by Trey Deibel
The woman’s expression flipped from a dumfounded frown to a devilish grin. She snickered as she said, “Your threat means nothing. If what you say is true about this… research, then I assure you, the Immortals would bury that information before it ever saw the light of day. Now, if you don’t want to purchase anything, the exit… is right there.” She pointed to the door leading to the hangar.
“If you won’t help us find the way to the basement floors, then we’ll do it ourselves,” Malcolm threatened.
“I can’t allow you to do that.”
“What are you going to do… shoot us? You’d be breaking your infamous rule.”
“No… but we can hurt you… very… very badly,” she hissed.
Before Malcolm could retort, Brad stepped forward. “Diz iz takin’ too long.”
He reached in one of his many pouches and tossed out a few gold coins, marked in symbols and images Malcolm didn’t recognize. Malcolm looked upon the shocked face of the woman, then to Vaal’s mirrored face; his, too, must have shown the same surprise.
“Do what da Bozz askz,” Brad commanded.
“I-- Where d-did you get those coins?” the yuerr woman asked, shaking off her surprise.
“None’yah damn biz.”
“Uh… well, then… uh, who are you?”
“Someone dead.”
Dead? What did Brad mean by that? Malcolm wondered.
“S-sir, without identification, I cannot confirm your membership with the Immortals. For all I know, you could have stolen those coins,” said the woman. Vaal and Malcolm exchanged bewildered looks. Without a word, Brad headed for the entrance to the common room. “Sir, you need to pay to go in there. It won’t open unless you have a microchi--”
As Brad neared the doors, they hissed open and he turned back to face the lady. “How’z dat for identification?” He gestured to Malcolm and Vaal. “Let’z go.”
The hunters walked through the doors into a vast plaza. Multiple floors of bars that led to diners, which led to stores, and vice versa. Chains of every social extravaganza imaginable were mashed together in one convenient gathering. The breathtaking Common Square was full of hundreds of species, either socializing or keeping to themselves. As the largest mall in the known galaxy, the atmosphere was something special.
Led by Brad, the hunters weaved through crowds of people. The spikes protruding from Vaal’s shoulders motioned up and down, body language that indicated her frustration. Malcolm knew the story he told Vaal in Brad’s defense was no longer going to hold after this. Maybe it was time to tell her the truth.
Brad took the hunters down a private, darker hallway and halted at the entrance to a strip club hidden at the far end of the hall. Multicolored lights flickered through the designer glass. Music shook the ground with each beat.
“Dey ain’t gonna let you’z in... only me. Bozz, ya said shit ‘bout findin’ ah bounty hunta. If ya still lookin’ for one, den head tah da bar straight acrozz from here. I’ll get’cha info, Bozz.”
“Understood.”
Malcolm nodded, and Brad entered the strip club. Malcolm followed the directions Brad gave and headed straight out of the hallway, past the populated walkway, to a bar called Kimo and Son. Before he could reach a seat, Vaal tugged at him. He gazed up to see a face filled with frustration and hurt.
“Why would you continue to lie to me like that? From the moment I became a hunter, you told me… to my face, that Brad was a self-defense instructor. In what world does a self-defense instructor have a connection to an intergalactic gang? I-- If you continue to lie to me, I’ll have no choice but to seek reassignment!” Vaal hissed, “I mean, is t-that what you really want?”
“Vaal, you may be new to my unit, but you are no less important.”
“I… I am?”
“Vaal. Both Brad and I can be outlandishly stubborn and thick-headed characters. Neither of us has much of an emotional core… and hell, Brad may not even have a soul. But you… you offer compassion and a moral side to this unit. And to me, that’s an underrated and overlooked attribute.”
“I-I-- Thank you.”
Instead of going to the bar, Malcolm led Vaal to the adjacent establishment - a diner named Clorr’s Plate. “And you’re right. As a member of this unit, you should know who you’re working with.”
Malcolm took a seat at a two-person booth. Vaal sat across from him. A waitress, of the plauranian species, was at their table immediately to take their order.
