Prime Alpha (Planetary Powers Book 1)

by Joshua Boring

  “There you go, soldier,” he said, stepping back to lean on the countertop with his hands. “Bit of advice: hold your nose for the first sip.”

  “Very funny,” grinned Nathen, taking the glass in his hand and lifting it to his mouth. He took a small sip, gulped it, then coughed as his sinuses burned. As he sputtered, the barkeep wiped his hands on the towel and shook his head.

  “Warned ya,” he said, turning away. “They dose the water with bacteria killer. It’ll leave a little aftertaste in your mouth, but it’s clean.”

  Nathen cleared his throat to try a rid himself of the aftertaste, then sighed and took another sip, bracing himself. The barkeep was right. First sip was the worst. After that, it went down just like regular water. Nathen had experienced far worse. However he did find it amusing that the water was almost more dangerous than the booze. Though the barkeep had already turned his back, Nathen raised his glass up to eye level.

  “Cheers,” he muttered under his breath.

  Over the next ten minutes, Nathen entertained himself by surreptitiously listening to the conversations going on around the room. He tried to separate the voices from the din of multiple conversations, and attempted to keep the speakers and subjects separate. He never turned around, keeping his back to the room the entire time, but his attention to those around him never waned. The door had opened once, and judging by the barkeep’s reaction, Nathen gauged that someone had left, rather than entered. Though as far as he could tell, none of the conversations had stopped.

  After nursing his water for twelve minutes, Nathen caved and ordered a Latin-Ale. He needed something to wash down the water. His glass now held a greenish concoction with several ice cubes floating in it. After the first sip, Nathen reached inside his jacket and pulled his comm. unit out. He thumbed the screen on and checked it for updates. No new messages, no alerts. And he still had thirty minutes before he had to be at the Northwest terminal. Nathen thumbed his comm. unit off and put it back inside his jacket pocket. He’d have enough time to finish his Latin-Ale, and then he’d leave.

  At that moment, the door opened for the second time since he’d arrived, and the conversations that had been going strong wavered temporarily. Nathen turned to look over his shoulder.

  Four Squlashers stood just inside the doorway, looking about with their murky eyes at the Blue Oasis’ dim interior. It was a different group from the one Nathen had seen earlier. This group was militant. All still had their armor on, as well as their gear. Only their weapons weren’t present. But they’d been allowed to enter a military bar, so they were soldiers of some sort.

  The leader, a Squlasher with a slight orange-ish tint to his rubbery skin, motioned to an empty table halfway between the door and the bar with one two-tentacle-fingered hand. The other three moved over and pulled out chairs, sitting down tentatively so they wouldn’t sit on their own tails. A typical Human made chair wasn’t fully accommodating to a Squlasher, so they turned them sideways so their long tails could uncoil and lay on the floor. While the three soldiers sat down, the leader made his way toward the bar. Nathen turned back to his drink. A few seconds later, the orange-tinted Squlasher plodded up to the bar and placed its muscled, tentacled hands on the countertop. It curved one thick finger into the air once the barkeep looked his way.

  The bartender arched an eyebrow, then tossed his hand towel across his shoulder and stooped beneath the bar. When he stood up, he held in his hands what Nathen could identify as a desktop translator. He put it down and was about to crank it up when the Squlasher held up its hand, pleading him to stop.

  [There is no need of your language box, tender,] it said in a soft, rippling voice. [I speak acceptable Basic.]

  The barkeep had his hand placed on the power switch, but after a moment removed it and slid the device aside. Once he’d done that, the Squlasher continued.

  [A drink. Cider Slide, if you have it. Churned, not mixed.]

  The barkeep nodded. “We have that.”

  The Squlasher dipped its blunt-nosed head, angling its murky eyes toward the man.

  [Good. And a round for my squad.]

  The barkeep pulled his towel off his shoulder and turned toward the door leading into the back area.

  “Sally! Four Cider Slides at table three! Churned!”

  The barkeep got a responding yip, one that Nathen recognized as coming from a Serim. The barkeep started mixing drinks, and the orange-tinted Squlasher sat down on the barstool just one space away from Nathen. The Squlasher wrapped his tentacle tail around the pipe holding the seat cushion and settled in, leaning casually against the bar top. Nathen watched the alien out of the corner of his eye, taking another sip of his ale. After pondering the alien’s geared-up appearance, Nathen turned to the orange-tinted Squlasher sitting next to him.

