Quantum Chaos: A Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter Novel

by Jake Bible

  QUANTUM CHAOS

  A Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter Novel

  Jake Bible

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2020 by Jake Bible

  1.

  "Hey there, guy friend. You lookin' for Tacos? I got all the Tacos you need, guy friend. All the Tacos. Just say the word and I can have you swimming in Tacos."

  "Why in all the Hells would I want to swim in Tacos?"

  The being, a Jesperian, one of the humanoid races that looked like he may or may not have been sleeping next to the incinerator bins in the alley out back, paused. He blinked a few times, the jumbled thoughts in his Taco-addled mind very apparent on his face. When the correct thought finally formed and reached his lips, he smiled.

  No teeth. Nothing but a junkie's sore-filled gums showed past his cracked lips.

  "Oh, guy friend, you're messin' with me. Playin' a game. No, guy friend, no one swims in Tacos. That's crazy, guy friend."

  "Stop calling me that. And also, go away."

  "Oh, guy friend, come on. You know you want some Tacos." The Jesperian glanced about the tavern. "Why else you come in this place? No one comes here unless they want Tacos or good whores or street wubloov."

  "Good whores? I doubt that."

  Over six feet, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, the "guy friend" looked like he could have played any of a dozen of popular galactic professional sports in his youth. But his youth was long gone. Early forties, scarred skin, ropy muscles, and eyes that were cold as ice, the man had obviously found a new sport in life, one that involved a good deal of violence.

  He proved that by producing a Flott Five-Six concussion blaster with laser cluster spread and placing it on top of the table where he sat. A table in the darkest, farthest corner from the tavern's main entrance.

  The Jesperian blinked again, looking as if he wasn't quite sure what the device was that the man had produced. Then the sore-filled gums made a second appearance.

  "Oh," the Jesperian said. "I'll leave now."

  "Good plan."

  "I'll tell everyone you don't want the Tacos."

  The man gripped the Flott a little harder. The Jesperian gulped.

  "Or I tell no one."

  "Anything."

  "Anything. Yeah. I'll tell no one anything."

  "Better plan."

  "Best plan, guy friend." The Jesperian backed away slowly, his bloodshot eyes tracking the Flott's pitch black muzzle. "Best plan…"

  The man watched the Jesperian scurry through the maze of unoccupied mismatched tables then rush out the tavern's entrance. The bartender, a Groshnell, an eight-armed, boneless race that gulped air to stay solid, eyed the man for a split second then went back to talking up the Cervile woman that sat at the end of the bar. A feline-like race, Cerviles could be deadly, but the woman looked like she hadn't seen deadly in decades. Her fur was afflicted with mange and her body was doughy and slack, not taught and dangerous.

  To each their own, the man thought.

  "Roak?" a female voice called over the comm in the man's ear.

  Although technically all AIs were gender neutral, the female voice was Hessa, the very unique AI protocol that ran Roak's ship. Or was Roak's ship, depending on the perspective. The comm implant she used to communicate with Roak was one of her own design that she had placed inside him against his wishes. Roak preferred to be tech-free. Which he never stopped mentioning to Hessa.

  But the comm had proven to be completely undetectable, and begrudgingly, helpful in certain situations.

  Like the one Roak was currently engaged in.

  "What you got for me, Hessa?" Roak asked, taking a sip of the same pint of wubloov he'd been nursing for the last hour. Wubloov was a hallucinogenic beer that could be tricky even when it was of high quality. The one in the pint glass before Roak was far from high quality.

  Roak doubted it even was wubloov. Not that he cared. His metabolism and wubloov never were fully compatible. Anyway, he was in the tavern to find someone, not to get drunk.

  Which was apparent to the bartender, who finally disengaged himself from his conversation with the Cervile woman and made his way over to Roak's table.

  "Hey. You. I'm gonna start charging rent for your ass staying in that seat for much longer if you don't buy more than one drink," the bartender said.

  "Then give me another," Roak replied.

  "You aren't done with your first one."

