by Jake Bible
“No,” Nimm said. She looked tired and barely glanced at Roak. “Even with Hessa’s help, we haven’t come close to accessing the drives’ data.”
“I thought maybe it was another trick like at the facility,” Reck said. “That Bishop made it so only you would know how to get into them, but after the second week, we realized that these are locked down tight and we need a tech with some serious skills.”
“Could have told you that,” Roak said.
“But you didn’t so we’ve spent weeks trying everything possible,” Nimm said with a huff.
“We’re still trying everything possible,” Reck said.
“Even though you figured out you need a tech with some serious skills?” Roak asked.
“What else were we going to do while we waited for you to come back from the dead?” Reck asked.
“I wasn’t that bad,” Roak said.
“Did Hessa tell you what that med pod had to overcome to fix you so you can be standing here?” Reck snapped. “Thirty-two days, Roak!”
“You were in a med pod for five of those days,” Roak said. “So, really it was twenty-seven.”
Reck clocked him hard and fast and Roak went down. He tried to get back up, but Reck planted a boot on his shoulder and shoved him back to the floor of the cargo hold.
“You need to listen and listen closely,” Reck said. “The galaxy has changed since you’ve been asleep. The GF and Skrang Alliance are almost at war. Full war, Roak. Back to the days when entire planets and systems get wiped out for no reason other than one of the sides wants that planet or system so the other side decides they can’t have it. Remember those days?”
“Those were good hunting days,” Roak said.
“I should put a plasma bolt between your eyes,” Reck said and walked away. She punched a crate and the side of the crate buckled.
“Both sides are back at the table and talking over changes to the War Treaty,” Nimm said. “The GF is a vote away from conscripting citizens into the military in case the talks fall apart. Which they might. We’ve been able to hide because we’re sure that the GF, and Drop Team Zero, have much, much bigger issues to deal with.”
“As far as we can tell, no one is looking for us anymore,” Reck said from where she stood fuming.
“What about Father?” Roak asked. “Any sign of him?”
“Nothing overt, but you can guarantee that the reason tensions haven’t eased is because he keeps throwing wrenches into the works,” Reck said. “If his issue is Mother, then he is willing to sacrifice this entire galaxy to get at her.”
“But he hasn’t tried to make contact?” Roak asked.
“No,” Reck replied.
“Good,” Roak said and picked himself up off the floor. “I thought that when we had the drives he’d come for us. I’m glad I was wrong.”
“What have you been right about?” Nimm asked. “Did Hessa tell you we’re broke and on rations?”
“I had my allotted protein sandwich and three-minute steam before I came down here,” Roak said.
“And you saw Yellow Eyes?” Reck asked.
“Yes. He’ll make it.”
“You don’t know that,” Reck snarled.
“Hey!” Roak shouted and held up his hands. “Hey. Listen. I have a plan. I do. And it’s the right plan. There is an element of all of this that no one is paying attention to. I doubt Father realizes that I know the element is connected. My plan is to track this element down and use it to our advantage. If we can find some sympathetic ears within the GF, and possibly within the Skrang Alliance, then we might be able to stop Father and bring peace to the galaxy at the same time.”
“Are you shitting me with that crap?” Reck asked.
“Fine. We’ll be able to find Father,” Roak replied. “Peace to the galaxy is someone else’s problem.”
“And what is this plan, Roak?” Nimm asked. “What element are we going to find that will get us out of this mess?”
“First, we’re going to do a little hunting,” Roak said. “We need chits. I’m too known now, but Reck might be able to still slide in and out of some of the areas that are always looking for a good hunter. We get enough chits to keep us in business then we go find the person that will unlock these drives for us. And that person also has the element we need to take down Father. Trust me.”
The looks on Reck’s and Nimm’s faces were less than trusting.
“We don’t really have many other options, do we?” Roak pressed. “You two have been yelling at me that”—”
“Fine,” Reck said. “Tell us who we need to find to get these drives open.”
