Void Contract (Gigaparsec Book 1)

by Scott Rhine

  The Saurians glanced slyly at each other.

  Max neglected to tell them the penalty for those caught cheating.

  Chapter 25 – Riverboat

  Mark Twain would have been at home on the large steamboat where Max led the Saurians. The huge paddlewheel looked just like the one on the mill near the dock. By law the craft had to be steam powered, but the boilers were supercharged by rooftop mirrors that focused solar energy. “They don’t run at night?” asked Ace.

  Max shook his head. “They’d hit a sandbar or submerged tree. The pilots always need to be watching.”

  While waiting to purchase tickets at the shore office, Max lifted a piece of chalk from the scheduling chalkboard. He made sure to introduce himself to the clerk and compliment the flower in her hair.

  In the men’s outhouse behind the log-cabin office, Max wrote a note on the back of the door. “Kidnapped by Blue Claws. Max Culp.” He dragged the last letter and dropped the chalk as if he had been carted off physically. Then he camped in the wooden toilet until the ship’s whistle split the air. No one from the office would be able to come into the preserve after him. However, several witnesses would be able to testify to what the kidnappers looked and dressed like. Hopefully, the sheriff would add those tidbits to the known-associates field in Vrilkesh’s file.

  After boarding, Max gave the others a tour of the vessel by following the railing on the lower deck. The noisy rear section held wooden cargo crates and mail bags for those upriver. Crates of chickens clucked as the steam whistle warned of their departure. Flightless farm birds like ostriches, emus, and chickens were the only avian species that had been allowed for import. He remembered the council debates over allowing peacocks, but no one ate them except jungle predators.

  The Saurians griped about the extreme humidity. Bortral wanted to go inside for the air conditioning. Max suppressed a smile.

  The passenger section of the craft was a gaming saloon ringed by two stories of cramped rooms. Already, a couple games were starting at the many tables. “The good players don’t come out until after evening meal.”

  People stared warily at the group of Saurians until Ace bought them all a round of welcome drinks. The miners observed the games played with paper cards for a few hours but decided that their claws wouldn’t allow them to shuffle or deal properly. Instead, the group started their own favorite game of tiles and allowed curious Humans to observe. Bortral consistently lost, to the amusement of many watching. When the bully moved to a second table to start his own game of tiles, several Humans agreed to play with him. The other Saurians retired to the roof to sun themselves while Ace watched the master in action.

  Somehow, Bortral managed to win most of the games from then on. He cleaned out two opponents before the third caught him scent-marking the cards. To be fair, Max had to drop several hints to the audience and buy Bortral several anonymous congratulatory drinks before the scam became obvious. Exclamations of “Cheater” echoed through the boat. The room fell silent as the two players squared off.

  Cocky and tipsy, the flush Bortral said, “If you think that, give me the penalty. I can take it.” He braced for a punch from the scrawny man.

  Instead, the player and three of his friends carried Bortral to the railing. Ace tried to intervene, but Max restrained him. “He agreed. If we interfere, we all pay the price. Besides, he’d want us to grab the money first.”

  The railing teemed with at least two dozen spectators cheering for justice. An experienced Saurian brawler might be able to take four or five of them, but Ace alone couldn’t handle that many. While Max bagged the winnings, Ace called for his fellows on the radio. By the time they arrived, the mob had already tossed Bortral over the side and into the churning waters.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get off tonight and walk back to him,” Max said cheerfully, handing Ace the sack of metal coins. “It’s public humiliation more than anything. Just tell me which side of the river he climbs out on, and I’ll walk back for him when we stop at sundown.”

  Panic-stricken, Ace said, “We can’t swim.”

  Max feigned disbelief. “Nonsense, I’ve never met a Saurian who couldn’t.”

  “Yellow Slash must learn in order to guard the Turtles and fight the Phibs. We’re miners.”

  “Oh,” Max said, stalling. “What should we do? I can’t lift him.” Turning to the men watching from the deck, he said, “You guys threw him over. You should haul him back in.”

