by S. J. Bryant
LAST FIGHT
S.J. Bryant
Copyright 2017 Saffron Bryant
Published by Saffron Bryant at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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CHAPTER ONE
"I asked for a steak!" Aart slapped his hand against the side of the food generator and glared at the plate of fish he'd been given. He held it away from his body to get away from the smell but it filled the small interior of his ship and the air recirculator blew it straight back into his face.
He jabbed the buttons on the food generator until a zap of electricity hit his fingers and the screen went black.
"Ow." He jumped back and shook his stinging hand. "Fine. Fish it is. Again."
He squeezed into the chair that served as command center and dining-table of his ship and put the plate on top of the controls. He scrunched his nose up and forced himself to eat a mouthful.
At least the fish almost tasted like chicken.
The old ship rumbled and rattled but the noise of loose screws had come to sound like home. He'd never quite been able to get rid of the smell of burning plastic—which was now overlaid with fish—or the oil stain near the entrance, and aside from basic voice commands, his ship had none of the technology he'd seen in other vessels, yet it was still better than being a slave on Goldson.
The front window flashed and the stars were replaced with text. Tyra Calling.
"Put her through," Aart said.
Tyra's face appeared on the screen. "Hey, how's my favorite newbie bounty hunter doing?"
"I've been doing this for three years! I'm not a newbie."
"Still a newbie to me. So, how are you?"
"Not great. The food generator keeps trying to kill me."
"Why don't you fix it?"
"I wouldn't even know where to start; I'd be more likely to electrocute myself."
Tyra tsked and shook her head. She flicked her hand and a screwdriver appeared. She pointed it at Aart and said, "You are going to have to learn some kind of mechanical skills if you're going to get by as a bounty hunter."
"Can't I just pay someone?"
"Have you suddenly come into a bunch of money you haven't told me about?"
"No."
"Then I'd say no."
"This isn't anywhere near as glamorous as you and the others made it sound." Aart glanced at the rusted pipe near his head. He'd had to repair it twice in the last month and steam leaked out around the rubber seal he'd made.
"A couple of years on the job and you want to be driving the latest Zephyr class?"
"No, I just want something where I can eat without banging my elbows on the walls."
"You could always go back to Ipheron or Goldson." Tyra grinned and wiggled her eyebrows.
Aart rolled his eyes. "I'm not that desperate. I just wish I could get better jobs than delivering packages for fifty credits; that doesn't even cover fuel."
"It takes time. People are starting to notice you; when that happens, you'll get better jobs."
"I know," Aart said. "I know. I'm sorry. I just don't like fish and it seems to be the only thing the food generator can make at the moment."
"The Cloud has a bunch of manuals for food generators. It would be easy to fix."
Aart glanced over his shoulder at the machine. The screen was still black and a small wisp of smoke snaked up through the door. As much as he wanted the machine fixed, he didn't want to risk electrocution. He'd just put up with it until he earned enough to pay someone to fix it.
"Shockingly, I didn't call to listen to you whining," Tyra said.
"Why did you call?"
"Just wanted to let you know I'm going on a job, deep cover. So don't get into trouble because I will not be able to get you out again."
"What trouble could I get in delivering packages?"
"Just a friendly warning."
"Alright, thanks."
"Chin up, newbie. You of all people should know how much worse off you could be."
"You're right," Aart said. "Sorry, I'm fine."
"Good. I'll call you when I'm finished the job and we can catch up for a drink."
"Deal."
The screen flickered and Tyra's face was replaced with stars.
Aart forced himself to sit up straighter and eat his fish with a smile. Tyra was right, he should be grateful for what he had. It wasn't that long ago that he'd been starving with everybody else in the mines of Goldson.
That thought made his stomach drop and he had to force himself to swallow the mashed fish in his mouth. All those poor people he'd left behind. Some of them would be dead by now, who had survived?
Aart squeezed his eyes shut and shoved the thoughts aside. When he could, he'd go back and rescue them; he'd rescue all of them. But he couldn't do it now with no resources, no backup, and a ship that was little more than an accident waiting to happen. But one day…
Aart took another bite, but the chicken-flavored fish tasted worse with each mouthful. He shoved the plate aside and wiped his oily fingers on his pants. He needed a break, some high-paying job that would get him out of the rut he'd fallen into.
The first few months bounty hunting had been beyond his wildest dreams; he'd seen more planets then he'd ever knew existed and met hundreds of people, but he hadn't really gotten anywhere. Even after three years, he had no more credits then when he'd first left Ipheron because he had to keep spending them on the ship to keep it flying. He hadn't even learned a specialty like Tyra had with her explosives. He'd tried learning lots of different things, the Cloud had information on everything, but it appeared that he didn't have a special talent for anything.
