by Justin Sloan
“You know me, I always back down.” Valerie leaned against Robin’s seat, arms folded across her chest as she watched the planet grow larger. “Nah, that’s not what I meant. I just mean we’ve taken a side here. There’s no going back, is there?”
“You and I aren’t exactly diplomatic go-the-middle-route-and-be-sure-not-to-step-on-any-toes types,” Robin replied. “Hell, if they wanted that they should’ve sent Sandra.”
Valerie laughed, but shook her head. “You’ve seen Sandra the Caring Mom, but you didn’t know her before. That girl kicked some serious ass in her day.”
“Sure, if you say so. My point is, Michael knew you, and he knew what sending you out here would mean. I say we embrace it and be the best ‘us’ we can.”
“You’re wise beyond your years, you know that?”
“Shut up.”
Valerie bit back a smile. “Hey, I mean it! It’s simple logic. They were attacking a transport ship and were likely going to kill innocents, therefore they were bad. I get it. Still, it feels odd to show up and attack before we’ve gotten the lay of the land.”
“Or lay of the planets, but I understand.” Robin turned back to the screen to watch their approach.
“I just hope we’re able to clearly differentiate enemy from friend down there,” Valerie stated, worry growing in the pit of her stomach. “Something tells me it won’t be so simple.”
“Given the nature of our work going forward,” Robin stated with a nod of her head, “I’d count on it.”
CHAPTER SIX
Planet Tol: Civilian Transport Shuttle
Kalan let go of the controls and exhaled in relief, a smile on his face. He turned to the pilot, still bound to the co-pilot’s seat. “You gotta admit that was a pretty good landing, right?”
The pilot chuckled smugly. “Not bad, though you could have just let the autopilot land you.”
The smile melted from Kalan’s face. “Autopilot?” He’d searched the control panel top to bottom, but hadn’t been able to figure out how to engage it. The pilot had told him there wasn’t one. That had seemed far-fetched, but since he’d had no other choice he’d sweated through a manual landing after negotiating Tol’s tumultuous upper atmosphere.
He glared at the pilot. “So let me get this straight. You let me think I had to manually land this thing, putting all our lives at risk just to fuck with me?”
The pilot shrugged. “Better to die in a transport crash than to have the Bandian catch up with us.”
“The Bandian again, huh?” Kalan chuckled. “He may be vengeful, but even he’s not going to take the time to personally attack our dumb transport. And if he does, we have Valerie watching our backs.”
He had to admit he had been impressed with the way Valerie had defended the transport during the attack. Not many people would have risked their lives against such a formidable foe to protect strangers. Valerie had not only fought bravely, she’d fought well.
Kalan was beginning to suspect that he may have found that rarest of things: a leader worth following.
Not that he was the following type. He’d rather be left alone to do his own thing. But for the time being, he was glad he’d agreed to stay with Valerie and her crew. They seemed like a good bunch, although something about that Bob guy had been immediately irritating.
Now it was the pilot’s turn to chuckle. “That attack? Those were just a few of the Bandian’s lackeys. Had Warlord Nobir personally been here, it would have turned out differently.”
Kalan wasn’t convinced, but he was already sick of arguing with this idiot. He considered untying the pilot, but decided against it. Someone would be along eventually. Probably.
He exited the cockpit and nearly collided with Esur, who was hurrying for the exit hatch.
They chatted for a few minutes about the Damu Michezo, and then Esur excused herself. She didn’t want to miss the first matches. Those were usually top contenders versus unworthy scrubs, so things tended to get especially bloody.
Kalan was surprised to find the beautiful Tralen-14 pistol still lying on the floor near the hatch where he’d dropped it on Valerie’s orders. Seemed a shame to leave it there for the cleaning crew to find. Irresponsible, even. So he picked it up and put it on his belt.
After checking to ensure the passengers were okay, he headed onto the planet Tol for the first time.
