Blood Money: A Galactic Empire Space Opera Series (Mercenary Warfare Book 2)

by Zen DiPietro

  They slipped their gear back on, and Cabot was considering changing their walking order when Peregrine adjusted her personal cannon and announced, “I’ll lead.”

  Since she was without doubt the most formidable of them, and the most equipped for such situations, they deferred to her without argument. Cabot half-expected Nagali to pipe up with some obligatory objection, but she didn’t.

  He followed Peregrine, and put Nagali between himself and Omar, who brought up the rear.

  They moved fast, and Cabot got a fleeting glimpse of what Peregrine’s real job must be like. Ahead, he heard a few sudden gasps of surprise or fright, but little else.

  In short order, they had returned to the orbital elevator, which, somehow, no one else seemed to want to board. Therefore, Cabot’s team of four got the entire thing to themselves.

  He wasn’t sorry.

  Plinck had directed him to the docking bay with the shipping container. It was as large as the Outlaw itself, though its mass was irrelevant in space, assuming they didn’t find themselves in need of tight evasive maneuvers.

  Worst case scenario, if their lives depended on it, they could jettison the container. Sometimes survival required such sacrifices.

  Since Peregrine was the most accomplished pilot, Cabot left the onboarding of the cargo container to her.

  He had a natural curiosity about their cargo. Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, he had time to think about it. He suspected it was one of two, or possibly both, ingredients for manufacturing illicit narcotics. These components had to be fresh to ensure potency. It was possible, though, that the container was full of foodstuffs. All things considered, he thought it more likely that the cargo involved something less-than-innocent.

  His curiosity was irrelevant.

  “Container acquired, releasing its docking clamps,” Peregrine announced.

  Moments later, they were on their way. Again. This time to Terceron where, hopefully, he would get the location of Arcy.

  5

  While Cabot regretted that the Outlaw didn’t have hydro showers, he appreciated the cleanliness of his quarters and the luxury of cleaning off the grime of Cerberon with a sonic shower. He’d only been on the planet a few hours, but he felt like he’d bathed in an oil slick.

  Clean again and wearing fresh clothes, he settled on the chair in his quarters with an infoboard. He rarely took time for pleasure reading, but why not now? He had no interest in perusing the markets at the moment, and after sharing a cramped room with three rather large personalities, he was glad to keep his own company for a while.

  Actually, if he was being self-indulgent, some tea would be perfect. If he hurried, he should be able to get to the mess hall, brew some tea, and scuttle back to his quarters unnoticed.

  It felt like a mission, and he was amused by the idea. He mimicked Peregrine’s square-shouldered posture, opened the door, and strode out.

  Mistake!

  The satiny swish of one of Nagali’s long robe-dress things, or caftans or whatever, launched him into panic mode.

  Abort! Retreat!

  For Prelin’s sake! He felt like a naughty child, caught getting up to trouble. He should just be a grown-up and submit to the inevitable.

  Peregrine would never abort her mission, and neither would he. So he pushed the entry button for the closest door and threw himself inside.

  He held his breath, wondering if Nagali had heard the door closing. But after long, baited moments, the door remained closed.

  “Can I help you?” Omar’s amused voice behind him broke into Cabot’s state of high alert.

  He cleared his throat as he turned, trying to come up with a good excuse for his behavior.

  “Hiding from Nagali?” Omar asked sympathetically.

  “Well…” Cabot didn’t want to lie, though technically he had been doing just that. Only on a lark, though. For fun. It wasn’t like he feared her or anything.

  “I hide from her, too,” Omar confided, stretching out on his bunk. “You can hang out here if you want. I was just listening to some music.”

  “Anything good?” Cabot asked.

  Omar removed the inserts from his ears. “Nah. Some sort of nouveau opera that Nagali’s been raving about. Sounds like a bunch of animals in heat, to me.”

  Cabot hesitated. He didn’t want to invade Omar’s space, but he didn’t want to risk running into Nagali in the hall, either, if she came back this way.

  “Not all music is for all people,” he said. “I’m ambivalent to most opera. I prefer lyrics that are more poetic.”

  Omar sat up. “Want to sit?”

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  Omar nodded knowingly. “She’s probably gone. I think you’re safe.”

  “I’m not avoiding her,” Cabot denied. “I just…” He had no explanation that didn’t sound juvenile.

  “None of my business,” Omar shrugged. “You stay out of my business, I stay out of yours, right? And it’s not like I don’t hide from Nagali sometimes, too. Don’t worry about it, man.”

  “I guess I’ll get back to my room, then.”

  “Point your fingers like stingers,” Omar advised. “Then you can pretend you’re a security officer.”

  Cabot was reminded of Trin, who had a habit of making finger-guns at people he liked. He had no intentions of running through the ship pretending his fingers were weapons, though. “I think not. But it’s good to know what you like to do with your free time.”

  Before Omar could argue, Cabot strode out in dignified fashion. As soon as the doors closed behind him, he hurried back to his room and locked the door behind him.

  Whew.

  He chuckled at his silliness. Maybe his relief at leaving Cerberon had gotten the better of him. Or maybe he’d decided that sometimes, if something was fun, he should just do it. If Nagali could get away with it, then why not him? So long as no one was looking.