He shook himself, wallowing in self-pity wasn't going to get him credits, or get him a new food generator; he needed a high-paid job.
"Bring up the jobs list."
The screen filled with text, like hundreds of sticky-notes plastered across the ship's windscreen.
Recruiting armed forces for hostile take-over.
Security required for transport over Tabryn.
Prison guard required for Ankar.
"Whoa, I am not going to Ankar. Filter for things that are nearby and that don't need special equipment."
Some of the notes disappeared. Aart bit his lip and scanned the job lists. Most of them were deliveries or short-term security. He'd done a couple of security gigs with Tyra, but they were a lot of stress for not much mo
ney, plus they usually meant being grounded on some back-water planet. No, he needed something high-paying and interesting, like whatever Tyra was up to. She could have invited him along; he could do deep cover, and if it meant some extra credits…
He sighed, he couldn't expect Tyra to keep giving him handouts; he had to get by on his own.
"Get rid of anything that pays less than two hundred credits."
All but one of the notes faded.
Aart sighed. "Great."
The note expanded.
One thousand credits for return of missing daughter. Please help.
Aart leaned in closer and reread the job description. A thousand credits was a lot of money, and if he could actually help someone at the same time…
He'd never done a missing persons case before, but he could at least try. At worst, he'd be wasting time that he could have spent delivering a package for a measly fifty credits; at best, he could save a girl's life and make a thousand credits.
"Contact the advertiser and arrange a meeting."
CHAPTER TWO
Aart stepped out of his ship and the stench of unwashed bodies and human waste washed over him. Short one-story buildings clustered together between piles of rubbish and make-shift hovels. A man peered out at him from behind a sheet of corrugated metal and licked his lips.
Aart laid a hand on his gun. He'd never been to Snoth before, but it made Ipheron look like Haven Major. He'd arrived just on twilight; long shadows stretched away from him and cast everything in purple shades.
The door to his ship hissed closed behind him but he didn't want to leave it. What if some of the people decided to strip it for parts?
He cleared his throat. "Um… if my ship is still in one piece when I get back, I'll give everyone some fish."
The old man ducked back behind the piece of metal and Aart heard other people scurrying about, although he couldn't see them.
"Good," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
He held his head high and strode from his ship. His boots squelched in a pile of something soft and wet but he couldn't bring himself to look down. He turned right at the first corner, following the instructions he'd been given by the job poster.
At the end of an alley stood a dingy building with a buzzing neon sign above it that read 'The Rat's Nest'. Every few seconds an insect flew into the sign and died with a sharp buzz and a wisp of smoke.
Aart pushed open the grimy door and the stink of stale beer and acrid smoke spilled out into the street. His eyes watered and the back of his throat burned, but he forced himself inside.
All conversation stopped and the ragged patrons squinted at him through the haze of smoke.
Aart froze, mind racing. Why had he taken this job? Why hadn't he researched Snoth before he arrived? If he'd known how bad it was… And Tyra had warned him that she wouldn't be able to help if he got into trouble. So why had he chosen to take a job like this now? He laid a hand on the plasma pistol at his waist and stepped back so that his spine pressed against the door. He could just slip out again, the patrons would go back to their business and he could be inside his ship within ten minutes. With his spare hand he reached around and felt for the door handle.
"Are you the bounty hunter?" A thin man emerged from the smoke with cheeks so sunken that his head looked like a skull.
Aart jumped and his breath caught in his throat. "Uh—yes."
"Oh, thank you, thank you." The man snatched Aart's hand and dragged him away from the door, past the tables, to a bench near the back. Conversation resumed but many of the customers continued to watch Aart like a piece of meat.
Aart swallowed and glanced back through the smoke at the door. He could still leave; he'd make some kind of apology and then slip out—
The man shoved Aart into a seat and took the one opposite. He pushed a filthy glass toward Aart, dark bits floated in the murky, gray liquid.
There was no way Aart was going to drink it.
"I'm so glad you came. I'm Jaron."
"Aart." Aart kept one hand on the table and the other on his holster. If the people of Snoth were as desperate as they looked then his clean clothes and cred-sticks would make a tempting target.
Idiot! While Tyra was out of contact he should have taken a simple delivery job, not decided to be adventurous! He'd just play cool until he had a chance to get away, back to his ship, then he'd spend a very long time thinking about his decision making process.
