Paradox Slaughter

by Jake Bible

  “Taps, right?” Roak asked.

  “Maybe. Who is this?”

  “Carla around?” Roak asked.

  “Yes, no, maybe, none of your Eight Million Godsdamn business. Hanging up now.”

  “Hold on. I need to speak with Carla. Tell her it’s her favorite random visitor.”

  There was a pause then, “You. I remember you. You almost got me killed.”

  “You’re welcome,” Roak said.

  “For what?”

  “For the almost part. Most people get all the way killed around me.”

  Taps laughed long and hard. Roak winced. Taps was an Urvein. Urveins were a bear-like race with all of the size and power that implied. Taps was a large Urvein even by his race’s standards. His laugh shook Roak’s molars in their sockets.

  “Carla is out,” Taps said when he was done laughing. “Not joking. But she’ll be back in a couple of hours. You on planet or what?”

  “Let her know I’ll be coming by sometime later tonight, will ya?”

  “You don’t know where the new tavern is located,” Taps said.

  “I’ll find it,” Roak replied.

  “Try not to bring another small army down on us this time,” Taps said. “Took me a bit to recover from the last time you came by.”

  “Again, you’re welcome,” Roak said. “You’ll let her know?”

  “Got nothing better to do,” Taps said. “See ya soon, Roak.”

  “Taps.” Roak killed the comm call.

  “You might want to rethink the power armor,” Hessa said. “Taps’ speech pattern revealed duplicity and murderous intent.”

  “He’s Carla’s security,” Roak said. “He’s paid to have murderous intent.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “Still going to wear your light armor?”

  “Still going to wear my light armor.”

  “Then I will savor these last few hours in your presence.”

  “Bite my ass, Hessa.”

  Roak brought up a holo of Ballyway then began zooming in until he hit a specific area. It was not one of the family-friendly areas of Ballyway, meant more for the degenerate gamblers that would bet their families on a roll of the dice. Which many of the area’s denizens had done and would probably do again if they still had families left to wager.

  “Carla has moved her tavern to this area,” Roak said. “I’d guess in one of these two alleys.”

  “How can you know that, Roak?” Hessa asked. “I have sophisticated algorithms that cannot predict that kind of precision.”

  “I know Carla,” Roak said. “We go way, way back.”

  “That response does not explain how you know Carla will have moved her tavern to one of these two specific alleys,” Hessa pressed.

  “You’re right,” Roak said. “It’s a hunch. So far, I’ve never been wrong, so I’m going with my hunch.”

  “You and your insistence on trusting your instincts,” Hessa said.

  “How about you not question every damn move I make?” Roak snapped. “Eight Million Gods dammit, Hessa. I’m the bounty hunter, you’re the AI. At the end of the day, this is my life, not yours, we are living.”

  Hessa went quiet. Roak thought he should apologize, but tossed the thought away as the empathy stuck in his throat. Instead, he stood up, double-checked the holo of the Ballyway alleys, then walked out of the bridge.

  “I’ll be in the armory,” Roak said as he took the lift down.

  “I figured as much,” Hessa said.

  Roak left the lift and made his way to the ship’s small armory. He eyed the set of power armor that hung from clamps at the top of the far wall, but dismissed the idea of switching out his light armor despite Hessa’s warning. Roak was going to need to keep from sticking out too much, and like he said before, he was faster and more agile in the light armor. If it came to a footrace through the Ballyway streets, or Eight Million gods forbid, a chase through one of the labyrinthine casinos, then speed and agility would be essential.

  To make up for the light armor’s shortcomings, Roak intended to arm himself to the gills.

  He grabbed his Flott five-six concussion blaster and ran diagnostics on the cluster spread setting. The massive pistol had worked fine against the Gwreqs, but Roak wasn’t taking anything for granted.

  Once the diagnostics came back in the green, Roak moved on to two Blorta 22 laser pistols. The weapons were small enough that each fit in the palms of his hands. He could have them out, yet concealed without worry. Roak tucked those into small holsters on each ankle.