  FOR THE TWO days it took to get to Terceron, Cabot kept to himself. He took his shifts in the pilot’s seat and spent the rest of his time reading for pleasure, listening to music, and even catching a few holo-vids. It was like a vacation.

  Nagali hadn’t suggested they get together for dinner, so perhaps she’d realized that their agreement hadn’t included any meals after their arrival at Cerberon.

  He felt much less tense about docking at the station above Terceron. It was a populated planet with legit enterprises.

  When Cabot boarded the docking station, he could already sense the planet’s breathable atmosphere. The docking station had recycled air like any other station or ship, but it was infused with air from below, too, brought up on the elevator. It changed the smell of the air.

  Some people, dedicated spacers, disliked naturally occurring air. Cabot had heard it described as “dirty” and “heavy.”

  He found it delightful, though, and looked forward to getting planetside.

  First, he had to see about handing off Plinck’s cargo. There was always a myriad of forms to verify.

  Cabot provided his name and credentials to the commercial goods agent, signed four times, and entered his index fingerprint three times.

  Finally, the young agent said, “I believe the buyer is already here on the station in anticipation of this delivery. Would you like to be present when he inspects the cargo?”

  A chance to see inside the container? Cabot would have to wait around for the buyer to approve the cargo anyway, so why not indulge his curiosity?

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I’ve alerted the new owner, so if you’d like to take a seat, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  Peregrine, Omar, and Nagali waited on the Outlaw in case the deal went south and they needed to make a hasty retreat. He didn’t expect that, but it never hurt to be prepared.

  A nervous Atalan came into view, looking like he might run at any moment. Cabot stepped away from the agent’s counter to give the man some space. Eyeing Cabot, the skinny man edged up to the counter and whispered som
ething.

  The agent nodded and presented an infoboard. Then he said, “Behind you is Mr. Layne. He delivered the cargo and will inspect it with you to ensure it meets your standards.”

  The skinny Atalan nodded jerkily, and wordlessly walked toward the container.

  “What’s your name?” Cabot asked.

  The man’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. Apparently, he wasn’t going to give a name.

  Not much for conversation, then. Cabot had seen plenty of shell-shocked and frightened Atalans. The man was clearly a refugee from the war on his planet, and hadn’t overcome the trauma. It was all too common. At least he’d escaped and managed to find employment. Maybe healing would come in time.

  In the docking bay, the man opened the airlock and stepped into the container. Cabot followed behind.

  He found himself staring at dozens of Atalans, sitting on the floor of the container with their knees drawn up to their chests, wearing dirty, torn garments. They appeared to be a mix of families, loners, and mothers with children. Everyone who might be escaping a war, he supposed.

  A little girl, no more than five years old, turned and looked at him with big, hopeful eyes a shade of blue very much like Nix’s.

  “You’re smuggling refugees?” Cabot asked the man.

  Finally, the man spoke. “You don’t know?”

  “No, of course not. I’d never carry people in a shipping container, packed in like this. This isn’t right, even if you’re trying to help them.”

  The man’s eyes grew wider. “You’re not one of them?”

  “One of who?”

  The man grabbed Cabot’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip and pulled him back out of the container. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Are you PAC?”

  “I’m from the PAC, but not a PAC official. I’m just a trader. What’s going on?” He tried to pull free.

  The man refused to be shaken off and grabbed onto Cabot’s other arm. “Can you help us? Help them?”

  “The refugees? Aren’t there resources for them here, with the people who are rescuing them?” Many planets had assistance programs, though he hadn’t heard of one that accepted people shipped in containers. But then, this wasn’t the PAC zone.

  “They think they’re refugees. They’re not. The only thing for them down there is slavery.”

  Cabot didn’t want to believe it. “Then why are you here? Selling your own people?”

  “I came in one of these containers, too, along with my wife and children. If I don’t do this, they’ll kill them.”

  “Why would they have you do this?” Cabot didn’t wait for him to answer. “No, it’s so they never have to be seen with the refugees, right? They arrive, people think they’re being saved, and then they just disappear, right?”

  “My name is Issam. My wife is Mariala. Our daughter Neha is seven and our son George is just one. They’re all below, on the planet. Can you help us?” He let go of one of Cabot’s arms to gesture toward the container. “All of us? Please?”

  He was a trader, not a hero. He had a job to do, and that involved signing off on this container so he could get Arcy’s whereabouts from Plinck.

  But he couldn’t sell these people to do it.

  “Yes. Of course I’ll help. First, let’s get everyone off that container and onto my ship. They’ll be safe there. Then we’ll have to figure out what comes next.” Cabot didn’t know how he could help Issam’s family, or however many other Atalans had been taken into slavery on the planet below. But at least he could make sure the frightened people in that shipping crate wouldn’t disappear into the slave trade.

  PEREGRINE LOOKED ESPECIALLY GRIM. “You’re telling me I have thirty-seven Atalan refugees packed into this ship?”