"My poor daughter, Delia, is missing." Jaron's mouth trembled and he took a long swallow from his own filthy glass.
"Why don't you start from the beginning," Aart said. His eyes darted about the room but despite his own fear, his heart ached for the man who looked like he didn't have two credits to rub together.
"My poor Delia went to Raster to work on the farms. I didn't want her to go, but I've got three other ones to look after too and she wanted to help. We need the money, you see. I heard from her at the start; she'd call to let me know she was all right, but then two weeks ago… silence. I tried talking to the overseers but they wouldn't answer my questions. I just want to know she's okay."
Aart frowned. He'd never heard of Raster before, but if it was anything like the nearby resources planets, then Delia's chances didn't look good. His stomach clenched; he wanted to run for the door and get as far away from Snoth as he could, but he couldn't just turn his back on the desperate man and his daughter. "Just keep calm and tell me everything. The more I know, the better I can help you."
"She's a beautiful girl, brown hair, twenty years old, and strong. I have a picture." Jaron fished inside his shirt pocket and his grimy hand came out with a torn picture clutched between his fingers. He slid it across the table to Aart.
"Are you sure she's not just having a good time?"
A muscle in Jaron's jaw clenched. "A good time? You don't know much about Raster, do you?"
"No."
"No one has fun on Raster. You sign your life over for your contract and you work every waking hour. No one is allowed to leave until their contract is up, and if they don't make their quotas… they have to stay longer."
"How was she keeping in touch?"
"Video call. But I haven't heard from her… and what if something terrible has happened?" Jaron bowed his head and his shoulders shook.
"I'm sure she's fine," Aart said; although if he knew anything about how the Confederacy worked, that wasn't true at all.
"Please will you find her? A thousand credits if you give her to me safe."
"I'll do everything I can to help." The mention of a thousand credits made Aart's heart flutter, and for a moment, he forgot his surroundings. With a thousand credits he could get one of the top-line food generators; he'd heard those could even make drinks.
He shook himself and focused back on the present. There was a long way between him and a new food generator; beginning with getting off of Snoth with his life and ship still in-tact, not to mention actually finding Delia safe and well.
"Oh thank you, thank you. Let me buy you another drink."
Aart glanced down at his untouched glass of swirling gray that looked like old dish water. "Uh, thank you, but I should get started straight away."
"Of course! Thank you, thank you." Jaron snatched Aart's hand and pumped it up and down. "Thank you."
Aart freed his hand, nodded, and then peeled himself from the sticky bench before weaving his way back through the tables. He tried not to meet anyone's eyes in case they felt the need to start something, and kept one hand on his gun and the other on his cred-sticks.
He managed to make it back out onto the street without being robbed or killed, and once there, he paused. He drew a deep breath. It didn't smell any better than inside the bar, but at least it wasn't filled with smoke. Night had come while he was inside but there weren't any street lamps.
Aart's skin crawled. The deep shadows to either side could have been hiding anything. He reached into his coat and pulled out a glowball. Tyra had
insisted he buy one on his first mission. At the time, he'd resented spending the ten credits; now he wished he'd bought two.
He squeezed the spongy ball and it lit up, casting a bright green glow across the street. It caught on a filthy hand, stretched out toward Aart's throat.
Aart jumped back and yanked his pistol from his belt. "Stay back."
The hand whipped back out of the circle of light and something scurried away from him in the darkness.
Aart turned in a tight circle but nothing moved inside the circle of light. Still, he had no illusions; he could hear and smell them at the edge of the darkness.
If they worked together, they could attack him and steal everything like a pack of rats.
Cold sweat prickled Aart's back. He had to get to his ship; at least then he'd have a metal door to protect him.
He inched forward, gun up. His boot slipped in a slimy puddle, but he couldn't risk looking down. He grimaced and kept going.
He turned left out of the alley and crept down the street. He passed the piece of corrugated metal where the man with sunken eyes had been hiding, and then the light of the glowball reflected off the shiny sides of his ship. He walked faster, sure that he could hear footsteps slapping the ground behind him. The door hissed open and he dove inside, heart thudding against his ribs.
He landed on the floor then spun so that his gun aimed out of the entrance and into the cold night.
It felt as though the door took an eternity to close but he kept his gun trained on the darkness the whole time. The door clicked shut and Aart sagged, his arms dropping to the ground and his gun clattering against the metal floor. He stared up at the rusted ceiling. The familiar scent of burned plastic had never smelled so good.
Three hard knocks echoed from the other side of the door.
Aart jumped and his heart leapt up into his throat.
"Where's our fish? Your ship's here, ain't it?"