  One man with a bloody nose said, “Cheater gets what he deserves.” Several others with minor injuries grumbled in agreement.

  A man whose shirt sleeve and arm had been shredded by claws replied, “I tried to help that monster, and he half killed me. I ain’t gonna give him the chance to finish the job.”

  “Ouch. I probably need to clean those wounds and give you some stitches.” Turning to the Saurians, Max said, “While I pacify the locals, one of you guys could tie a rope to a preserver and dive in after Bortral.”

  By then, the muscle-bound thug had gone under the surface of the water.

  The Saurians looked at one another uncomfortably until there was no hope of rescue.

  Max threw them a line. “Or you could tell Zrulkesh that Bortral did this on his own while all the rest of us were sunbathing. Then you only need to divide the voyage profits eight ways.” Those profits were currently being held in escrow awaiting the end-of-week bank transactions to clear.

  Ace said, “Nine, technically, because the captain gets a double share.”

  “A 10 percent increase each, and a valuable life lesson—never admit anything,” Max said.

  The group agreed to the alibi and the moral of the story. They used the bag of coins to toast Bortral’s memory.

  ****

  During mealtime, the Saurians kept to themselves, but Max mingled with the locals. He had been careful during the voyage not to go near the women, booze, or cards. He introduced himself as the child of one of the missionary groups who was working as a translator for the aliens, which was true enough. “It’s a wonderful chance to introduce them to their maker.”

  After that, he didn’t need a name because everyone called him “Preacher.” As long as he didn’t quote too much scripture or accuse them of wrongdoing, the workers were willing to chat with him. Max gleaned a lot about the Mbutu. The cartel made a point of never physically harming other natives. They might burn crops if a farmer competed with them, but native life was sacred. If they wanted to coerce someone, the cartel might kidnap a loved one. The descriptions of the snatches sounded like military operations.

  Whenever someone became suspicious about his questions, he claimed, “I’m not interested for myself. The lizards keep asking me this stuff.”

  Once the boat tied up for the night, Max warned the Saurian miners to keep their headlamps on. “That way you won’t slip off the side and end up like Bortral. And whatever you do, stay on the ship. The inns may be more comfortable, but they don’t have alarm clocks. If you don’t get back by dawn, the pilot will leave you behind.”

  For a late-night snack, Max shared some rolls with the Saurians, applying a liberal amount of honey from a jar. Several enjoyed the sweet treat and wanted more when the jar was empty. “Sorry. That’s all the money I had left. The honey is made right in this village.” He pointed to the hives at the base of trees nearby.

  “Why the fences?” asked Ace.

  “To keep people away from the hives.” Because they’re dangerous.

  “Who is the man in the funny white suit leaving the gate?”

  “A keeper. They harvest at twilight because bees aren’t active at night.” Max described the ease of scooping out the honeycomb and how he would chew on it as a child. He failed to mention the necessity of smoke to calm the bees and the fact that the ground hives were an aggressive species that attacked light sources.

  Several Saurians glanced at each other. One purchased Max’s empty jar for a copper coin.

  Max feigned a yawn and retire
d to his tiny room. The Saurians snuck ashore soon after. He watched the progression of the headlamps from his room, feeling a little guilty. The lights clustered around a single hive, and suddenly scattered, racing for the safety of the gate. The slowest lamp began to jerk and bob, stopping altogether. Soon, there were so many bees swarming the last Saurian that the light vanished altogether.

  The next morning, one of Max’s escorts failed to show up for breakfast. “Where’s Mogtral?”

  Ace fidgeted. “He’s sleeping in. Have any of the townspeople been by?”

  “No. We usually push off before they wake.”

  “Good.”

  Max finagled a tour of the wheelhouse. As an unarmed preacher, he didn’t seem like a threat. He spent most of the time asking the boat’s engineer what female mechanics and scientists liked. He tried to find out more about someone like Roz as a hypothetical scenario. All the men on the bridge had opinions. The general consensus was that these women were honest and virtuous, but didn’t make shaving a priority. “My daughter likes books more than flowers.”