His nose crinkled at the arid, hot breeze and the dust it carried. The landscape around him wasn’t a desert, but he didn’t see much in the way of plant life. He wondered if the dusty conditions were a result of over-farming or the side effect of a poorly-executed terraforming attempt. Either way, it didn’t make for a pleasant environment. He hoped his stay on Tol would be short.
The Singlaxian Grandeur stood not far away, and he moseyed on over to it just in time to meet Robin as she came down the ramp. She nodded a greeting at him. “Glad to see you made it.”
“Wasn’t so sure there for a minute, but we got through thanks to you and Valerie.”
Robin waved the dust away from her face. “Cool planet you’ve brought us to.”
Kalan grinned. “It’s not much, but if you want the Damu Michezo, this is where you’ll find it.”
A moment later Valerie, Bob, Flynn, and Garcia joined them outside the ship. Valerie cast a wary eye on the passing crowds. “Tell me about these alien species.”
“Sorry to tell you, ma’am,” Kalan replied, “but you’re the alien here.”
There was no humor in her eyes when she replied, “You know what I mean.”
Kalan nodded and got to work pointing out the various races of the Vurugu system. “The little guys are the Skulla. They control most of the power in this system.”
“What’s with all the tattoos?” Robin asked.
“It’s a religious thing. Some they get on holy days, and, let me tell you, they’ve got a lot of holy days. Others signify rank. Some they earn in the fighting pits.” He nodded toward a different species. “The big guys that look like they have rocks growing over their skin are Norruls. They’re not from this system, but the Skulla ship them in as slaves.”
Garcia nodded. “We had a little run-in with one of them earlier. Valerie had to teach him some manners.”
Kalan couldn’t hide how impressed he was by that. He’d never fought a Norrul, and it wasn’t on his to-do list. If Valerie took one of them down, she might have a chance in the Damu Michezo.
“What about those guys with green skin?” Valerie asked. “We saw the hijackers on the ship, but you didn’t tell us their race.”
“Pallicons,” Kalan replied. “Like I mentioned, they’re shapeshifters. You’ll see some other groups in the fights, but those three comprise the bulk of the combatants.”
Kalan noticed that many of the passersby were staring at them, which wasn’t surprising. While they saw a lot of different species here, Kalan bet they didn’t see many Grayhewn, or many whatever-the-hell Valerie and her friends were either.
There was no need to wonder where the fights were held. The entire crowd pressed in one direction, and they could hear the occasional shouts and cheers of the spectators in the distance. Kalan idly wondered if Esur had made it to the stadium yet. He hoped she was sitting in the stands, having a wonderful time being splattered with blood and brain matter.
He gestured toward the huge spires poking toward the sky in the distance. “Those buildings are the homes of the warlords and the rich. As bad as the poor have it on Tol, it’s a mighty nice place to live if you’re in charge.”
Valerie shook her head in disgust. She put her hands on her hips and looked out over the dusty streets. “Now we just have to figure out how to get me into the fights.”
“Ah,” Kalan said, suddenly remembering. “I think I can help you there. I made a new friend on the transport, and she gave me the rundown. You have to get one of the warlords to sponsor you. You fight as their representative. If you win you move up in your social standing, but they get a portion of your income for
the rest of your life.”
“Damn,” Bob said. “That’s wild. Should be easy enough to find a sponsor, though.”
Valerie slowly shook her head. “Maybe not. They don’t know me, and having an unknown fight as their representative could make them look weak.”
Kalan nodded. “That was the sense I got, too. And there’s something else—you won’t get in to see a warlord without a letter of introduction. Warlord Nobir runs a tight operation.”
“Remind me who that is again?” Valerie requested.
“He controls most of this system,” Kalan explained. “Also goes by the name ‘the Bandian,’ which was apparently some legendary warrior race. He killed the previous leader, guy named Sslake. The people loved Sslake. Hell, I don’t give a rotting carcass about politics and even I loved him. We elected him and everything, but that little experiment in democracy ended when the Bandian came along and took control.”