“Welcome to Clorr’s Plate. We serve the tastiest coffee and chocolate mixed drinks around. What can I get you two?”
“I’ll take a chocolate spike,” Vaal answered.
“Same,” Malcolm answered. The waitress left them. “Listen to me, Vaal. Brad must not know about this conversation. He isn’t fond of people getting into his business. Understand?” Malcolm stressed.
“I won’t utter a word,” she confirmed.
“Brad and I have been hunters for a long time, and it’s taken that amount of time for me to piece together what I know now. He… he isn’t the most open person in the galaxy.”
“That’s obvious,” she said with a laugh.
“Brad didn’t have what you would call… a happy upbringing. When Brad was young, so young he hadn’t even made it into school, his parents… well… they were killed right in front of him, in their own home. The killer tied Brad to a chair and forced him to watch in horror as his parents were stabbed to death and cut to pieces. It was the killer’s M.O.”
“I-I can’t even imagine what that would do to someone that young,” she added.
“It gets worse. A few months later, he was adopted by two dor’o parents. One might think he would be raised as a typical dor’o would. But these dor’o parents were anything but typical. The father led a gang located in the Michigan Territory, while the mother managed a drug operation. These monstrous people had heard about Brad’s tragic past and took him in… molded him to their benefit… seduced him into their trades. At a mere fourteen, he became both parents’ go-to man for hits, and damn… damn, he was good at it. He developed a rage… a passion, really, for killing and spent every waking minute becoming the perfect killer.”
The waitress returned with Vaal and Malcolm’s drinks. Malcolm let his sit, while Vaal took a drink.
“I’ve seen what he can do first-hand. It’s like he fights with the will of a god behind him.” She put down her cup. “As time went on, a war between four gangs, including the one Brad was a part of, took place. It became a tragically personal war for all the gangs involved. Unfortunately for Brad, his gang was crippled by the death of the person in charge of their weapon arsenal. Without that man, they weren’t able to complete a major weapons transaction, which led to that gang’s downfall. Brad’s adoptive parents were both killed in the fallout, and he was captured by the ARW. Yes… you heard correct: Local and global police couldn’t capture, Brad so the ARW stepped in. They put not one, but two hunter squads on Brad. One squad died, and the other… they only returned with him because Brad had grown tired of running away.”
Telling this story about Brad brought questions to Malcolm’s mind. Originally, he’d thought Brad was only part of a local gang; yet, he proved today he had ties to the Immortals. It seemed there was still a lot to uncover in the mystery that was Brad Swift.
“Giving up doesn’t suit Brad’s style,” Vaal postulated.
“A man like Brad, a man with a will like his-- well, it needs something to fight for… something to keep the fire burning. Only… he lost everything.”
“Still… if he was that dangerous, how did he end up here?”
“The ARW saw this man… this perfect killer and knew they couldn’t miss an opportunity to use his skill set. They offered him something new to fight for and put him in an underground project created by the Order of Aegis called Project Glasshouse. The project was designed to create the perfect soldiers. Challenges and tasks of unimaginable levels of difficulty were constructed, which proved u
nattainable to even the greatest candidates and drove many to the brink of insanity… all except for Brad. He had something no other candidate matched: A relentless drive. Brad passed all these tasks and challenges. The project took away what was left of his sanity and turned him into a weapon. Though, one success wasn’t enough to save the project. Years of deaths and dropouts led to the project eventually being scrapped. Brad was then sent to the hunters program, where he passed in record time. From there, it’s history.”
“I can’t believe one man was put through all that,” she replied in awe.
“Brad is a man who’s been through more than anyone I’ve ever known. His past… his losses, his training, the experiments… they’ve left their marks on him. And for it, he lives life pissed off, shut away, refusing to make connections. He lives for the next hunt, which, to him, is just another hit without the killing. It’s like I said, he needs something to fight for… or fight against.”
“Sounds like a psychopath.” She took the last sip of her drink.
“Maybe he was born without empathy, maybe he was made that way later. Either way, he’s capable of feats I’ve known only him to be able to complete. And that’s why we need him. Now… let’s hit the bar and find us a bounty hunter.”
