Paradox Slaughter

by Jake Bible

  “Ten. Maybe more. Maybe less,” Bishop said. “I counted a minimum of eight DM hand canons and three KL09s. That’s eleven weapons right there. Did some of the beings have two weapons? Maybe. Not sure. I was focused on the black eyes of death those barrels represented, not on the black masks behind them.”

  “Ten. Maybe more, maybe less,” Roak said. “You know any of the beings?”

  “Nope. But they knew you. That was apparent right off,” Bishop said.

  “How so?”

  “Once they pulled me from my house and had thrown me into the back of a hover truck, one of them kept shouting for me to tell them where you were,” Bishop said and shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly a hard mystery to solve.”

  “But you didn’t know where I was,” Roak said. “So they did what?”

  “Tortured the fuck out of me for about two weeks straight,” Bishop said. “Night and day, if there even was night or day in that place.”

  “What place?”

  “Some facility. No idea where, so don’t even ask. They kept me sedated on the trip there. Could have been all the way across the galaxy or down the street from where I lived. I didn’t ask and I didn’t care because the torture part was occupying a lot of my caring time.”

  “When was this?”

  Bishop hesitated. Roak tapped a finger on the handle of his Flott.

  “Stop that,” Bishop said. “It was three years ago.”

  “Three years?” Roak shouted and the Flott’s barrel was back at Bishop’s temple. “You’ve been screwing me over for three years? How many times did I ask for intel from you during those three years? And you had the balls to deceive me all that time?”

  Roak yanked the pistol away and put it back in his lap.

  “Points for big balls,” he said.

  “Thanks. I knew you’d appreciate that part at least,” Bishop said. “Although, I have to admit that I almost told you a couple of times. Especially once I caught wind they wanted to take your chits. Roak and his chits. That part of the plan scared me more than any other part. All the Hells, being face to face now is nothing compared to all the time knowing you were coming for me because of those chits. Frankly, I’m relieved we’re talking now.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Roak said.

  “Believe me, I’m not,” Bishop said and nodded at a sign. “The town ahead has a great diner. They only serve gump burgers, but they are worth it. Want to stop and eat?”

  “This part of the setup?” Roak asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then keep driving.”

  Bishop glanced in the side mirror and frowned.

  “See something unpleasant?” Roak asked.

  “Maybe,” Bishop said. “Must have been a bird. Saw something yellow cross the road back there, but it’s gone.”

  “Huh,” Roak said. “What’s next?”

  “There’s a tavern in the town after this one that I’m supposed to mention if you skip the offer to stop at the diner.”

  “And after the tavern?”

  “Town after that has a different diner that serves nothing but soups and stews. Not sure why, but all the towns on Stefbon have specific dishes they serve. One is all about the gump burgers while the next is all about stews. A ways on is a town with pie shops on every corner.”

  “Any good?”

  “No. Terrible pies. Locals don’t seem to care, though.”

  “How far can we go before they stop us?” Roak asked.

  “They’ll stop us if we don’t pull over for soup or stew,” Bishop replied.

  “Why are they letting us talk like this? Why not nab me instead of sending you to pick me up?”

  “They value their lives,” Bishop stated. “These people aren’t stupid.”

  “No, they are not.”

  “So you know who they are?”

  “Yes.”

  “And…?”

  “I grew up with them. Sort of.”

  “This is your family? Sheez, that explains a lot.”

  “Not family. Not quite.”

  “Then who and what are they?” Bishop asked, his voice rising a notch. “Because after weeks and weeks of torture, and three years of plotting against you, I think I deserve to know who is yanking my chain, Roak.”

  “Really?”

  “Brother, I am only in this mess because of you. I would have woken up that morning and gone about my day as usual if these people hadn’t shown up. I had gardening planned, Roak. When I got back home, everything was dried up and dead. I loved that garden.”

  “You think you deserve to know who is after me because your garden died?”

  “Fuck yes, I do!” Bishop shouted. He took a few deep, deliberate centering breaths and stared at the road ahead. “Stay calm. Keep your cool. Do not provoke.”