“Huh,” Valerie said. “And the Bandian wouldn’t happen to be the guy whose ships I just blew up, would he?”
Kalan smiled. “The very same.”
“Wonderful.” Valerie thought a moment. “Grayhewn, you said you knew half the scum in the galaxy. Does that mean you know someone who can forge me papers?”
Kalan scratched his head. In theory it was possible. The sabies had an extensive underground network. If there were any sabies on this dried-out husk of a planet, finding a document forger shouldn’t be a problem. “I’ll do my best.”
Valerie looked at him for a long moment. “I need better than your best. I need you to get it done.”
He’d worked for too many shady backstabbing bosses, and he appreciated her direct approach. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Planet Tol: Capital Market District
In the five years since leaving prison, Kalan had only used his saby connections three times. The reason for this was simple: once you started relying on them, it became incredibly difficult to stop. The kids who’d grown up in SEDE took care of each other on the outside, and many of them had gone on to do great things.
The problem was that for sabies “great things” meant “achieved high status in the criminal underworld” and “take care of each other” meant “help each other make connections in the criminal underworld.”
Kalan had promised both his mother and himself that he wouldn’t go that route. He’d vowed to walk the straight and narrow, and he’d done exactly that. Mostly.
But his employer needed forged papers, so it was time to put those saby connections to work. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the stylized arrow tattoos on his forearms that marked him as a former underage resident of SEDE, and he began to mill about the crowd.
The odds of being randomly spotted by another saby in this crowd were very long indeed, but he didn’t need for that to happen. People who ran in shady circles knew that stylized arrow tattoo, and they knew connecting one saby with another often resulted in a nice payday. He needed someone with underworld connections to spot him, and that was exactly what happened.
Within ten minutes a young female approached him, asking if he was looking for some of his people. He said that he was, and she led him across town to the towering, upscale home of an elderly male. The old male thanked the female, slipped her something Kalan didn’t see clearly, and sent her on her way. He introduced himself to Kalan as “Duol.”
Duol said he’d been out of SEDE for sixty-two years, and he missed it every day. This struck Kalan as more than a little strange. He’d only been out for five and he’d never missed it for a moment, even when his stomach was empty and he thought of the three mildly disgusting meals they provided every day.
It took another hour before the old male agreed to direct Kalan to the best forger in the city. He asked maybe a thousand questions about SEDE first. Did the Yollins still run Cellblock Forty-Seven? Was that one-legged Skulla still alive? Who ran the gambling circuit these days?
Kalan answered these questions as patiently as he could (Yes, no, and a Pallicon named Gling), but he was anxious to be on his way. He didn’t know how long this would take, and Valerie didn’t seem like the galaxy’s most patient boss.
Eventually the old male took him to see the forger, a pretty Skulla female. One look into her striking orange eyes and Kalan began to think maybe facial tattoos were sexy after all.
“I can do what you ask,” the forger said, “and I can do it quickly. I have papers that will get you an introduction to a low-level warlord named Palnik. I’ll have to make some adjustments. They were made for a female named Marwood, so if they check your friend’s DNA, you’re dust-choked. But they will pass the automated checks.”
“That’s wonderful,” Kalan said. In truth, he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to pull this off when Valerie assigned it to him. Knowing he wouldn’t have to go back and face her empty-handed was a huge relief.
The forger shot him a sly smile. “The one thing I never do is work for free. You want the papers? It’s going to cost you.”
Kalan took a half-step backwards. The way the female was staring at his midsection while she spoke made him more than a little uncomfortable. He exchanged a glance with Duol, who seemed equally bemused by the situation. “Uh, what sort of payment did you have in mind?”
The female paused, then cackled as she realized what he was implying. “I was staring at the Tralen-14 hanging on your hip, you conceited asshole. Hand it over.”
A wave of relief washed over Kalan, quickly followed by a sharp pang of indignation. He really liked that pistol.