  “You new to Port Ive?”

  The Squlasher’s head twitched, then the alien turned its large, slanted head toward Nathen.

  [Pardon me?]

  The Squlasher’s words were understandable, but were layered in a way that could only be described as audible ‘ripples’. Squlashers communicated with each other in Telecode, a sort of vocal mind-speak that made whale songs sound like grunts. It made speaking underwater possible, even preferable since their largest communities were entirely water based. But, as this Squlasher was proving, some of their people could indeed mimic Basic, without the use of a vocal translator. They also used their vocal mind-speak as a sort of active sonar, helping their amphibious eyesight absorb their surroundings.

  “Sorry, none of my business I guess,” apologized Nathen, swirling his drink around once. “Just looks like you boys are loaded for bear.”

  The Squlasher’s head inclined toward his squad, though without pupils Nathen couldn’t tell if he had actually looked in their direction. After a second, the orange-tinted Squlasher angled his murky-pool eyes toward Nathen.

  [If that means we’re ready for trouble, then yes, we would be… ‘loaded for bear.’]

  Nathen took another small sip of his drink and arched an eyebrow at the alien. “Why’s that? Port Ive’s a long way from the frontlines. Don’t expect to see four Imperial Guardians in full combat coral wandering around.”

  [We are… in transit. Our battle group in the outer system is awaiting permission to land and refuel.]

  Nathen understood. The Sktish had to be careful. If they appeared to be growing too close to the Humans, they might invoke consequences from the Yew Alliance. And they couldn’t afford more enemies. The same stood for the Humans. Getting friendly with the Sktish Empire could draw attention from the War Hive. It was a tentative balance.

  “I’m sorry transit through our systems is difficult,” Nathen said with a shrug. “I’m sure the Empire doesn’t need the extra difficulty.”

  The Squlasher swiveled toward the bar, clasping both tentacled hands together over its surface. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and Nathen felt it.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  [No.]

  “Well,” Nathen said, shrugging and eyeing what was left of his drink. “Maybe I should stop talking anyway.”

  [It’s alright,] the Squlasher assured, waving a suctioned hand in dismissal. [We have just returned from deployment on the front. It was not a pleasant experience.]

  That caught Nathen’s attention, and he paused with his glass half-raised. “The front? Against the War Hive?”

  [One of them, anyway.]

  “Which one?”

  The Squlasher seemed to sigh, with his gill flaps fluttering. [Dartum. Var-Dartum.]

  Nathen ran the location through his head. “Vigal territory.”

  The Squlasher turned his head as the barkeep arrived with his drink. He took it in his tentacles and pulled the drink in close.

  [Not anymore.]

  Nathen mentally cringed.

  That was bad news. It meant the Sktish Empire had been pushed back, again, and the War Hive now controlled another system. And the Vigal, no less. Th
e Vigal weren’t really a major power in the war. Not much of anything, really, since the War Hive rolled over their navy. But Var-Dartum was, according to the latest galactic newscast, the last Vigal planet still resisting.

  Apparently the news was slow to catch up.

  And what’s worse, the War Hive now occupied the entire sector. With the Vigal conquered, there was no one on that side of the Spiral Rift to seriously oppose the War Hive juggernaut. With the Sktish falling back, the Vigal were on their own, and they were unlikely to be able to hold back an all-out Insectoid occupation. Things were certainly getting desperate. Nathen’s thoughts flashed back twenty-four hours earlier to his conversation with Denver.

  So it’s really happening, then.

  It is.

  Nathen shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead and took a healthy swig from his glass.

  [So what is your story?]

  Nathen lowered his glass and blinked as the strong drink washed down his throat. “Me?”

  The Squlasher, drink untouched, swiveled to fully face Nathen. [Yes. You’re obviously here on your own time, but you’ve got the… sense, of a soldier to you.]

  Nathen smiled, turning the glass around in his hand. He had his cover story well memorized. It wasn’t hard. It was mostly the truth. “I’m retired. Formerly a Marine of the First Elemental Division.”

