Solar Storm (Galaxy Mavericks Book 5)

by Michael La Ronn

  Fisher laughed.

  “Well played, Miller.”

  Miller tipped his hat to hear again and sauntered down the hallway. Then he snapped his fingers and spun around.

  “Hey, Fisher.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you know about the federation?”

  “Federation?”

  “We kept running into the word in his database programming. Whoever programmed him threatened that they’d be sending a ship to destroy us. That never happened which leads me to believe something’s up. Seemed like the cyborg was awfully loyal to this federation, but last I checked, I ain't never heard of one.”

  Fisher shrugged.

  “Beats me, Miller. You investigating them now?”

  “A guy does this line of work long enough, he starts to question things he's never heard before, you know what I mean? All right. Thanks, Laura. Just thought I would ask. And I won't forget about your offer for drinks.”

  Miller whistled, pushed the doors open and walked into the hot jungle light.

  24

  Smoke’s cell door opened automatically.

  A voice screamed through an intercom.

  “Everybody up. Come on. What are you waiting for? Out! Out!”

  Smoke yawned as the light in his tiny cell flicked on. He wiped his face with his blanket and climbed out of bed.

  He emerged from his cell into a three-story prison complex. He was on the third floor. Cells lined with walls with a common area in the middle. A long skylight in the ceiling let in starlight. It was only from the movement of the stars through the light that Smoke could tell that the ship he was on was moving. Ever since he'd boarded this jail ship, he hadn't been able to tell if it had been moving.

  All around him, men in orange jumpsuits emerged from their cells, too. They were quiet.

  Smoke looked down.

  The common area was far, far below. Metal mesh railings prevented him from jumping over.

  He followed a long line of men downstairs toward the showers.

  “WHAT KIND OF FREAK ARE YOU?”

  A thickly-muscled man cowered against the shower floor as Smoke stood over him with a bar of soap in his hand.

  His arm was broken.

  The cold water beat on Smoke’s naked body as he stared emotionlessly.

  “You're the freak,” Smoke said.

  The man had tried to accost him in the shower. Smoke had taken his arm, flipped the man upside down and broke the arm in a clean jerk.

  “I was just tryin’ to be friendly,” the man said, cradling his broken arm.

  Smoke looked around him. All over the shower, the other men backed away.

  Smoke stepped on the man’s neck.

  “Please, stop!” the man cried.

  Smoke tossed the white bar of soap between hands.

  “What the hell happened to your body?” the man asked.

  Smoke knelt down in front of the man and cocked his head. The man crawled away.

  Smoke glanced down at the bar of soap.

  The man’s eyes widened.

  Smoke streaked a finger across the bar of soap, creating small suds.

  Then he struck the man hard with the soap.

  The man screamed.

  Smoke struck again.

  And again.

  “God, stop!”

  Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. WHACK!

  With a final crack, the man lay on the shower floor, water washing across his bloody face.

  Smoke shrugged. Then he grabbed another bar of soap off the wall, washed blood off himself and walked out of the shower.

  When the warden entered, screaming for order, he saw the dead man on the floor and cursed. And when the warden asked who did it, all the naked prisoners averted their gaze.

  No one pointed to Smoke.

  SMOKE CHEWED RUBBERY MEATLOAF.

  It was pre-cut into small pieces and drenched in barbecue sauce.

  He hunched over his plate on a picnic table in the corner of the common area, chewed without tasting the food. He sat with his back to the wall, eyes on all the other inmates, who ate silently. Many of them watched him, unsure what to do about him.

  He was the only cyborg inmate from what he could tell. That alone ensured he would either be a target or he would be left alone.

  Someone eased onto the picnic bench opposite him.

  He raised his fist to strike.

  A short, blond-haired man with brown eyes, a crooked front tooth, and spiky hair held up his hands.

  “Hey, pal, I'm not gonna hurt ya,” he said.

  “Go away,” Smoke said. His tone was harsh and final.

  “There's nowhere else to sit,” the man said.

  “Eat on the floor,” Smoke said.

  He saw a flash of blue. A uniform. His eyes wandered to the center of the common area, where the warden was walking around. The man stopped and stared at Smoke.

  “I'm watching you, Smoke,” the warden said, pointing at him.

  The blonde man was scarfing down his food. He wiped barbecue sauce from the corner of his lips.

  “Thanks for lettin’ me sit here,” he said, extending a hand.

  Smoke blinked.

  “They say you go by the name Smoke. Where'd you get that nickname?”

  Smoke continued eating, ignoring Stacks.

  “Funny thing is, they call me Stacks,” the man said. “Once I walked into a strip club with a fat stack of bills in my wallet. Name stuck.”

  Smoke are the last of his meatloaf and downed a cup of water.

  Then he stood up and banged his fists on the table to scare Stacks.

  The man jumped.

  “Leave me alone,” Smoke said.

  “Sure,” Stacks said as Smoke turned away. “But I know your secret.”

  Smoke stopped.

  “Because that's how things work around here,” Stacks said. “We all got secrets. And you got a big one seeing as you bludgeoned that poor bastard to death. How about I rat you out to the warden?”

  Smoke cracked his knuckles and approached Stacks.