  He repeated those words over and over until his shoulders relaxed and he gave Roak a half-smile.

  “I had to learn a new way of thinking,” Bishop explained. “It made weeks three and four a little easier on me.”

  “Don’t care,” Roak said. “What do they want?”

  “I thought you’d know.”

  “You said you had answers. That’s a pretty big answer not to have.”

  “Didn’t say I don’t know what they want, just thought you’d know.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They want you.”

  “Obviously. Why?”

  “Something about your contract not being fulfilled. Also, something about you making poor life choices.”

  “Bishop…”

  “You owe them, is the gist. They threw a lot at me all at once and I retained almost none of it. Might have been due to the concussions I was suffering from, but also because the way they talk is weird. Really weird.”

  “The way they talk is weird? How so?”

  Roak tensed. Bishop glanced over at him.

  “You alright? Not gonna shoot me, are you?” Bishop asked.

  “How did they talk, Bishop?”

  “Clipped. Like they were barely able to get the words out of their mouths.”

  “You ever see faces?”

  “You think I’d be alive and driving this roller with you if I saw faces?”

  “Good. Back to their speech patterns.”

  “No, not speech patterns. They all had different speech patterns, but they all talked the same way. Clipped words.”

  “Clipped words…”

  “Clipped words.”

  Roak turned and watched the landscape go by. The jungle was beautiful. Then they came to the next town and Roak stayed quiet as they drove past several diners, all advertising the best gump burgers on the planet. Then they were out of the town and the jungle returned.

  “Did they act like they were in pain?” Roak finally asked after many kilometers of silence.

  “I acted like I was in pain, I’ll tell you that,” Bishop said. “Because I was in pain. Lots of pain.”

  “I want to know about their pain, not yours,” Roak said. “Can you answer that? Did they seem like they were in pain?”

  Bishop scrunched up his face in thought. He started to answer several times, but only shook his head.

  “I don’t know, Roak. Maybe they were, but I couldn’t tell. Weeks of torture. Weeks. Of. Torture. They could have lit a Leforian on fire in front of me and I wouldn’t have cared about the guy’s suffering. They did fingernail shit, Roak. You know me and my fingernails.”

  “I need you to think hard,” Roak pushed. “Dive back into those weeks and tell me if the beings that had you could have been in pain.”

  “I did just think really hard!” Bishop shouted. Then he went back to repeating his mantra of, “Stay calm. Keep your cool. Do not provoke.”

  “These guys did a number on you, Bishop,” Roak said. “You might be too broken to get back into the life.”

  “Oh, I am sure as shit not getting back into the life when this is all over,” Bishop said. “If this is ever all over. Maybe I’ll get lucky
and see freedom again. If I do, then I’ll spend the rest of my days tending my garden and keeping as far away from the life as possible.”

  “Except you owe me thirty-five million chits,” Roak said.

  “And change,” Bishop replied.

  The two men laughed. Then they stopped laughing and Bishop sighed.

  “Give me a second or two, alright?” Bishop said as they drove by the sign for the next town. “Until we reach the soup town. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Roak replied. “Until we reach the soup town.”

  More silence as they traveled. Bishop’s features looked like he was being tortured all over again as he drove. When they reached the outskirts of the next town, Bishop leaned forward and began looking for something.

  “What are you doing?” Roak asked.

  “We’re stopping for soup,” Bishop said.

  “Like all the Hells we are!” Roak exclaimed.

  “They won’t come for you until I give them a signal,” Bishop said. He raised his hand and performed a complicated series of gestures. “Spent a long while memorizing those movements, let me tell you.”

  “We aren’t stopping,” Roak said.

  “Roak, eventually, we are stopping. There’s no getting around that,” Bishop said. “You might as well have some really good soup before the hard stuff starts.”

  “I like stew better,” Roak said.

  “Then stew it is.”

  29.