  [Retired?] The Squlasher bowed his head in surprise. [That’s curious. How is it you managed to slip out from under the cloak of duty?]

  Nathen sniffed. “I didn’t ‘slip out’ from under anything. I was relieved.”

  [With galactic war, I can understand, but…]

  “No,” chuckled Nathen. “I mean I was relieved of duty. Fired with a friendly handshake.”

  [Ah. May I ask why?]

  Nathen took his free hand and gently thumped the left side of his chest. This was the lie. “I developed a heart condition. An un-treatable one. We’ve got medical technology that’ll mend bones and clone blood of any type, but we still can’t cure a broken heart.”

  The Squlasher tipped his blunt porpoise-like nose toward his drink, then looked back. [I’m sorry to hear that.]

  Just then a small Serim female emerged from the back, wearing an apron and clutching a set of thick straws in her webbed hand. The barkeep placed a tray of three drinks at the end of the bar and took one of the straws from her. The barkeep pointed out the three Squlashers sitting at the table, and the Serim nodded, picking up the tray and carefully balancing it as she padded over to the waiting soldiers. While she passed the drinks and straws out to the three soldiers, the barkeep handed the straw he’d taken to the Squlasher Nathen had been talking to.

  “Sorry ‘bout the delay. Enjoy.”

  The Squlasher took the straw and plunged it into his slushy beverage.

  [Thank you.]

  The barkeep tossed the towel over his shoulder and left the two beings to their drinks. Nathen glanced at his glass and noticed there was only a good swig’s worth, but that was alright. He picked up his glass and met the Squlasher’s murky eyes. He tipped his glass toward the alien and nodded his head.

  “Nathen Brampton,” he said, introducing himself. The orange-tinted Squlasher raised his own glass and tugged his floppy, vaguely barret-esque cap in return.

  [Vct’ash Glorran.]

  The two soldiers shared a drink together, and when Nathen lowered his glass, it was empty. He sighed with satisfaction and lowered the empty glass to the table. Then he reached inside and pulled his comm. unit from his inside pocket. He thumbed it on and checked the time.

  05:40

  Twenty minutes until his new speaker arrived at the Northwest terminal. He’d killed enough time. Now it was time to…

  Like a subtle breeze, Nathen felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His sixth sense whispered in his ear, wordlessly warning him of something amiss… or dangerous. Nathen inhaled and quickly cleared his throat, covering the sudden change in posture. Nathen tried to resume his relaxed demeanor, while also straining to better sense what his silent alarm was picking up on. It was something close. Something in the bar. Something behind…

  Nathen straightened up and stayed cool. He gave no indication that he was suddenly on high alert. He calmly reached inside his jacket and retrieved his billfold, flipping it open like he was preparing to pay the tab. When he pulled his card out, he placed his wallet on the bar next to his left elbow. Casually, Nathen pulled a napkin closer and, using an imprint stylus, scribbled a short note onto its surface. Once done, he waved his card in the air, summoning the barkeep who came over immediately.

  “Nothing else today?” he asked, drying yet another glass. Nathen leaned forward on the counter-top and held the card out between two fingers, subtly slipping the napkin along with it. The barkeep acted like he didn’t notice, but Nathen saw his eyes dart rapidly at his hand. The barkeep took the card from Nathen’s outstretched fingers.

  “I’ll be back with this in just a second,” he said, like nothing had been exchanged between them. Nathen nodded and muttered under his breath as the barkeep turned away.

  “Add a five credit tip to the total,” he said, offhandedly. The barkeep walked over to the register and slid Nathen’s card in. While he waited for it to access Nathen’s account, the barkeep took the glass he’d been cleaning and held it up like he was inspecting it in the low light. When he did, his eyes made a thorough sweep of the bar, and Nathen saw him nod to himself in apparent satisfaction. The register beeped, and the barkeep pulled the card out and moved back over to Nathen. He handed the card back.

  “There ya go,” he said, pleasantly. He stuck his hand out. “Thank you for your business.”