  Next came his Tonal five sniper rifle. He disassembled the large weapon and packed it in a compression pouch which reduced the weapon’s bulk by ninety percent. The pouch affixed to a clip on his belt.

  Two Keplar knives were added to his belt, both with full charges so their energy blades would be at peak efficiency. Finally, Roak found a gas-powered slug chunker. He snagged a box of slugs and put them in a second compression pouch after loading the slug chunker’s two barrels. Then he slid the weapon over his shoulder into a sling on his back. Roak felt the sling tighten and knew it would only loosen when his glove grabbed the slug chunker’s grip.

  A pack of restraints, a handful of med patches, six mini-halogen lights, two coils of rope, a stun baton, a pair of mesh gloves tooled for detail work, and a half-meter length of metal alloy pipe. Roak liked the pipe. It felt good in his hand. And it never set off scanners since it was simply a length of metal alloy with absolutely zero tech components.

  Roak’s last task was to install a false ID implant into the left wrist of his light armor. Almost every being in the galaxy had wrist implants that they could use as identification and to also bring up holo displays. Other than the implant that Hessa had forced on him, Roak had a tech-free body. It made his job easier when he didn’t set off alarms because an implant was scanned.

  Although, Hessa had offered to give him many other implants like his comm implant. She insisted that none of them could be detected, but Roak had declined. One unwanted implant was enough for a lifetime.

  Roak swiped a hand over his left wrist and his false ID came up, showing anyone that wanted to know that he was a security consultant on holiday while also scouting for new job opportunities. Security consultant was all he’d be able to get away with. No one was going to believe he was anything else when he walked around in light armor. He was going to Ballyway, not Jafla Base or Xippee.

  “We are exiting trans-space,” Hessa announced.

  Roak braced himself against the armory’s wall and winced as the ship exited the wormhole portal and dropped them into real space. There was a shudder that ran from the floor and up through Roak’s boots as the ship’s drive engines adjusted to the new reality. Roak waited until a slight wave of nausea passed then he double-checked his supplies, stored them in their proper pouches and packs, made sure he still had full range of motion and nothing was impeding his movements, then left the armory.

  “I have gump stew waiting for you in the mess,” Hessa announced.

  “I thought we were out?” Roak asked.

  “We were, but I managed to get a new batch made three planets back,” Hessa replied. “I had to synthesize a few ingredients, and improvise on others, but I believe it should be to your liking.”

  Roak began walking towards the lift, but paused. “Improvise? Not liking the sound of that.”

  “I’ve been witness to your dietary habits for a while now, Roak,” Hessa said. “There is nothing in the stew that you would disapprove of.”

  “I’ll have to trust you,” Roak said and continued on to the lift.

  He traveled to the level the mess hall was on and walked into the large room. Roak was always surprised at the amount of space he had to himself. A Borgon Eight-Three-Eight wasn’t a huge ship, but it wasn’t a small, family-sized travel cruiser either. If Roak needed a team of a dozen operators, then the ship could easily accommodate them.

  Three table
s in was a steaming bowl of gump stew with a glass of bright pink liquid and a pitcher of the same waiting for him.

  “Thinking I need to load up on electrolytes, Hessa?” Roak asked as he sat down and began eating the stew immediately.

  “As well as amino acids,” Hessa replied. “The stew will fill you up, but you haven’t been on a planet with the population size of Ballyway in a few months. The risk variables worry me, so I would feel better if your system was at optimal levels.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” Roak said and shoved three spoonfuls of stew into his mouth one after the other. He barely chewed between bites and swallowed hard. “Good stew.”

  “Thank you.”

  Roak scraped the bowl clean then downed two glasses of the pink liquid before pushing away from the table.

  “ETA?” he asked.

  “One hour.”

  “Fine. I’ll be down in the hold napping. Wake me when we enter atmosphere.”

  “I will do that.”