  When he hinted that the hypothetical woman worked for the Turtles, the first mate warned him away from CU positives. “Stay away from such temptresses. They can never truly bond with one of us and will always feel superior. Remember what your parents taught you and have pure children.”

  Whatever I say to this man will go straight to the killers. “Sir, you might know this. The Saurians are curious. Is all your cargo going to the Mbutu cartel? I don’t know what it is, but my employers are especially interested in the bags of something called ferrocrete.”

  The first mate glanced at his watch. “It appears to be lunchtime, my good preacher. If you run to the galley for us, the cook will give you a helping for your efforts.”

  Ace approached him after the errand. “I need you to look at Mogtral.”

  “Sure. I’ll get my bag,” Max offered. The victim would be healing by now if he had asked for help immediately, but then everyone would know who had committed the crime. The suffering Saurian would probably be so swollen that he would need to be ferried back downriver to the clinic, possibly taking another guard to help him.

  Max didn’t feel victorious or clever when he felt for the pulse on the unmoving body. The throat had swollen shut. He pulled the sheet over the miner’s face. “You went ashore, didn’t you?”

  “He did it alone,” Ace lied. “For the honey.”

  “You tell the boss,” Max said. Three left. “What are we going to do with the body?”

  “Toss it over the side after dark?”

  “Someone downstream might find the body and call the police. Besides, he’s your clutch brother. He deserves a decent burial and a ceremony. Your other brothers should know so they can mourn, too.”

  Ace nodded. “Mogtral deserves that much, but we won’t radio the ship until after the mission.”

  To maintain his cruel game plan, Max had to keep telling himself, They’re holding two of my friends hostage.

  He strapped on all his survival gear just to be safe. It was hot, heavy, and uncomfortable, but he noticed the first mate watching them as they left the ship that night. The Saurians were so focused on hiding their guilt that they didn’t have a clue.

  They trekked down the jungle path, half an hour beyond huts and pig pens, to the community graveyard. If they wanted to reclaim the remains, or merely prevent them from being dug up by predators, the walled, grassy hill was their best choice.

  The group took turns digging while Max stood watch with his night-vision goggles. He kept planting seeds of doubt among the brothers. “If the Yellow Slash women are so starving here for genetic diversity that they’ll accept an accountant, one of you guys would be a cinch to pick out any female you want.”

  Ace shook his head. “This might be a pleasurable place to retire, but McCool lied about the accountant.”

  “How do you know?” asked Max.

  “Vrilkesh doesn’t like women. He corrupts young men instead. Our captain longs to erase the stain from his family name. The legacy of Keshmandar the Great must be preserved.” Keshmandar was one of the greatest generals of the Saurians, responsible for defeating most of the Phib warships that remained after the Mnamnabo disaster.

  V was a snappy dresser. Perhaps that trait transcended species. Max had been aware that homosexual activity was frowned upon as a waste of seed in Saurian society, but he didn’t think that Zrulkesh should treat it as a killing offense. Strangely, this fact made him glad he had chosen the accountant’s side. It certainly explained why he lived halfway across the charted galaxy from his family.

  Chapter 26 – Assassins

  When the funeral party staggered back toward the landing hours later, Max led the group, and Ace brought up the rear. His first warning of trouble was the Saurian next to him sniffing the air, followed by movement in the trees. Max first regretted not having his protective vest activated, and then he wondered whether to warn his companions. Close behind these thoughts was a twinge of guilt at dressing them in day-glow colors for the jungle. In that moment of hesitation, he witnessed Ace getting hit by a dart in the neck frill. There had been no sound of propulsion, not even a click. The strike was precise, to a spot analogous to the Human jugular.

  Max analyzed the trajectory and range to find the source. The attacker was covered in mud, camouflaged in aborigine style, masking his scent and infrared as effectively as nature had hidden his mental signature. Someone had trained him to hunt Saurians.