  “Got your attention now, eh?” Stacks asked.

  Several muscled men blocked Smoke from advancing.

  Stacks climbed onto the table.

  “We need a guy like you,” Stacks said.

  “For what?” Smoke asked.

  “Protection,” Stacks said.

  Smoke walked away.

  “Hey!” Stacks shouted. “You don't get to just walk away!”

  Smoke stopped, raised a hand, and with two fingers, he motioned Stacks to come.

  He paused, waiting.

  No one came.

  Just like he thought.

  “This ain't over,” Stacks said.

  But Smoke ignored him and entered the fitness room and started doing curls with a dumbbell.

  HE WORKED OUT FOR AN HOUR, lifting and squatting and curling and doing laps around the small partition that separated the fitness area from the cafeteria.

  The other guys stayed out of his way.

  He lie on a bench and pressed two hundred and fifty pounds. He did twenty presses, then let the weights clang into their metal grips.

  Then someone grabbed the weight and pushed it onto his chest.

  Two men. They held the weights against his chest and he couldn't move.

  Smoke grunted as a bearded, tattooed face appeared over his.

  “So you're the bastard that's got everybody talkin’.”

  The man was burly, with teardrop tattoos under his eyes, and swirl tattoos across his neck. Unlike Stacks, he looked like the prison type. And he didn't look happy. He looked as if he'd never smiled a day in his life, the kind of guy who was born to commit a felony.

  “Smoke,” the man said, “You keep this shit up and you're gonna be in for a long life sentence. Or maybe it'll get cut short.”

  Smoke strained against the weight, but the men pushed down harder.

  “I heard Stacks approached you earlier,” the man said. “He's a
wimp. He's the kind of guy that beats up someone in prison to show everybody he doesn't play around. Oh wait, I heard you did the same thing…”

  The man bent down in front of Smoke. Smoke could smell the meatloaf and corn still on his breath, and foul body odor.

  “I'll make this quick because you look like a guy with a short fuse who's about to explode. The name’s Lyle. I don't know if you know where we’re going, but it's a shit hole and we got to stick together. I don't need your protection, but I need some loyalty. You back me up and I'll do the same. Don't have to accept my offer now, but you sure as hell better think about it. I don't care how tough you are—nobody lives long on a prison planet without joining an alliance. Got it?”

  Lyle clapped and the men let go of the weight. Before Smoke could attack, they were out of reach.

  “Talk to ya later, Smoke,” Lyle said. He and his men walked away, leaving Smoke breathless on the bench.

  25

  Miller exited hyperspace and guided his corsair into a designated travel lane. Circular buoys glowed red, with arrows directing him around a curve.

  Coppice was far behind him now.

  He was glad for the air-conditioned oasis of his spaceship. He hated the heat. Absolutely hated it.

  Normally, when he left planets, he left cases behind. Both physically and mentally. He had no need for them.

  But there was something about Smoke that he couldn't shake, something about that damned cyborg that disturbed him.

  It wasn't every day that you ran into a cyborg. Especially a homicidal, creepy cyborg who didn't like to speak.

  Miller had poured over the reports. He read the scientific logs again, cringed at the violent parts. He'd reread the memory graph at least a dozen times, thinking that maybe he'd discover something different.

  But he didn't.

  All the dots looked the same. Since he wasn't a data scientist, he had nothing to go on. It pained him to see Margot send the data off to headquarters.

  Headquarters was where data went to die. Unless you knew how to do something about it.

  A cyborg didn't create itself. Someone had to create it. And Miller wanted to know who had the capability of creating human machines.

  As a giant, shining blue cylinder appeared in the distance, Miller thought about his game plan to win over the engineers to find out what they knew.

  He set course for the GALPOL headquarters.

  THE HEADQUARTERS WAS a shining blue cylinder with fifty stories. It revolved slowly and several gravity rings revolved around it. There were two airlocks on the side of the building.

  GALPOL used to have headquarters on a planet a long time ago, but due to budget purposes, it decentralized. It discovered that it could respond faster by having a space-side headquarters. Most of the agents operated from the field anyway and only needed a spaceship, an Internet connection, and a handcoil to do their jobs. The headquarters housed the non-mission critical operations such as office workers, data storage, training, laboratories, and leadership.

  Miller had been here many times. He'd trained here as a special agent out of college. He'd gotten chewed out here when cases went astray. And he'd even been offered a nice, cushy desk job on the thirteenth floor. Double his salary with better retirement options.

  But he couldn't work here, couldn't wear a suit and tie every day and sit in a cubicle and see the same stars day in and day out. Just wasn't any way to live. Even if he died out there among the stars, at least it would be interesting. There was something about shuffling papers and sitting in meetings all day that made him want to reach for an oxygen mask.

  As he approached the airlock on the side of the building, he told himself that he ought to be grateful for all these years he spent in the field.

  He intended to keep it that way.

  The airlock was huge and filled with ships and people.

  Miller parked his corsair among a fleet of other GALPOL-issue black corsairs. The sleek spaceships gleamed in the sterile airlock lights and had a creepy sameness about them.