  “Yes.” He stood on the Outlaw’s bridge with Nagali and Omar while Peregrine sat. It was a tight space for them all, by his standards. The rest of the ship was filled with Atalans, though, so it was their only option. There were Atalans in the mess hall, Atalans in the cargo bay, and even Atalans in the airlock.

  “And you’re telling me that you’ve effectively burned any means we had of getting Arcy’s location.” Peregrine added.

  “Yes,” Cabot said again.

  “Do you realize that we’re now docked at a planet we didn’t intend to be, with no additional resources or backup? And you want us to somehow break up a slaving ring, is that right?”

  “Too much?” he asked. “Not the kind of thing you do?”

  “It’s exactly the kind of thing I do. The problem is that usually I have the rest of my team with me, and we have a plan going in. Right now, we’re without any means of getting this done.”

  Nagali spoke up. “Then let’s find the means! And fast. From the sound of it, Issam’s family will be in danger when he doesn’t return in time.”

  “I doubt they will,” Peregrine said. “Whoever brought these people here went to significant expense to do it. They have nothing to gain by reducing their inventory to punish someone who’s already gone.” She frowned. “But you’re right. We need to pull together whatever we can here and work out a plan.”

  “I’ll make some calls,” Nagali said. “Find out if anyone I know is here. Or even on Cerberon. It’s close enough to be of use.”

  “Let’s all do that,” Peregrine said. “Anything you can come up with for us to use. I want everyone checking in on the hour with what they’ve got. And someone needs to look after those people. I recommend it not be me. I lack bedside manner.”

  “After I make my initial calls, I’ll check on them,” Nagali volunteered.

  Cabot hid his surprise, but Peregrine didn’t. Omar didn’t seem surprised.

  “I’ll look in on them after a while, too,” Omar offered. “There are kids, right? Kids always like me.”

  Nagali retorted, “Because you’re an overgrown kid yourself. They’ll love you.”

  Cabot was pretty sure she was rolling her eyes on her way out.

  Seated in his quarters, he worked through one problem at a time. His first problem was deciding which of his associates to contact to discover who might be in the vicinity.

  The easiest way to do that would be to post a job or an item for sale. He could list a prior working relationship with him as a prerequisite. It was a common stipulation.

  Good. The best lie was based in truth. He listed the job as a load of orellium that he needed to move from Terceron to Cerberon, with a twenty-four-hour counter. That ought to get anyone who knew him reaching out in no time. The question was whether anyone would be here, and if they’d be someone he could trust.

  He hoped Peregrine turned up some help for them. They could sure use some undercover PAC operatives about now. He knew that wouldn’t happen, but it was a nice fantasy.

  What else could he do?

  Food. They’d need more of it to support these people, if they were staying. From the look of them, they were half-starved to begin with. Stocking up on protein packets and other items designed for long-term storage would look perfectly normal to anyone paying attention to them.

  He created a listing in the LTS boards and hoped for the best.

  He wished he could see to clothing and personal items for the Atalans, but that would likely bring the slavers right to their door.

  Which…might not be so terrible. If they did it the right way, at the right time. Yes, he’d have to suggest that to Peregrine as a possible way of drawing out the slavers. She might have better means, though. Or Omar or Nagali might turn something up.

  He had nothing to do but wait for responses to his listings, so he went to check on the Atalans. In the cargo bay, the majority had settled in with their meager belongings. They didn’t realize that they’d narrowly avoided disaster. He could tell by the hope that outshone their puzzlement that Issam, who sat with them, had not told them the truth.

  Cabot agreed with that decision. There was no good to be had from upsetting these people who were already escaping from a bad situation. They didn’t need
to know that things had almost gotten far worse for them.

  Issam stood when Cabot approached. “Have you found a place for us?” he asked loudly, but when he got closer, he spoke quietly. “I couldn’t tell them. For them, hope is still alive. Please don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not,” Cabot said in a low voice. “You did the right thing. Keeping them calm and compliant is the most important thing, next to seeing to their physical needs. Does anyone need medical attention? We don’t have a doctor, but we do have a basic techbed in a tiny sickbay.”

  “No one has admitted to needing anything yet,” Issam said. “They are proud, and determined not to be a burden. But I’ll watch, and see if anyone seems to be having difficulties.”

  “Good man.” Cabot patted him on the shoulder.

  Issam’s initial surprise morphed into pleasure. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Cabot.”

  “Cabot,” Issam repeated. “And my family?”

  “We’re working on it. We won’t give up on them.”

  Issam’s eyes welled with tears. “You don’t know what it means to hear that. For so long, it’s felt like the entire galaxy has forgotten us.”

  Cabot squeezed his arm in response. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live on a planet in the middle of a four-factioned civil war. He had thought of their difficulties so many times—particularly when talking to Nix—and had been sending them free relief supplies for years. Not that he told anyone about that. But he’d always hoped he could do more to help the people who were suffering for no reason except that they were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Apparently, his chance had come.

  He checked in on the mother, father, and two adolescent girls occupying the airlock, then went on to the mess hall.

  He blinked in surprise to see Nagali setting packets of hot food in front of people. She pulled two out, put two more in, and kept going. She filled cups from a teapot while she waited on the heat-ex.