The Pleasure Dome (The Science Officer Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

  The Pleasure Dome

  The Science Officer: Volume 4

  Blaze Ward

  Contents

  Book Nine: Mercenary

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Book Ten: Xanadu

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Book Eleven: Black Widows

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Book Twelve: Gray

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Part Five

  Part Six

  Part Seven

  Read More!

  About the Author

  Also by Blaze Ward

  About Knotted Road Press

  Book Nine: Mercenary

  Part One

  Javier had never been one for gear lust.

  It had never been about fast cars or fancy starships, with the sole exception of Suvi and Mielikki. The rest of the time, whatever was necessary to get him to the next gig, the next station, the next bar was enough.

  But that was before he laid eyes on the Land Leviathan.

  Starships were cool and all. As were AI systems smart enough to compose music and poetry.

  Hell, he even knew one like that.

  But the Land Leviathan marked that point where you were truly living in a galaxy wealthy beyond ancient dreams of avarice, regardless of what anyone else thought on the topic. For the longest moment, he considered how he would go about stealing it.

  “Why are we here, again?” Javier finally asked Zakhar Sokolov, seated next to him in the backseat of the VTOL limo as they slowly descended on the giant metal train from above, a tiny eagle chasing a monstrous snake across a salmon-colored desert wasteland.

  Ten square cars, each sixty meters on a side and at least half that tall. Connected like a train, except rumbling slowly across the sand and rock on treads at least four meters tall instead of rails. From where Javier sat, it looked vaguely like an ocean liner, with the top of each of the ten sections dedicated to a different task, including a landing deck, a swimming pool, an amphitheater, and something that looked suspiciously like a barbeque pit big enough for a whole pig.

  Stealing it would be difficult. He could see a big, honking gun turret up front, and two smaller, flanking ones at the rear, plus six air-defense cannons on the sides. The last car had a semi-open bay at ground level, containing a variety of ground and skimmer combat vehicles, including at least two that looked remarkably like main battle tanks from one of Suvi’s favorite video games.

  Clearly, someone had let their paranoia get the better of them. Or seriously considered the sort of gear lust that this level of cash expenditure would engender in someone like Javier Aritza.

  And this wasn’t a rolling resort, even if it looked like one.

  No, this was somebody’s personal land yacht. Complete with a crew and staff of three to five hundred. One of the most expensive vehicles ever manufactured on the surface of any planet.

  Chicken feed.

  The man seated beside Javier stirred. He might have been napping. All the more reason to wake him up.

  “Because someone wanted to hire a bad-ass mercenary named Navarre,” the man replied, stretching. “And she seems to think I’m one of the few people in the galaxy able to locate the man.”

  Javier nodded. It was true. He was.

  Zakhar Sokolov. Captain of the private service strike corvette, Storm Gauntlet, a vessel meandering back and forth across legality as situations demanded.

  Average, if you met him on the street. 1.8 meters tall. Ordinary build. Shaved head with a salt and pepper Van Dyke. Mid-fifties lines on his face. Nothing interesting at all.

  At least until he turned on that Captain thing. Then he was all charm and bad-ass.

  Javier had never gotten the hang of being a command officer. Liking people was probably a requirement.

  A bridge too far.

  “That explains why I’m here, Zakhar,” Javier volleyed the conversation back across the tiny enclosed space. “Not you.”

  Javier watched the man who was technically his superior officer, possibly his owner, depending on how you wanted to slice things, chew on his next sentence, like a cow with good cud.

  Whatever lies were coming must be pretty amazing.

  Since Javier, posing as Navarre, had rescued his own mortal enemy, Djamila Sykora, Zakhar Sokolov’s Dragoon, at Meehu Platform, Javier’s relationship with Sokolov and the rest of the crew had changed. It had really started at A’Nacia, when he saved all their butts from the killer-robot mine field, and then rescued Wilhelmina Teague from eternity, before he made the rest of them rather wealthy.

  The crew no longer really considered him a slave they had captured. Even an honored one like a modern Janissary. No, these days he was just another officer in charge, just another Centurion.

  The Science Officer. And all that implied.

  Those folks he generally liked well enough to let them out of his revenge.

  But he hadn’t paid off his debt bond to Sokolov. And he still hadn’t killed Sykora.

  “That comes after we meet with the contact,” Captain Sokolov said simply. “You and I are going to need to have a conversation. Without the rest of the crew around.”

  Javier bit back the sarcastic riposte poised on the tip of his tongue. The last one of those conversations had sent him to rescuing Sykora from her captor, when he could have easily fled across deep space and made it home and left the woman to her well-deserved fate. And he could have taken Suvi with him, still tucked quietly into her handheld scout probe, even if now it was the size of a soccer ball.

  He hadn’t, because he had given his word as an officer and a gentleman of Bryce, according to the statement on the commissioning papers each man had received upon graduating the Academy and becoming officers of the Concord Navy, once upon a long time ago. Literally, his ransom, to use the archaic term.