“Aye, aye.”
Vaal got up. Malcolm left his drink untouched at the table, along with some jemns, then headed for the adjacent bar called Kimo and Son, with Vaal right by his side.
Only a few seats were empty, and none was next to each other, meaning Vaal and Malcolm would have to sit separate. Malcolm took a seat at the far right and waited for a bartender, who was serving some alcoholic drinks to someone at the end. Vaal sat towards the middle on a seat that looked too small for her, and she was able to grab one of the bartender’s attention immediately.
“I don’t see many humans around here,” a woman seated next to Malcolm noticed.
Malcolm swiveled his seat in her direction; to his surprise, she was human, and he’d failed to notice her when he sat down. “I could say the same thing to you. What brings you out here?” Malcolm put on his best smile and rested his head against his upright arm.
“A much needed vacation. This place… it seemed like the only truly safe place from the war.” She took a sip of her drink.
“I understand.”
“And you…what’s a handsome black man like you doing here alone?”
Malcolm shrugged. “I’m not actually alone. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?” The woman fiddled with her hair.
“A bounty hunter.”
Her eyes flared. “Sounds dangerous. I like dangerous.”
A fire lit in Malcolm’s heart. “Thanks. You seem like a nice girl… one who shouldn’t be alone.”
“I brought a friend,” she admitted.
“Girl or guy?”
“Girl. So, I guess you can say I’m available,” she hinted.
“As much as I’d like to, I can’t,” Malcolm admitted. “I’m here on business, and soon I’ll be gone.”
“That’s a shame. You have such handsome cornrows and a strong, brown gaze to match. And those broad shoulders--” She bit her lip, looking one last time before leaving. She was much more direct than Malcolm expected.
When the bartender finally arrived, Malcolm gestured for him to lean in. “I got a tip that I should head here if I… wanted to get in touch with a bounty hunter.” Malcolm held up a few jemns.
The bartender signaled with his eyes for Malcolm to head around the back through the door right behind his seat; so, he did just that, pushing through the employee door and into the kitchen. The same bartender he had just spoken with arrived to meet Malcolm.
“Follow me.”
The bartender led Malcolm to the back of the kitchen, past all the shiny, metal preparation equipment and hard-working cooks, a jumble pot of different species. A sink was hidden in the corner of the kitchen, rusted, greasy, and filled with old dishes. The bartender pulled the right faucet handle, and there was a click, like a latch had just been opened. The bartender reached out with his meaty hands and pulled the sink, along with part of the wall, to reveal a hidden door. They entered an entire club; music playing, girls dancing on the stage at the back, a bar next to it, and plenty of tables to gamble away jemns.
“Who’s the target you want this bounty hunter for?” asked the bartender.
Bounty hunters and mercenaries weren’t how fictional accounts portrayed them. Most of them stole some kind of identity to use as theirs. Ranging from old western gunslingers for Earth fiction, dynasty guards for the qwayks’ history, Havik Cultists from yuerr folktale, Brotherhood of Relic knights, warlocks, and even witches, mercenaries and bounty hunters imitated these outlandish personas to make names of themselves. Really though, Malcolm only saw bunter hunters and mercenaries as either wannabes playing dress-up or absurd cartoons. In both cases, he found it hard to take most of them seriously. And despite many of them being in the room, nobody cared to look Malcolm’s way.
“The target I have information on is Erryn Wolph,” Malcolm finally responded.
The bartender grinned. “I know someone… with a personal interest in this target.”
He left Malcolm’s side, only to return a minute later with an omelic bounty hunter, who greeted Malcolm. Malcolm handed the jemns over to the bartender, who then left their company.
“Howdy. The name’s Bearon. What might I reckon is this ‘bout?” He spoke with a cringy, manufactured accent meant to sound as though he were the protagonist of some cheesy, Earth-made western movie. He wore raggedy brown and leather clothes to match and even had a lit cigar in his left hand. Even by omelic standards, he was jacked. Though, he did carry a bad case of short-man syndrome.
“I want to make you a trade. Information and aid for passage,” said Malcolm.