“What’s it going to be?” the forger prodded. “Hand over the Tralen, or you’ll be walking out of here without any papers. And if your friend tries to approach a warlord without papers, she’ll be rotting in the Bandian’s prison until he wakes up cranky one morning and decides to use her for target practice.”
Kalan would almost like to see the Bandian try. From the little he knew of Valerie, he was fairly certain she wouldn’t peacefully allow the guards to take her into custody. Still, he’d been sent here to do a job.
He turned to Duol. “You’re sure the papers are good enough to pass inspection?”
The forger answered before the old male could. “The only difference between my papers and the real thing is the validation checks never red-flag mine.”
Kalan sighed and set the gun on the table.
So it was that twenty minutes later, Kalan walked out of the forger’s home with a freshly minted set of papers and no pistol. It turned out that the term “papers” was figurative; the data was actually stored on a small chip.
“I gotta say, Duol, you came through for me. Thank you.”
The old male smiled proudly. “Let it never be said Duol of Tol doesn’t live up to obligations to his fellow sabies.”
Kalan clapped him on the back. “Hear, hear.”
Duol halted mid-step, and Kalan nearly stumbled forward as he too tried to stop. The old man’s brow furrowed as he stared at something down the block.
Kalan followed his gaze and saw three strange creatures marching toward a doorway with ancient, peeling green paint. The creatures looked like Skulla, complete with intricate facial tattoos, but they were taller than Kalan and at least as broad. “What the hell are they?”
Duol didn’t take his eyes off the men as he answered. “Genetically-modded Skulla. The Bandian is trying to make the perfect Skulla soldiers. You’ll see a lot of his failed genetic experiments wandering around this damn planet. Looks like these guys are calling on Nata.” He shook his head sadly. “That boy’s a damn fool.”
Kalan glanced at the impossibly large Skulla and then back at Duol. “Sorry, could you walk that back for me? Who’s Nata?”
“A young male running a food station out near the port. He owes Warlord Nibor back tribute.”
“Tribute? What’s that? Taxes?”
The old male shook his head. “No, he pays his taxes. Tribute is more like extortion. The B
andian’s goons charge you a percentage of whatever they think you’re earning. In return for paying, they don’t kill you and burn down your home.”
“Hell of a deal,” Kalan said dryly.
“In Nata’s case, they vastly overestimated his income. I tried to tell him he had to find some way to come up with the payment, but it looks like he failed.”
Kalan drew a deep breath and reminded himself this was none of his business. He’d been sent on a job, and that job had nothing to do with protecting kids who couldn’t afford payments to the mob boss running this ass-backward system. His best bet was to keep moving and get back to Valerie as quickly as possible.
But the way those modified Skulla moved, the arrogant way they carried themselves as if the world owed them whatever they felt like taking, reminded Kalan of some of the guards at SEDE—the ones who didn’t mind demanding things from the prisoners. Things they had no right to take, like alone-time in dark corners with the female prisoners.
Kalan gritted his teeth at the memory. He felt himself moving forward without even meaning to. His brain hadn’t decided what it wanted to do yet, but his feet were intent on enacting justice.
“Kalan,” Duol whispered loudly, “what the hell are you doing?”
He ignored it and strode toward the Skulla, earnestly wishing he still had that Tralen-14 on his belt.
The goons stood in front of the green door, and after a moment a young male who had to be Nata opened it. The first guard grabbed him by the throat and roughly pulled him outside.
Nata whimpered in fear as they forced him to his knees and put a pistol to his head.
“We’ve been patient,” the first guard said in an unnaturally deep voice, “but our patience ends here. Now you’ll serve as an example.”
Kalan reached the rearmost guard and punched him as hard as he could in the back of the head. The Skulla’s head rocked forward, but—impossibly—he managed to remain upright. Kalan’s hand throbbed with pain, as if he’d punched a brick wall. He ignored it and reached down, pulling the guard’s pistol from its holster. Then he wrapped his arm around the guard’s neck and put the pistol to his temple.