  Going back on that, even with people like this, would make Javier the one thing he despised most in the galaxy.

  A pirate.

  One of those conversations, Zakhar?

  Javier held his tongue, and his peace. They were on the final approach to the last car of the Land Leviathan.

  Soon enough, he would know the truth.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to kill as many people this time.

  Unless they were pirates.

  Javier really didn’t want to go anywhere as Navarre, even in his own mind, but the situation demanded it. Someone wanted to hire the psycho who had killed Abraam Tamaz and his entire crew of the Q-freighter Salekhard. Singlehandedly.

  This wasn’t going to be a tea and crumpets kind of meeting.

  If he didn’t owe Zakhar Sokolov so much money, he might have refused. Zakhar might have even let it go.

  But there was a lot of potential money on the table. Maybe enough to get his freedom and buy his botany station back in the deal.

  No chicken should have to spend one day more than necessary with pirates. Even nice ones like Storm Gauntlet.

  They landed with the soft blush that told Javier most passengers boarding like this were screamers when something happened they found unwelcome.

  Up close, the Land Leviathan made all of Javier’s dreams of avarice suddenly junior varsity. It got worse as his eyes progressed from place to place.

  Entire walkways, everywhere he looked, appeared t
o be plated over with gold. Granted, most younger solar systems had enough of the material that it had almost no value in and of itself except as decoration, but people still used it as a measure of wealth. Of Power.

  Of the ability to just have tons of the stuff as ornament. Simply because it was gold.

  They were met at the landing by a hard man in a well-tailored suit, and two killers in loose, black outfits. Javier knew the type. One dressed up to impress you with his culture. Two more to kill you if you got out of line.

  Hard people. It was a hard business.

  Navarre came to the fore as Javier handed the man in the suit his smaller belt, with the holster for a pulse pistol and a fighting poniard. This wasn’t that kind of meeting. He hoped.

  He settled for walking in the man’s wake, Sokolov trailing, with the two others behind that.

  The desert planet was hot, so he had cut down what he thought of as the Navarre costume.

  Twenty-ring lace up boots in glossy neo-leather, with curb-stomping soles and hull-metal toes. Bright red laces all the way up and double-knotted at the top.

  Knee-length britches out of dark maroon corduroy, with heavy leather combat padding along the outer edge in case someone out of a Chop-sockey movie kicked him. The socks were much lighter fabric today, and only as tall as the boots, rather than covering the knees.

  Sixteen-centimeter-tall leather belt around his middle, with a canary-yellow sash tied around that.

  Up top, the sleeveless doublet in that same maroon corduroy as the britches, but with two rows of buttons that ran from the inside of his hips to the middle of his collar-bones.

  He had skipped the white shirt he would normally wear underneath and left the top part of the doublet unbuttoned, showing off muscles and hairy bits. Time well spent in the gym over the last six months.

  And just for the hell of it, Javier had kept the cloth tied around his forehead, with a Neu Berne Assault Marine logo in the middle.

  It was a look. It had even worked to convince people that he was a sadistic killer.

  Killing a lot of people at Meehu Platform had helped.

  But those people had been pirates. They’d had it coming.

  The long walk finally ended somewhere around the third car back from the prow. Javier had lost track of the number of times they had exited a section into heat, crossed a catwalk, and entered the next. He probably should have been paying closer attention, but Navarre was an unwelcome guest in his head.

  If only there was some other way to do this, without pretending to be him.

  The last surprise today was probably the least surprising, if he’d have given it more thought and less brooding. There weren’t that many people who even knew about Navarre.

  And there she was.

  The only time they had met had been on Meehu Platform, when Javier as Navarre was busy getting close enough to Tamaz to rescue Sykora.

  Stewart Lace.

  Javier had looked up her name later, after Tamaz was dead, to make sure he wouldn’t have a problem with her.

  She was still dressed like a banker and still in good shape, if thickening with age. Mid-fifties, perhaps, from the lines about her, so around Zakhar’s age, and a decade older than Javier. A little more solid than he liked them, but still very well-kept.

  Her beauty had that slowly-aging thing going, coming down from an amazing starting point, like the best wines, even as she wore little makeup and kept her hair buzzed to perhaps three or four millimeters long.

  Her eyes were what did it. They had the intelligence of an alpha predator, even as they smiled rather warmly at him.

  Javier wondered if she had started out as a lawyer or a prostitute forty years ago, and how she had managed to retain some level of humanity for this long. She wasn’t really his type, Javier liked his women skinnier, but she was probably one of the few he had ever met who could have a good conversation over breakfast, afterwards.

  He doubted that was why she had brought him here.

  She rose as they entered the cozy little salon, done up in soft pastel fabrics and paint. Peach. Aqua. Seafoam.