“Someone that I was going to hunt down eventually anyway,” Roak said with a grin.
32.
The lounge was nice. Very nice.
The patrons were nicer than the lounge, but they didn’t look like they were slumming. Many had clothes on that were shabby in appearance, but that was an illusion. One item of the shabby attire cost more than the waitstaff made in a month. The patrons were there to look the part of carefree galactic travelers, but none of them truly were.
The rich didn’t enjoy getting that dirty.
In the far corner of the lounge, in a cozy booth with a bottle of Klav whiskey on the table in front of him sat a man.
Average height, average size, above average looks. Sandy blond hair with deep brown eyes; a look in those eyes that said he could take beings to places they’d never dreamed of or he could take them to their worst nightmares.
He poured the whiskey into the glass in front of him. He glanced at the empty glass opposite his then scanned the lounge as he waited for his guest to arrive. The man was relaxed, poised, prepared. But he was also getting impatient. The way his foot tapped under the table was a dead giveaway.
Roak turned. He was seated on a stool at the elegant bar across the room from the far corner, from the cozy booth, from the impatient man. Roak pretended he did not care about the impatient man, but he did. Without making it obvious, he studied the man for a second before standing and crossing the lounge.
Roak did not have light armor on or a utilitarian shirt and pants combo. He was dressed in an expensive suit, but not too expensive, with shoes that matched and a very small bulge under his jacket. He had to restrain himself from tugging at his collar.
“I hate you all for making me wear this,” Roak whispered.
“This was your plan,” Reck reminded him in his ear, the comms fully active despite the lounge having a reputation for jamming comms in order to maintain the patrons’ privacy.
“I should have rethought this part,” Roak said. “Had you come talk to the guy. You could wear a dress and make him drool.”
“That’s kind of discomforting to hear,” Nimm interrupted in the comm. “She is your sister.”
“We’re not really related,” Reck said.
“Still,” Nimm said.
“He’s spotted me,” Roak said, his lips barely moving.
The impatient man gave Roak a quizzical look then stood up.
“Mr. Klo? Bex Klo?” the impatient man asked.
“That’s me,” Roak said.
“Excellent,” the impatient man said and waved towards the opposite side of the booth. “Please. Sit. Whiskey?”
Roak smiled at the bottle. “I’d love some. Only a fool passes up good Klavian whiskey.”
“The Klavs are the best in the galaxy,” the impatient man said as Roak took a seat. The man sat as well and poured Roak a triple. “So, I was told you might have some information I’d be interested in. Please, enlighten me.”
“I didn’t catch your name,” Roak said. “You know mine, I’d like to hear yours.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your name. I’d like to hear your name.”
“Mr. Klo, you asked to meet me. Are you saying you don’t know my name?”
“I didn’t say that at all,” Roak replied then sipped his whiskey. “Eight Million Gods damn that’s good.”
&n
bsp; “Roak,” Reck hissed in his ear. “Classy. You need to be classy.”
The impatient man laughed and lifted his glass.
“Eight Million Gods damn it is good,” the impatient man said and continued laughing. Then he set his glass down. “Talbot. Smet Talbot is my name.”
Roak nodded and finished his whiskey. He gestured to the bottle. “May I?”
“Please.”
Roak poured and downed that shot then stood up.
“Maybe I have the wrong person. I apologize for wasting your time and for the cost of the whiskey.” Roak reached into his pocket. “Let me cover my drinks.”
“Nonsense. The drinks are on me. And, please, sit down, Mr. Klo. I’m not sure what I said to upset you, but surely we can work this out.”
“Well, unless you are willing to tell me your name, I’m afraid there is nothing to work out,” Roak said and gave a quick bow.
“Sit, Mr. Roak,” the man said, his tone ice cold. “All exits are covered. You won’t make it three meters before you’re taken down.”