  As he climbed out, he laughed to himself when he thought about an old joke about how all GALPOL ships were the same.

  Once, a special agent accidentally took another agent’s corsair. Didn't even know it. Took the ship halfway across the galaxy. He even opened up the fridge and ate the other guy’s lunch. Near the end of the day, his wife called him and told him he was late for dinner.

  “Why would I come home now?” he asked. “I had a late lunch and it really filled me up.”

  “What did you eat?” his wife asked.

  “A roast beef sandwich, barbecue potato chips, an apple, a chocolate chip cookie, and a Pepsi,” he said.

  “A Pepsi?” she asked, surprised. “But I packed you a Coke.”

  And only then did the guy realize he'd taken another agent’s ship.

  Miller fell out of his chair when he first heard that one.

  He waved to a black man in a suit and tie standing by the office entrance door. Two potted ficus trees swayed next to him.

  “Yo, Miller,” they said.

  “Hey, fella.”

  They shook hands.

  “What are you doing here?” Agent Jernigan asked. “Finally had enough of good police work?”

  “You can never have too much,” Miller said. “But I think about it sometimes.”

  “Heard about that mass murderer you caught on Coppice,” Jernigan said. “Everybody across the galaxy’s talking about it, brother.”

  “Oh, that?” Miller asked. “Guy was guilty before I ever caught him. If there's a Heaven above, the angels practically gave that one to me. I just put my blessing on it. Hey, listen, I'm here because I need to chat with the folks at the lab. Who's in charge there now? Maggie?”

  “Shit, man, you really ain't been here a while. Maggie resigned.”

  Miller sighed. He went to school with Maggie. They'd even dated back in the day before she realized the cop types just weren't for her. He'd helped her realize that with his long hours, propensity for danger, and self-sacrifice. Still, even though the love had fizzled out years ago, he would have liked to have seen her again.

  “What happened to her?” Miller asked.

  “She didn't agree with the director on a few things,” Jernigan said. “That's the last thing you do in the lab—start disagreein’. Last I heard she got a job with Macalestern, working in some new top-secret project they been workin’ on. You wanted to see her?”

  “It's about that case I was working on. I was hoping to talk to somebody about this cyborg I put in prison.”

  “What's there to talk about?” Jernigan asked.

  “Just had a few questions. Who's in charge?”

  “Dawn Jackson.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “Can I trust her?”

  “Think so. You're scaring me, Miller.”

  Miller patted Jernigan on the back.

  “I'll be all right, trust me.”

  He left Jernigan standing at the ficus trees, shaking his head.

  MILLER COULDN'T WALK through the white, cubicled hallways without seeing people that he knew.

  He had hoped this would be a quick visit, but as the tenth person stopped him, he realized this visit was going to take him all day if he didn't take the stairs.

  He climbed the stairwell to the fourteenth floor.

  By the time he got there, he was panting and wishing he'd taken the elevator. He rested against the wall to catch his breath. Then he opened two gray double-doors into a shooting range.

  Three people in blue police uniforms fired at white targets in the distance. Behind them, engineers stood behind them, studying the shots.

  The officers unloaded, emptying their guns.

  Miller’s ears rung.

  The engineers spoke with the officers. Miller wondered what they were talking about. Then he saw the handcoils in the officers’ hands—they were gray, with an unfinished look to them.

  Pro
totypes.

  A female engineer lifted her goggles and waved at him. She had blonde hair tied up into a ponytail.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was frank; not unfriendly, but not as warm as Miller preferred.

  Miller took off his fedora.

  “I'm looking for Dawn Jackson.”

  “You're looking at her,” the woman said, extending a hand.

  She was no Maggie. She was short and skinny, with blue eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wore a blue polo with the GALPOL logo and her last name embroidered below it. He'd met types like her before. His policy was that the shorter a person was in the force, the less you messed with them. Short guys and gals tended to dish out tall problems when you underestimated them. Miller knew if he didn't get to the point he would frustrate her. That, and she had a prototype handcoil in her hand…

  “Hey, Dawn. Agent Ryan Miller.”

  “You're the one in the news, right?”

  “If I say you're wrong, would you believe me?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. She handed her prototype to a passing engineer. “Not only would I tell you that you were wrong, I'd want to know why you wouldn't want the credit.”

  “Guy was guilty before I ever found him,” Miller said. “I just handed him in.”

  How many times had he said that already? He sounded like a robot.

  “How can I help you, Ryan?” Dawn asked. She started through the shooting range and Miller followed her. Several engineers were firing handcoils.

  She grabbed a pair of shooting earmuffs and handed them to Miller.

  “Well, Dawn, I'm here for a couple of reasons,” Miller said loudly. “I was working with a young lady in your office during the trial. Name was Margot.”

  “Margot Drewery,” Dawn said. “She's one of my floating engineers.”

  “Yep—great woman. Nice as can be.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Dawn said, inserting her tablet into a metal tray on the wall. The tablet rested over a plastic bucket. She tapped something on the screen—a passcode. The wall shook and several bullet casings dropped into the plastic bucket.

  Dawn reached into the bucket and grabbed a golden casing; it was spent and its edges were jagged from where it had torn through the barrel of the handcoil.