  "So?"

  "Beings tend to finish their first drink before ordering a second."

  "Do I get a discount on the second if I finish the first?"

  "No."

  "Then what does it matter to you?" Roak reached into a pouch on the belt of his light armor and pulled out a couple of chits. He slapped them on the table. "These are what you want, right?"

  The bartender studied the chits, studied Roak, studied the chits again, then snatched the money up with one of his tentacle-arms and made his way back to the bar where the Cervile woman pretended not to be watching the entire interaction. Before the bartender was back before her, she leaned close to her wrist.

  "Are you done being the friendliest guy in the galaxy?" Hessa asked.

  "You know me," Roak replied.

  "There's a comm signal coming from that tavern," Hessa said. "I think you've been made."

  "Gonna agree with you there," Roak said, his eyes on the Cervile. "Can you hack the signal?"

  "Already did," Hessa replied. "Cervile dialect. Do you see the source?"

  "I see it," Roak said. "Anything I need to worry about?"

  "Not yet," Hessa said and paused.

  "But…?"

  "The comm is being sent out of the system using a trans-space booster and encrypted signal. Does the source look rich? Because that tech is not cheap."

  "No. The source looks considerably less than rich."

  "Interesting."

  "Boring."

  "Boring?"

  "Boring. This has nothing to do with our current task. Boring."

  "That's one way to look at it…"

  "What are you seeing close by? Any chance our target is heading this way?"

  "Surveillance holos are inconclusive."

  "Inconclusive?"

  "Hey!" the bartender shouted. "Keep talking to yourself over there and I'm calling security!" He pointed a tentacle at a sign behind the bar. "Can you read?"

  "No crazy," Roak said. "That's your rule? Not, no killing or starting fights, but no crazy?"

  "Gotta draw the line somewhere," the bartender replied. "Never been able to stop killing or fighting, but I sure as all the Hells can get rid of the crazy. We clear?"

  "We're clear," Roak said.

  "I'll talk, you listen," Hessa said.

  Roak waited.

  "Inconclusive because no one is walking around," Hessa said. "Everyone is inside one of thousands of taverns on this planet. Do they know something we don't?"

  Roak waited.

  "I've tried face rec," Hessa continued, "but Xippee's planetary protection protocols are wreaking havoc with all of my tracking abilities. I can see why this is the planet beings go to in order to lay low."

  Roak waited.

  "And get drunk," Hessa said. "So much drinking. I do not have a liver, but I am feeling jaundiced just monitoring the levels of poisons the many beings are ingesting at the rates they are ingesting them."

  Roak waited.

  "I say move on and try another tavern," Hessa said. "Waiting is only drawing attention to you."

  "That's what I wanted to hear," Roak replied.

  "Hey!" the bartender yelled. "I warned you!"

  A tentacl
e waved over a comm interface by the register.

  Roak lifted his Flott and waved it at the bartender.

  The tentacle was withdrawn and the comm interface shut down.

  "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot," the bartender said.

  "You don't have feet," Roak replied. "Hessa? Hack his holo projector."

  A cheap and glitchy holo projector set in the ceiling of the tavern came to life and a Galactic Fleet file photo of a Fleet Marine appeared.

  "This guy. Have you seen him?" Roak asked. "I heard he frequents this place."

  The bartender glanced at the holo and shook his head. "Nope. Never seen him."

  "He's lying," Hessa said. "We have holo footage of the man being in here several times over the last few weeks and days."

  "I know, Hessa," Roak said. "That's why we're here."

  Roak smiled at the bartender. The bartender drew back. The Cervile hissed.

  "Have another look," Roak said. "You expect him today?"

  "No," the bartender said quickly. "No one else is coming in today. Everyone is staying put where they are."

  "Ask him why," Hessa said.

  Roak growled, closed his eyes, counted to five, opened his eyes, and sighed.

  "Why's that?" Roak asked.

  "Today is grease trap day," the bartender said with a tone that implied Roak was an imbecile. "Everyone knows grease trap day."

