is the Siler City starport for refuelin’ and to take on cargo.”

  The radio crackled a final time. “Roger, Osyrys, continue as requested. You are cleared for the approach to Siler City.”

  “Thanks, Approach. Osyrys, out.” Taylor exhaled and put his head back against the chair rest. “Well, that was fun.”

  “It was close, that’s for sure.” Jack tipped up his cowboy hat. “My apologies if I missed something, Chief, but I didn’t know we’d be runnin’ freight for this mission. What sort of cargo did you have in mind to take on?”

  “As many of those lousy Dutya as it takes to get a lead on the KzSha.” Taylor glanced to tactical. “Get Stan on the horn and have him meet us up here on the bridge once we’ve landed. Tell him to bring Genovese with him.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow beneath his flat cap. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Allowin’ an outsider on the bridge, I mean?”

  Taylor heaved a sigh. “The River Hawks did some business here six months ago, so their XO might have some insights that can help us out,” Taylor said. “Besides, if nothing else, he’s another set of eyes, and given how slim we are on personnel for this trip, I’ll take all I can get right now.” He returned to Jack. “Make the call.”

  The Oklahoma cowboy keyed his pinplants. Several minutes later, his Mississippi partner trailed Michael Genovese onto the bridge after the Osyrys landed.

  “You rang?” Stan said.

  “Take a seat.” Taylor motioned the men to a pair of chairs down front. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

  * * *

  The Siler City starport was downright microscopic compared to others on the planet like Zeltar City, or even the one in Jacksonville, for that matter. There was almost nothing to the place, save a handful of docking platforms, and the requisite refueling stations that went with them. That has to make for a hell of a boring layover, Taylor thought. On the upshot, it meant most of the ships who parked there did so in relatively close quarters, giving the crews of each vessel a clear line of sight to their neighbors.

  “For the record, I’d like to state that I’ve seen trailer parks in Gainesville with more action than this place,” Frank said, eyes fixed on the Hertzal-class freighter across the yard via the main Tri-V down front. “There literally hasn’t been a soul on the ground out there, Dutya or otherwise, in the last 30 minutes.”

  “You’ve spent a lot of time in Gainesville, have ya?” Stan asked.

  “Not if I can help it,” Frank grumbled. “Seriously, though. What’s up with this starport? I’ve never seen one this dead before.”

  Genovese grunted. “Clearly you haven’t been around many where smugglers hang out, then.”

  The Buma answered his fellow New Yorker with a flat look.

  “Most of the activity around here happens after dark,” Genovese explained. “At least, that’s the way it went down when Paulie and me came here.”

  Taylor scratched his whiskers. “That makes sense, actually. According to Rex, the Dutya look like giant terrestrial slugs. We’re talkin’ slimy skin and everything.”

  “So what?” Genovese asked.

  Taylor shrugged. “Maybe they don’t care too much for sunlight.”

  “That does makes sense.” Jack nodded.

  “I say we follow the captain’s advice and see what shakes out after nightfall. Until then, let’s all get some rack time so we’re fresh when things happen.” Taylor faced the others. “I’ll take the first watch, then Frank, then Stan, then Jack. Keep your gear close by, though, and be ready to move if I call. I’m thinkin’ this is gonna happen fast when it starts.”

  Jack raised a hand. “Chief, are you sure you wanna take first shift? I don’t mind.”

  “Nah, it’s cool. I’ve got this,” Taylor said. “Y’all get some rest. We’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”

  The group nodded, then departed the bridge, leaving Taylor alone in his command chair with nothing but a water bottle and a tennis ball to pass the time.

  Thump, thump…smack.

  The ball ricocheted off the deck, then the wall, before returning to Taylor’s palm.

  Thump, thump…smack. Thump, thump…smack.

  Taylor swiveled back to the Tri-V. Still nothin’.

  Thump, thump…smack. Thump, thump…smack.

  The next two hours dragged on as Taylor paced the bridge with his ball and his water, keeping a close eye on the scene outside his ship. Literally nothing happened, not with the freighter he’d been tasked to watch, nor any of the other ships on the premises.

  Frank was right. This place is deader than a damn mausoleum.