“What kind’ah information?”
“The location of a wanted person… especially to your people. I know the location of Erryn Wolph.”
Smiling happily, he responded, “Whoohoo, I reckon you got my attention now.” On the inside Malcolm was cringing.
“She’s headed to a moon called Delkeedo. But if you want more, let’s make a deal. And I’ll even help you find her once we get to Delkeedo as a bonus. All you have to do is smuggle me and two others with you onto that moon.”
“I reckon we’s got ourselves a deal, then.” He extended his hand, and they shook. “Meet me out yonder in the hangar in an hour. I’ve gotta transport ship there to take us to my cargo ship. Docking spot twelve. There, we’ll finalize the terms of our deal.”
“I’ll be there,” Malcolm said, giving Bearon a nod.
When Malcolm reunited with Vaal at the bar, he nudged her to the side, out of earshot of the bystanders. “I found us a bounty hunter,” he told her.
“Nice work,” she responded. “Brad… he checked in to let me know he had the info we needed.”
“Let him know to meet us at docking spot one-two. And let him know to prepare these items I’ve listed for transport to our new ride.” Malcolm swiped over the list of items to her cyberwatch, then opened a call to Commander Sizar. “Commander. I need to arrange for my ship to be picked up. Location is the hangar at the Galactic Hotel, on docking bay two-zero-one. I’ll transfer all documentation to you, sir. In addition, I’ll transfer the plans for recovery to you once we capture the 1070 Legionnaires.”
“Confirmed, Malcolm. We’ll have it done as soon as possible. Keep us updated. Sizar out.”
Chapter 17: A Tough Choice
October 22, 2111
James Stone
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or so the saying goes. But to me, it’s just a justification in using someone you hate against someone you hate more; a means to an end. In a sense, my squad and I were in a similar predicament.
With everyone in the lounge, we made the most of our time engaged in small talk, awaiting the enemy of our enemy. I sat at the longest couch, with Valiic and Narrisa beside me.
Our couch was at the end of the common room, close to the entrance to the kitchen bar. Shadow-Walker and Erryn occupied two of the three seats at the table in-between the longest couch and kitchen bar, leaving one seat open for our awaited guest. Uslar lone-wolfed it at the couch furthest from the kitchen.
“Hot damn, the suspense is killing me,” Shadow-Walker said with a sigh.
“I can’t believe we’re really about to meet with a dytirc,” Uslar gagged.
“Listen, Uslar, the idea of it all tickles me funny, but I’m still willing to hop this scotch if it means we finish this story with Landis safe and sound,” I gave my two cents.
“Because making deals with devils is a great idea,” Shadow-Walker groaned sarcastically.
“How soon until your dytirc contact boards this ship?” Valiic asked.
“In a few moments,” Erryn Wolph answered. “We’re orbiting Delkeedo in stealth mode. I sent out our coordinates thirty minutes ago, so he should land shortly.”
“Speak of the devil,” I pointed at Erryn’s cyberwatch, which was blinking red.
“I’ll bring him in.” Erryn walked down to the hangar to greet him.
“I wonder what he’s going to be like. I haven’t actually met a dytirc that wasn’t shooting at my face,” Shadow-Walker joked.
“I suggest we start with non-hostile,” Valiic stated.
“I wouldn’t use a term like ‘non-hostile’. He’s just… just hostile to the same group we’re hostile to. It’s more like a mutual hostilage,” I chimed in.
“I still hate this idea. Why should we trust him?” Uslar shuffled around on his seat.
“Give me a chance, and I’ll prove it to you.”
Our guest, Larno, entered the room. Erryn was right behind him. We stared at him as he took a seat at the far table. Like most dytircs, he wore leather cloth and flexible armor. His exoskeletal body complemented his rough, boney head. Ringed eyes and a piercing stare filled the room with unease. A different symbol from other dytircs in the Wersillian Legion had been branded to Larno’s left arm. All in all, he looked like he was a decade past his due date. As he wearily lay back in the chair with all four arms crossed, I could have sworn his eyes had some sand in them.