  "Everyone knows grease trap day," the Cervile echoed.

  "Grease trap day?" Roak asked.

  The bartender checked the time on his register. "Yeah. Go ahead and take a couple of steps outside. You'll see."

  Roak glared, shrugged, stood up, and crossed the tavern to the entrance. He opened the door and walked outside, very aware of his back being exposed to the bartender and the Cervile.

  "They haven't moved," Hessa said.

  "Thanks," Roak replied.

  "Time and date."

  Roak grumbled to himself, so done with Hessa making note every time he showed gratitude.

  Or apologized.

  Or admitted fault.

  Any issues Roak had with Hessa were instantly forgotten as the intense stench of rotten grease went berserker on his nostrils.

  "Roak? Are you in distress? Your heart rate is spiking," Hessa said.

  "Grease…trap…day," Roak coughed as he retreated quickly back into the tavern.

  "Told ya," the bartender said.

  "Grease trap day," the Cervile stated.

  "If you'd finished your drink and left sooner you would have avoided it," the bartender said.

  "How long does that Eight Million Gods damn smell stick around?" Roak asked.

  "Hours," the bartender said with a fleshy shrug. "Sometimes days."

  "Sometimes days," the Cervile echoed.

  "We don't have days, Roak," Hessa said.

  "I am very aware of that," Roak replied, shaking his head at the bartender's look of confusion. "Not talking to you."

  "Good," the bartender said then nodded towards Roak's seat. "You paid your chits. Feel free to stay until it's over. Just knock off the crazy."

  "There's no cra-… Never mind," Roak said and pulled a rebreather from his belt. "I've got work to do."

  "Then go do it," the bartender said. "But gotta warn ya, that rebreather ain't gonna help much."

  "Grease trap day," the Cervile said with a loud belch. "No escape."

  "We'll see," Roak said.

  He tossed another chit onto the counter then pulled a comm unit from his belt and swiped across it. The bartender's wrist implant chimed and the holo of the Fleet Marine appeared.

  "Comm this signature if he comes in here," Roak said. "It'll be worth your while."

  The bartender shrugged his fleshy shrug once more and pocketed the chit.

  Roak studied the Cervile for a second then turned and left.

  "Careful out there," the Cervile called after him. "Beings get weird on grease trap day."

  "I'll be fine," Roak said.

  The stench slammed into him like a plasticrete wall. The bartender wasn't lying, the rebreather didn't help much. The air didn't taste quite so thick, but the smell was still ever present. It was like a second, third, and fourth skin had wrapped themselves around Roak's body. Without the rebreather it would have felt like a fifth skin was on him too.

  Small miracles…

  "Any suggestions?" Roak asked.

  "You're the galaxy's best bounty hunter," Hessa replied. "You tell me."

  Roak growled low.

  "Something's up your AI butt," he said. "What is it?"

  "I am still unsure about this plan of action," Hessa replied. "We do not know with any certainty that Pol Hammon will even be where you believe him to be."

  "I have a hunch," Roak said.

  "Hunches are dangerous."

  "Hunches have gotten me more bounties than I can count."

  "But this isn't really a bounty. Not in the traditional sense."

  "The little dark tech piece of terpigshit owes me millions of chits, so, yes, this is a bounty in the traditional sense since traditionally I do not stop until I get paid."

  "You know what I mean, Roak. We are not hunting Pol Hammon to get paid, but so he can crack the quantum drives that store all of Bishop's files."

  "We're doing both, Hessa. Hunting him for his skills, and since Agent Prime told us Pol stole trillions upon trillions of galactic society's wealth then we'll also get paid. Two gumps with one plasma blast."

  Roak took several shallow breaths and moved off down the street. A street lined with tavern after tavern.

  That was Xippee, a planet made up entirely of taverns. Most economists would argue that it was not a sustainable economic model for a planet, but then those economists had never learned that when it comes to alcoholics and junkies, nothing is sustainable except their desire to consume, consume, consume. Thus Xippee.