  By the time his shift ended, Taylor couldn’t wait to hand off to Frank for the next watch. He woke the Buma from his slumber, then headed to his own quarters to get some rest. It felt like Taylor had just gotten to sleep when Stan’s voice rousted him through the intercom.

  “Excuse me, Chief. You’re needed on the bridge.”

  Taylor threw on his boots and Generals cap, then hustled back upstairs. “Whatcha got?” He paused, finding Stan seated alone at the comm station holding a slate. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “They’re still asleep. Here. Come check this out.” Stan directed his CO to the main Tri-V down front. Sure enough, night had fallen outside, and ground activity had picked up considerably.

  “Great, it’s gotten busier,” Taylor observed. “I still don’t see any Dutya in the crowd.”

  “Patience,” Stan said.

  A trio of figures inched their way down the freighter’s boarding ramp, where they were met by one of the local dock hands. As it turned out, Rex’s description of the Dutya as “slimy-ass slugs” hadn’t been far off the mark. At just over two feet tall, the slick-skinned aliens didn’t offer much in the way of height. They were, however, twice as long from the rumps of flesh behind their eye-stalked heads to the tips of their thick, stubby tails.

  “That same group came out just before I woke you to meet with the port officials,” Stan said. “See that one there in the middle? The one with the scar between his eye stalks? I’m pretty sure he’s in charge.”

  “Why’s that?” Taylor asked.

  “He did all the talkin’ with the authorities,” Stan said. “That and pretty much anytime he opens his leaf hole, everybody around him snaps to attention.”

  No sooner had the Mississippian spoken than the scarred Dutya barked an order to the dock hand resulting in the latter’s abrupt spin into action.

  “Okay, so Scarface is the captain,” Taylor said. “By the looks of things, I’d say he’s still got some business to attend to here around the port.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Stan pointed across the yard. “See those freight loaders beside that empty platform? They were chock full of crates about an hour ago. Nobody’s loaded anything since.”

  Taylor raised a shoulder. “So what?”

  “So whatever the Dutya came here for is likely already aboard that freighter,” Stan said. “Toss in the flurry of last-minute tune-ups the ground crews have been performin’ on their starboard capacitor housing, and I’d wager these smugglers are gearin’ up to bug out, probably tomorrow.”

  Tay
lor snapped upright. “We need to act now, then. Wake up Jack and the others. I want 40 troops ready to move on that freighter in—”

  “Just wait a second.” Stan grabbed his CO’s arm. “There might be a better way.”

  Taylor wrinkled his nose.

  “I need your Yack and 10 minutes,” Stan said.

  “For what?” Taylor asked.

  “Call it the cost of doin’ business with a scalpel instead of a sledgehammer. I promise I’ll explain later. For now, though, I need you to trust me.”

  A slew of new questions raced through Taylor’s mind, but the issue of trust wasn’t one of them. He handed over his UACC without a second thought. “Am I gonna find out one day what I’m buyin’?”

  “You’ll learn that today, actually.” Stan doffed his fedora, then bolted for the door. “Hold down the fort. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Taylor heaved a sigh and returned to the Tri-V as the Dutya smugglers inched back up the boarding ramp into their ship. I sure hope you know what you’re doin’, Stan.

  True to his word, the Mississippi commander re-entered the bridge about 10 minutes later.

  “You ready to tell me about this plan of yours?” Taylor asked.

  “Why tell when I can show?”

  The Tri-V chirped an alert, indicating the presence of an incoming craft—a lone civilian transport carrier. The shoebox-shaped vehicle taxied into the dockyard on its dual roller balls, then swung wide at the fence, before halting in the gravel in front of the Dutya freighter. Two massive shapes climbed out, both armed.

  Lumar. Taylor tensed. “Why are they here?”

  “Wait for it,” Stan said calmly.

  The first Lumar paced the area as if assessing the space for threats. Apparently satisfied, he signaled back to his colleague at the transport, who leaned inside.

  What are you…?

  Three more aliens exited the transport and posted themselves in a sort of ambassadorial kneel at the foot of the freighter’s boarding ramp. Elaborately dressed in purple and magenta robes that ended just above the knee, the regal beings were vastly smaller than their Lumar watchers, and clearly female, judging by the shapely form of their green-skinned extremities. Beyond that, their clothes and garments—specifically their loose-fit cowls—prevented Taylor from observing much more about them.