“That so?” Roak said without showing any surprise that the man knew his real name. Because Roak expected the man to know; otherwise, he really was wasting his time. “You sure?”
The man stared up at Roak then tapped at his ear.
“B’urn? Sit rep,” the man said.
“I see you got the fancy comms too,” Roak said, still standing.
“B’urn?” The man called again. “Tana? Sit rep. Now.”
“No one’s answering because your friends are busy right now being tied up and restrained in a side room off the corridor,” Roak said. “Now. What is your real name?”
The man glared at Roak. Roak patted his jacket.
“You’re probably very fast,” Roak said. “I bet you can pull that pistol of yours and fire before I can blink. I’m fast too. Want to see who’s faster? Or do you want to tell me your real name so we can get down to the reason I’m here?” Roak looked about at the unsuspecting patrons. “That woman over there is worth more than half the FIS’s yearly budget. What would happen if she got caught in the crossfire?”
“Sit,” the man snarled.
“Name,” Roak replied.
The man ground his teeth then switched tactics and relaxed back into the booth.
“Sno,” the man said. “Denman Sno.”
“Good,” Roak said and sat down.
“Your colleagues are B’urn Sc’oll and Tana Ashool,” Roak said. “Agents Reign and Stand respectively. Right?”
“Right,” Sno said.
“Which makes you Agent Prime,” Roak said and poured more whiskey. He lifted the glass and tipped it toward Sno. “Glad to meet you, Agent Prime.”
“I’m not going to say the same thing, Roak,” Sno said. “If you have harmed my colleagues in any way, you will wish you were never born.”
“I have to admit that I’m not sure I actually was born,” Roak said. “I’ve had more than a few beings insist I was vat grown, but I don’t remember, so who cares?”
“Why are we meeting, Mr. Roak?”
“Roak. Just Roak.”
“Why are we meeting, Roak?”
“Because we have a mutual grudge we both need to take care of. I have been hunting for months for this being and he is good. Very good. I honestly didn’t think I’d need to seek your help with this job. But most of the time, not every time, but most of the time, when I thought I had the guy, you were one step ahead of me and had chased him off.”
Sno narrowed his eyes. “Continue.”
“Your boss wanted to have a chat with me a while back. He even sent Drop Team Zero after me,” Roak continued. “Bold choice, but the wrong choice. Way wrong. I have no intention of spending the rest of my life in a GF cell being poked and prodded and interrogated by bureaucrats that have no clue what is really happening out there.”
“Oh? And what is really happening out there, Roak? Besides us being at war with the Skrang Alliance again.”
“Family matter I plan on cleaning up,” Roak said. “With your help.”
“Help with a mutual grudge.”
“Exactly. Help with a mutual grudge.”
“What’s to say I would even be remotely interested in helping you, Roak? What’s stopping me from calling down Drop Team Zero on this place right now? Would there be fallout and would that fallout jeopardize my career? Yes. But then you are Roak and I have a feeling there are plenty of GF officials that would give me a pass for such a hammer blow.”
“Maybe. But don’t you want to know what the grudge is first?”
“Sure, Roak. What’s the grudge?”
Roak leaned forward and Sno did not move or look concerned.
“A guy. Little guy. Little annoying guy that owes me a lot of chits.”
“This is about money?” Sno exclaimed and a few heads turned their way.
“Calm down, calm down,” Roak said and patted the table. “This is not about money. I mean, yes, I plan on getting those chits because I always get paid, but this is about what this little guy has created. An element that isn’t on the board yet. I’d like to be the one that puts it on the board, not him.”
“Does this little guy have a name?” Sno asked, suddenly looking very interested. Very interested, indeed.
“He sure as all the Hells does,” Roak said and leaned back. “Hammon. Pol fucking Hammon.”
Sno watched Roak for a long while. Roak watched Sno for a long while.
“Roak,” Sno said finally and poured them both the rest of the bottle of whiskey. “Now you have my attention. My full attention.”