  "Hessa?" Roak asked. "Do I have a tail?"

  "Most humans have some type of vestigial remnant of a tail as manifested in the coccyx bone," Hessa replied. "But, as we have discovered and determined, you aren't exactly human."

  "Hessa…" Roak growled.

  "I do not see anyone following you," Hessa said, an obvious smirk in her tone.

  Human affectations were one of Hessa's quirks. At first they'd driven Roak crazy, but he'd gotten used to them. Just like he'd gotten used to working with Hessa in general.

  As for the rest of his crew or whatever they wanted to be called…

  Roak passed a tavern that was completely filled with water. The windows were large portholes and the beings inside were swimming around freely, drinks in their flippers, tubes going from the drinks to their mouths. Or suckers. Roak wasn't sure of the species, so he couldn't quite identify the anatomy.

  The confusion over the beings' type distracted Roak just enough that he was a half-second late in seeing the large shadow disengage itself from the alleyway at the corner of the building. That half-second proved to be just the amount of time needed for a massive fist to come speeding towards Roak's face.

  He took the hit and flew back several meters, his rebreather a shattered mess hanging from his bloodied lips.

  "You're Roak," the shadow, the owner of the fist, said.

  It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

  "You'll regret that," Roak said as he launched to his feet and pulled his Flott.

  A half-second before he could pull the trigger the muzzle of a pistol pressed against the skin just under his right ear.

  That Eight Million Gods damn half-second…

  Roak focused his eyes on the being before him, the owner of the fist. Massive like a Gwreq with muscles upon muscles, there was something wrong with the being's features. It was like the guy was…warped. Roak wanted to ask what in all the Hells was the guy, but he figured the being wouldn't like the question too much.

  And he had a pistol jammed under his ear, so there were more pressing questions.

  "I hear you're looking for me,"
the being behind Roak, the one with the pistol, said.

  "Are you Chann?" Roak asked. "Former Fleet Marine?"

  "As soon as I heard you were looking for me I made a few comm calls," the being said without answering Roak's questions. "There are no bounties out on me, so why the fuck are you hunting me?"

  "I'm not hunting you," Roak said. "I just need some info you have."

  "Info? Ha," the huge warped being said. "Terpigshit."

  "The info will help me find the being I am hunting," Roak explained. "That's why I'm looking for you."

  "Info? That's all?" the being behind Roak asked.

  "That's all. I'll pay for your time," Roak said.

  "And for our drinks," the warped being said.

  "And for our drinks," the being behind Roak said.

  "And for your drinks," Roak agreed. "Now, how about you put that KL09 away and we go find somewhere out of this Eight Million Gods damn stench where we can talk. Sound good?"

  "How'd you know it was a KL09?" the being behind Roak asked as he removed the pistol from Roak's head.

  Roak slowly stepped to the side and gave the being, a human and former Fleet Marine named Chann, a harsh glare.

  "Not the first time I've had a KL09 pressed to my head," Roak said. He hooked a thumb at the warped being. "He have a name? And species?"

  "I don't count as a species anymore, asshole," the warped being said. "And the name's Shick."

  "Shick. Chann," Roak said and cocked an eyebrow. "You have a tavern in mind? I don't think the one behind me will work."

  Chann glared at Roak for a moment, looked past him to the portholes and water-filled tavern, then nodded.

  "Yeah, we know a place," Chann said. "Follow us."

  Chann and Shick turned and walked off down the street.

  "They seem nice," Hessa said. "Maybe you'll make some friends."

  "Shut it, Hessa," Roak said under his breath.

  He wiped the blood from his mouth, struggled not to gag over the smell of Grease Trap Day, and fell in line behind Chann and Shick.

  "You two don't seem too concerned that I'm behind you and armed," Roak said.

  "Nope," Shick said.

  "We got you covered, Roak," Chann said over his shoulder.

  "Oh…" Hessa gasped. "They're good."

  That's when Roak noticed the targeting tag on his right shoulder.