  Nathen, still leaning over the counter on his elbows, accepted the handshake, squeezing the man’s hand. After releasing the grip, the barkeep placed an empty glass on the table in front of Nathen. Stuffed inside, as though he’d left a cleaning cloth by accident, was the napkin. Lazily, Nathen retrieved the napkin and unfolded it like he was going to apply it. When he did, he saw the note he’d written, and the barkeep’s response.

  Who’s watching me?

  ~Back left corner

  While Nathen was dabbing his face with the napkin, the barkeep came back for the glass, and then went to put it on the rack with the others. Nathen let his hand lie flat on the bar’s surface, staring straight ahead for a second, then feigned a yawn as he pulled back from the bar-top, closing his eyes and covering his mouth with his right hand.

  When he pulled back upright, his left elbow knocked his wallet onto the ground. Nathen sighed, acting as if it were an accident, and slid off the barstool so he could retrieve it. He crouched down, picked up his wallet, and stood back up. When he did, he casually turned and stretched his arm out to the side, facing away from the bar. He turned his back almost immediately, but in the fleeting glimpse he got of the bar’s dark corner, he saw what he needed to. One of the off-duty Marines was watching him with sharp focus. The other one was nowhere to be seen, so Nathen assumed he’d been the one who had left earlier.

  Nathen climbed back onto the barstool and half sighed, half groaned as he tucked his card back into his billfold. The orange-tinted Squlasher, Nathen now knew his name was Vct’ash, tilted his head in question.

  [Is something wrong?]

  Nathen held open his jacket so he could tuck his wallet away.

  “Maybe,” he said, quietly. “There’s a fellow sitting in the corner, behind and to my left. I don’t know why, but he’s watching me like a hawk.”

  Vct’ash’s murky eyes seemed to swirl in the equivalent of a blink, and then the Squlasher calmly took a drink out of his straw. When he did, Nathen felt his ears tingle as a soft frequency rippled through the air. He realized a second later that Vct’ash was probing the room with Telecode ‘sonar’, to avoid turning around. After about five seconds, the soft noise ceased, and Vct’ash unfurled his tentacled hand in question.

  [What is your concern?]

  To stall a m
oment longer, Nathen pretended to straighten his gloves. “I get the indication that when I get up to leave in a moment, he’s going to follow me. I’m not sure why. But I’d rather he didn’t.”

  Vct’ash pondered this for a moment, then tipped his blunt nose into the air.

  [I think I can assist. Wait just a moment.]

  Playing along, Nathen pretended to hear his comm. unit go off. He pulled it out and thumbed it on, then placed it against his ear.

  “Hello?” he asked, though there was no one on the other side. Vct’ash took another drink, then put his glass down and turned around toward his squad. Nathen heard the sing-song music of Telecode ripple through the air. Nodding and pretending to listen to someone on his comm. unit, Nathen actually heard Vct’ash converse with his squad, though he didn’t understand a word of it. Finally Vct’ash swiveled back to the bar and leaned over his Cider-Slide.

  [You can leave,] he said, in rippling, fluid Basic. [Just walk straight out the door, and do not worry about being followed.]

  Nathen pretended to wrap up the conversation on the comm. unit, then switched it off and dropped it into his inside pocket. He swiveled to face Vct’ash one last time.

  “What makes you want to help me?” he asked, sincerely. Vct’ash turned his murky eyes on Nathen.

  [You seem like a decent Human. Call it a gesture of goodwill between soldiers, whether they be Human, Sktish, active or retired.]

  Vct’ash extended his rubbery, suction-cupped hand to Nathen.

  [Farewell.]

  Nathen took the alien’s hand, careful not to press his palm into the suction cups. “Farewell, then. And thanks.”

  Vct’ash nodded, released Nathen’s hand, and went back to his drink like nothing had transpired. Nathen slid off the barstool, straightened his jacket, and headed for the door.

  Instantly, his sixth sense kicked in, and Nathen knew without a doubt that his mystery admirer was, indeed, following him. As he calmly walked toward the door, Nathen again pretended to fix his gloves. In reality, he was checking his switchblade dagger in its hidden sheath. On his way out he walked by the table with the three Squlasher soldiers at it. One of the soldiers glanced at him as he passed, and as soon as Nathen was clear of the alien’s chair, the Squlasher let his long, muscled tentacle of a tail flop across the floor.