The End
Read on for a free sample of Galactic Vice.
Author Bio:
Jake Bible, Bram Stoker Award nominated-novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, has entertained thousands with his horror, sci/fi, thriller, and adventure tales. He reaches audiences of all ages with his uncanny ability to write a wide range of characters and genres.
Jake is the author of the bestselling Z-Burbia series set in Asheville, NC, the bestselling Salvage Merc One, the Apex Trilogy (DEAD MECH, The Americans, Metal and Ash) and the Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter series for Severed Press. He is also the author of the YA zombie novel, Little Dead Man, the Bram Stoker Award nominated Teen horror novel, Intentional Haunting, the ScareScapes series, and the Reign of Four series for Permuted Press, as well as Stone Cold Bastards and the Black Box, Inc. series for Bell Bridge Books.
Find Jake at jakebible.com. Join him on Twitter @jakebible and find him on Facebook.
Look for other novels in Jake’s Galactic Fleet universe:
Salvage Merc One
Salvage Merc One: The Daedalus System
Drop Team Zero
Outpost Hell
Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter
Nebula Risen- A Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter novel
Razer Edge- A Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter novel
Paradox Slaughter- A Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter novel
Galactic Vice
Agent Prime
1.
The alarm sent Xew Co’m Tikk on a mad mission of slapping at the bedside table, three of his eight tentacle arms frantic to kill the Eight Million Gods awful noise before his wife woke up.
“Can’t you simply have that alert you in your comm implant?” Mess’a Tikk grumbled from her side of the bed. “Must we do this every morning, Xew?”
“I told you,” Xew said as he managed to finally kill the alarm. “Comm alarms don’t wake me up. They become part of my dreams and I sleep right through them. I need the—”
“Auditory dissonance of a separate alarm to wake me from slumber,” Mess’a interrupted as she finished the oft-spoken explanation for Xew’s annoying habit. “We’re gonna have to work on that.”
“Love, there is no working on over forty years of conditioning,” Xew said as he gulped several lungfuls of air so his invertebrate body could become rigid enoug
h for him to stand and stretch.
Being a Groshnel, Xew needed constant gulps of air in order to maintain a solid stature. He wasn’t like humans or Gwreqs or any of the vertebrate races that populated the galaxy. He was Groshnel and in order to function, a thousand rigid air sacks had to be constantly filled and refilled with air.
Other races saw Groshnels as soft, which technically they were, but all Groshnels knew that their perceived weakness was their greatest strength. They were flexible to the point of being able to slip through cracks that even the thinnest of humans couldn’t conceive of fitting through. Not to mention they could take a punch better than ninety percent of the galactic races without sustaining damage. And having eight arms certainly wasn’t a bad thing, especially in the line of work Xew was in.
Xew shuffled across the room and grabbed the neatly folded pile of clothes he’d set on a chair the night before. Still barely awake, he continued his pre-dawn shuffle towards the lavatory.
“We have the Holcostelbans coming over for dinner tonight, don’t forget,” Mess’a mumbled sleepily from the bed as Xew closed the lavatory door.
“Got it,” Xew called back through the door.
He frowned as he set his clothes on the counter and stared at his haggard image in the mirror. Twenty years on the Jafla Base police force and another twenty as a detective in the Galactic Vice, Jafla Base Squad hadn’t been kind to his rubbery, invertebrate body. Xew couldn’t quite figure out why Mess’a, a decade his junior, had wanted to marry an old being like him.
But he wasn’t complaining.
At his age, he didn’t have time to complain and simply knowing he would be coming home to a beautiful being like Mess’a each night made getting through the days that much easier. A late-in-life marriage had probably saved his ass from the ubiquitous depression that oncoming retirement instilled in those coming close to the end of the job.
Xew stepped into the shower and activated the steam nozzle. Then his comm implant rang and he paused.
“Tikk. Go,” Xew answered.