  “Hessa?”

  “Yes, Roak?”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “I never said you were.”

  “Going after Bishop is a need, not a want.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’ll only be able to get quick, small jobs until I chase his ass down and get to the bottom of all of this.”

  “As you have told me a few times.”

  “My job is my identity, Hessa.”

  “Shall I comment on how sad that sounds?”

  “No need. I hear it.”

  “Then you truly are not crazy.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “It is what I am here for. That and flying your ass around the galaxy.”

  “Noted. I’ll be in the hold. Wake me when—”

  “We enter atmosphere.”

  “Exactly.”

  5.

  “What do you mean permission to land has been denied?” Roak shouted into the comm. “Who in all the Hells doesn’t get permission to land on Ballyway?”

  “I am sorry, sir, but your ship is classified as a military vehicle,” the flight controller replied over the comm. “At this time, Ballyway is only allowing civilian ships to land. My apologies, but the planet council recently enacted Order Five Thousand Forty—”

  “Do. Not. Care,” Roak snarled. “All I care about is landing. My vehicle is not a military vehicle since I am not military personnel. This Borgon is my personal vehicle and one that has served me well on thousands of landings on thousands of other planets that don’t have their collective heads up their collective asses!”

  “Sir, there is no need to be rude,” the flight controller responded. “I am only doing my job. I cannot give you permission to land in that vehicle. Authorization for vehicles of your class must go through proper channels. I can put you through to the planetary transportation authority, if you would like.”

  “And they can get me permission to land?” Roak asked.

  “They can start the process for authorization, yes,” the flight controller replied.

  Roak heard the doublespeak. “And how long does authorization for military-class vehicles take nowadays?”

  “Eighteen to twenty-four weeks galactic standard,” the flight controller said. “Shall I transfer the comm call?”

  “No,” Roak said. “I’d rather sniff terpig ass for eternity.”

  Roak killed the comm and slammed a fist against the wall of the cargo hold.

  “Any suggestions?” Roak asked.

  “At the moment, no,” Hessa replied.

  “Well, let me know when you have one because I’m at a loss,” Roak said. “This is Ballyway! What idiots thought excluding military-class vehicles would be smart business?”

  “We could try to land outside the population centers,” Hessa said.

  “Except the planet is one giant gaming city with large estates throughout,” Roak said. “There isn’t a piece of land on Ballyway that isn’t owned outright and protected. Real estate is taken seriously on this planet due to wagers made and debts owed. There’s nowhere to land.”

  “We could use moltrans?” Hessa suggested.

  Roak’s insides clenched.

  “Not a fan,” he said.

  “I know, but I have been working on the moltrans unit.”

  Roak narrowed his eyes.

  “Hessa? Have you been using tech designed by Pol Hammon?”

  “Oh…what? No, no. That would be irresponsible since that old man was obviously unstable.”

  “Hessa? Did you just lie to me?”

  Silence.

  “Hessa?”

  “I may have taken some notes when he altered our ship briefly in order to get us away from Razer Station and all who were pursuing us.”

  “Are you saying you can moltrans our ship to anywhere in the galaxy you want?”

  “What?” Hessa exclaimed. “Of course not. Pol was very careful not to leave any trace of those modifications.”

  “So…?”

  “But the modifications I could see might have allowed me to build a personal moltrans unit that has none of the side effects of normal molecular transport technology.”

  Roak thought for a minute. Despite his natural inclination not to trust anyone or anything, he continually found himself in a situation where trusting Hessa was not only a smart move, it tended to be the only move.

  “No nausea and puking at the destination point? Roak asked.

  “Theoretically,” Hessa answered. “I did not have a flesh and blood body to test it on.”

  “What have you been testing it on?”

  “Boxes.”

  “Boxes?”

  “A lot of boxes.”

  “I’m not a box, Hessa.”

  “Is that so? Well, what great news to hear.”

  “Funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  Roak rolled his head on his neck and swore profusely.