  Silk sofas and antique wooden side tables. Money.

  “Captain Sokolov,” Lace said as she shook his hand. “Captain Navarre. I’m surprised you didn’t bring your dangerous sidekick.”

  “She’s guarding the ship,” Javier said with a noncommittal growl.

  Technically, the woman was referring to ’Mina, but she was hopefully gone away and safe. Converting the galaxy up from being heathens into civilized folk. Sykora could probably be convinced to sub for her, in a pinch. Especially if she got to beat people up.

  Djamila Sykora lived for that.

  “I see,” Lace said. “Please, join me.”

  Javier had to suppress an inappropriate giggle. The room had been set for tea and cucumber sandwiches.

  Seriously. Antique, bone china. Small plates with cucumber and dill-cream triangles of bread.

  All those classes in deportment, back at Bryce Academy, all that preparation to be here now as Navarre, and here he was.

  Both he and Sokolov managed to drink with pinkies out. Concord Fleet Officers, and all that.

  Javier could see the woman smile knowingly as she watched them.

  So, surprised you got someone with more manners than Abraam Tamaz, lady? Two of them?

  The only thing he got out of the small talk was that she didn’t own the Land Leviathan, but was representing the iron snake’s owner in this deal. So stealing it was probably right out. And buying it outright would take the annual budget of some medium-sized planets.

  Javier made a note to check his investment portfolio sometime. Most of it had been cut to pieces when Sokolov’s crew had dismembered Suvi. The rest was hidden in civilized places where Sokolov’s pirates wouldn’t let him go without adult supervision. And he had no intention of letting that bunch of yahoos anywhere near his bank account.

  That could wait until he got free and had to start over.

  “I’ve been doing some research,” Madame Lace said finally, placing her teacup just so and leaning back with a vague smile. “Captain Navarre didn’t seem to exist before the incident on Meehu Platform. And seems to have disappeared afterwards.”

  Javier felt Sokolov tense, ever so slightly.

  He was personally neither here nor there.

  The moment stretched.

  “And?” Javier finally said.

  Her smile turned a few degrees warmer. Not actually warm, but less predatory.

  It was just the three of them, with hard-man and his two killers somewhere outside.

  Either she trusted her defensive systems, or didn’t think violence would come up in the conversation.

  “And so that entire operation appears to have been an elaborate con job,” she said. “Designed to get someone close enough to Captain Tamaz to rescue a hostage, escape safely, and lead him to his death.”

  She paused, in case one of the men wanted to speak, but Sokolov had clammed up.

  “Close enough,” Javier finally demurred. “I would have phrased it: …and kill him like a rabid dog.”

  “I see.”

  More pause.

  “The galaxy is a better place without people like Abraam Tamaz,” Javier finally offered.

  “Indeed, one could make that case,” Lace said, her eyes boring in on Javier. “And if I hadn’t been there at the time, Captain Navarre would have probably disappeared from all human cognition, wouldn’t he?”

  Javier just sat and watched her for a few moments. Navarre would have said something cold and biting into the gap. Wanted to. Was at the tip of his mind, offering the words.

  Certainly, that would be one path forward.

  Just turn into Navarre full-time until he paid off his debt to Sokolov and got his life back. It would make things simpler. Cleaner.

  And it would take him back to where he was before. Years ago. Put that blackness back in the center of his soul, instead of stuffed into a locked closet, wh
ere it belonged. Remind him why he had two ex-wives.

  Not for you to unlock, lady. Not for any of you.

  “So,” Javier ventured, shoving Navarre to one side. “Did you need princesses rescued or dragons slain?”

  Navarre was still more of a Kill the princess, rape the troll, burn the treasure sort of person, anyway.

  Stewart Lace studied Javier closely. More closely.

  Like she could see the two men at war inside his head.

  She smiled with just the right level of empathy. Neither of his wives had ever managed that.

  “A little of both, actually,” she finally replied.

  Javier felt an eyebrow ascend of its own volition.

  “There exists a box,” Lace continued, holding up her hands to encompass a space just large enough to store a pair of tiny stiletto heels with frilly puffs on the front. “Through a complicated chain of conversations, my principal has been asked to see to the destruction of the contents of that box. They will pay well. There is an even greater bounty if the contents can be recovered instead.”

  Javier leaned back and scowled. Navarre was close to saying I told you so in his head.

  Anyone wanting Navarre wasn’t going to be particular about collateral damage. That man had a reputation, at least with the bystanders.

  There hadn’t been any survivors.

  “How much?” Javier asked, cutting to the chase to see how serious these people were.

  The number she quoted as an opening bid nearly made Javier drop his tea cup. He could suddenly see while Sokolov was here.

  That man had a vested interest in making sure the money passed through his hands first.

  Javier’s cut would still get him within spitting distance of buying his freedom. Another year, or another score like that, and he could probably buy back his chickens and his botany station outright, as well.