  “Ambush!” Max shouted. “The trees.” He dove into the foliage behind the aborigine, turning on his silence field.

  The other natives, perhaps four of them with machetes, charged the two miners haphazardly. Those amateurs weren’t the problem.

  Without sound, Max wove through the underbrush to catch the trained assassin. Hopefully, the melee would distract him. I have to take him alive for questioning. The killer was reloading a blow gun when Max appeared on the path behind him. His silence field vibrated then, like a microphone generating feedback in front of a speaker.

  The assassin turned, searching for the cause of the disruption. Max’s dart hit him in a clump of mud on the shoulder instead of in the throat. The camouflaged man looked at his shoulder, up at Max, and then ran.

  As Max pursued, foliage smacking him in the face, the next two darts hit in the killer’s buttock and ankle. The combination was enough to cause his target to trip over a vine. Max landed on top of him a heartbeat later. Their merged silence generators screamed until Max turned his off. The aborigine’s belt unit sounded like a slide whistle as it returned to normal functioning. Max turned it off as well. When he could hear the shouts of the combatants fifty meters behind him and the panting breath of his captive, Max demanded, “Who gave you this technology?”

  “We’re the same as you. Why do you fight us?” asked the killer.

  The Saurians called Max on the radio, distracting him. “Ace needs you. He’s foaming at the mouth.”

  Poison. “I caught the one responsible. The other attackers?”

  “Fled. We need bandages. Where are you?”

  “Follow my beacon.”

  Frantic, despite the sedative already dulling his reactions, the pinned man wriggled loose.

  As Max fired his last tranq dart, the assassin collapsed, reaching for his belt. Max sniffed the blow gun and tried to guess the composition of the residue in the dark. Not sweet or sticky, so not a berry or flower. Probably venom. He pulled a pocket lighter out and tried to analyze the color of the flame as the tube burned. He had enough to make an educated guess about an antivenom in case the enemy poisoned him.

  When a guard crashed through the underbrush toward him, Max said, “Don’t touch anything. Just bind his hands and feet.”

  By the time Max reached Ace, the Saurian needed CPR. Between chest compressions, Max tried to tell Ignotral where to find the syringe and the vial of medicine in the bag.

  Over the radio, the guard by the assassin said, �
��I don’t have any rope.”

  Max had string in his vest pocket, but the tent the Saurian carried might have rope thick enough. He really didn’t have time to hold this guard’s hand, not if he wanted to save Ace. “Improvise.”

  “I’ll use his pants.”

  The familiar whine told him a self-destruct mechanism was charging to the point of overload. Max dragged Iggy to the ground. The explosion was small and tightly focused, yet still strong enough to leave Max’s ears ringing from half a football field away.

  By the time he recovered, Ace was dead.

  “What happened?” Ignotral drew Ace’s sonic pistol.

  Max switched to a paralytic load for his dart gun in case the explosion attracted anyone. “Turtle devices have a self-destruct mechanism if anyone but the owner removes them.” The hand of the uplifter must not be seen. Max checked the crater, but no one had survived.

  Iggy scanned the area, clenching his pistol as Max tended to his cuts. Only a couple had needed stitches. Max had a decision to make. Despite his leathery skin, Iggy was his best ally in this situation. He opened his dilemma up to the surviving Saurian. “Protocol says that I call the Turtle Embassy with this information. Someone stole sound-suppression technology in order to equip other killers like me.”

  That thought snapped Iggy’s head his way. “Who would commit such an atrocity?”

  Max opened his mouth to object but couldn’t. From the Union’s point of view, he was an abomination, created to combat an insult to the most advanced species in the known galaxy. He had been tolerated until that insult had been avenged. He certainly couldn’t let a cadre of assassins like himself loose on sentient society. “We won’t find that out unless we investigate. Our choice is: do we try for the bounty on Vrilkesh, or do we warn the Yellow Slash of a threat to Turtle security?”

  The Saurian brooded for a long time but eventually allowed him to call the Turtle guards. “We have a duty to our uplifters.”