  “Fine. Rip my molecules apart and shoot me down to Ballyway.”

  “Rip your molecules…? That is not how the technology works, Roak.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, that’s exactly how it works.”

  “It is a good thing your ignorance does not affect the performance of the technology.”

  “That should be the Galactic Fleet’s motto.”

  Roak’s comm implant let loose with a shrill beep.

  “We are being hailed by Ballyway flight control,” Hessa stated. “They would like us to leave or the ship will be forfeited to the local charity of the month.”

  “Take us back into orbit,” Roak said.

  “After I moltrans you to the surface,” Hessa said. “Moltrans from orbit adds variabilities that I’d—”

  “Fine. Moltrans me to the surface. Let Ballyway flight control know that you are working on an airlock seal that is leaking. That should buy us an hour or so.”

  “They have stated that two minutes is our time limit. You’ll want to hurry.”

  “Want to tell me where the moltrans unit is?”

  “No, Roak, I was saving that bit of information for the surprise birthday party I’m planning for you.”

  Roak sat there for a couple seconds. “You need to uninstall the sarcasm protocol,” he said.

  “It’s not a protocol,” Hessa replied. “Right in front of you, Roak.”

  Roak looked about the cargo hold. He saw a lot of boxes and crates.

  “Hessa? Gonna need specifics.”

  “Sixty seconds,” Hessa announced. “The moltrans disc is behind those four crates up against the starboard wall.”

  Roak walked to the crates, moved two of them, and stared at the metal disc on the floor. It was just big enough for him to stand on.

  “Weaponry isn’t a problem? I’ve heard that some moltrans units can’t handle—”

  Roak blinked.

  “—any tech more complicated…than… Shit…”

  Roak was no longer in his ship’s cargo hold. He was standin
g in an alley, ankle deep in a puddle of what smelled like urine. And not human urine. Roak stepped out of the puddle, shook his boots off one at a time, then surveyed his surroundings.

  “Nice trick,” Roak called into his comm.

  “Time was of the essence,” Hessa replied over the comm.

  “Can you give me a general location?” Roak asked as he cocked his head and listened to the street noise coming from the mouth of the alley.

  “You are seventeen blocks from the first suspected location of Carla’s tavern,” Hessa stated. “Leave the alley you are in and turn left. Walk five blocks, turn right, walk another five blocks, turn left. Keep going until you see a hand-painted sign for Tgopo Wings and Table Games. The alley is just after you pass that sign.”

  “And the second alley?”

  “One alley at a time, Roak.”

  Roak growled, but didn’t argue. Arguing with an AI like Hessa was pointless. Plus, he needed to keep a low profile while on Ballyway and talking into a comm while wearing light armor was not how you kept a low profile. His face was known too well around the less-than-high-class casino districts to risk being noticed. From the fact that Roak was moltrans’d into a puddle of piss, he figured he was in one of those lesser class districts and it was better to be safe than sorry.

  “Going silent for a while, Hessa,” Roak said. “Comm me only if you absolutely have to.”

  Hessa didn’t reply, but Roak didn’t expect her to.

  He reached the mouth of the alley and looked right then looked left. The sidewalks were packed with tourists. Mostly families that couldn’t afford the better districts of Ballyway, but there were more than a few hustlers, prostitutes, con artists, and thugs winding their way through the throngs of tourists.

  Roak spotted a Groshnel pickpocket a credit unit off an unsuspecting Spilfleck mother. Groshnels were an eight-limbed invertebrate race that had to constantly swallow air in order to maintain solidity in their bodies.

  The pickpocket had used one of his many tentacle limbs to easily lift the credit unit while the Spilfleck mother tended to her six crying children. Spilflecks were a humanoid lizard race of average height and size with neck frills that extended like large discs when they were frightened or excited. The Spilfleck father was nowhere to be seen, but Roak wasn’t too surprised. Some of the lizard-like races ditched their mates as soon as the brood was born or hatched.