  The diner was galactic standard, Roak noted as a Groshnel waitress showed them to a booth in the back. Roak took the side with his back to the wall so he could watch the entrance. The waitress swiped them holo food menus with two of her limbs and holo drink menus with two others while the fifth and sixth limbs kept her upright and the seventh and eight held a tablet, ready to take their order.

  “Gonna need a minute,” Bishop said. “You serve alcohol?”

  “We have soup with alcohol in it,” the waitress replied.

  “Not the same thing,” Bishop said.

  “No, it ain’t,” the Groshnel said and blew out a puff of air, deflating her body for a moment before gulping hard and solidifying once again. “Call me when you’re ready to order. I’m not going to keep checking on you, if that’s what you want.”

  “We’ll let you know,” Bishop said.

  The two men waited until the waitress had left and gone back in the kitchen before they pushed the menus to the side. Bishop clasped his hands together and focused on Roak. Roak simply sat there, his eyes on Bishop.

  “Why does it matter so much if they were in pain?” Bishop asked. “How does that change the situation?”

  “Tells me their motivation,” Roak said. “Tells me if my hunch is right.”

  “What’s your hunch? I may be able to help you with that,” Bishop said.

  “Just answer the question, Bishop,” Roak demanded. “Or things get very uncomfortable in here.”

  “Check your pistol,” Bishop said. He tried not to grin, but failed miserably as the corners of his lips turned up.

  Roak didn’t check his pistol. “Weapons inhibitors?”

  “Weapons inhibitors,” Bishop said and nodded. “The whole planet has them. You want to shoot someone, you better do it outside of town limits. I guess they felt left out with Ligston prohibiting weapons and all.”

  “Ligtson’s atmosphere will combust if someone discharges a blaster,” Roak said. “That’s different.”

  “Intra-system politics.” Bishop rolled his eyes. “But to answer your question, if I can, yeah, I think the beings that held me were more afraid than in pain. Or maybe they were mocking my fear. Hard to tell. Like I said, Roak, I was pretty messed up. They did more than a number on me.”

  “You ever see any of their eyes?”

  “Their eyes? No. All in black, all wearing masks. Voices clipped. Maybe afraid. That’s about all I got when it comes to those beings.”

  “How certain can you be that they were afraid?” Roak asked. “Really think on this. Think as hard as you can.”

  “Let’s order first,” Bishop said.

  Roak cocked his head. Bishop only stared at him, blank-faced.

  “Fine,” Roak said. “We’ll order first.”

  The waitress appeared at their table when Bishop called for her. She took their order, but didn’t look at Roak once during the interaction. When she left, Roak withdrew his Keplar knife and activated the energy blade under the table, his eyes on Bishop the entire time. Then he powered the knife down and slid it back onto his belt.

  Bishop grinned at him. “What ya doing there?”

  “This town should get a refund from the contractor they hired,” Roak said.

  “Why’s that?” Bishop asked.

  “Faulty inhibitors,” Roak said. Bishop’s eyes widened. “How much time do we have?”

  Bishop looked like he was going to argue, but shrugged instead.

  “I don’t know. Honest truth. Hopefully enough to eat some soup before things turn to shit.” He sighed and rubbed at his face, looking a decade older and exhausted in the span of a few seconds. “It’s going to turn to shit, isn’t it?”

  “More than likely.”

  “I’ll be glad when this is all over. Roak, I have to say, the last three years have been killing me. Every time we’ve spoken I’ve almost told you. Almost.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “I believe you. But. You. Didn’t.”

  Roak stared until Bishop nodded in agreement.

  Their food arrived and Roak watched Bishop eat.

  “Not gonna touch your stew,” Bishop asked around a spoonful of soup he’d just put in his mouth. “Shit. Hot, hot, hot.”

  “No, Bishop, I’m not going to eat,” Roak said. “I’m not going to drink anything given to me. I’m not going to remove the air filters from my nostrils. I’m not going to cough up the prophylactic film coating my throat. I’m not going to make anyone’s job easier for them.”

  Bishop had another spoonful of soup halfway raised to his mouth. He looked at it, looked past it at the bowl of soup, looked around the diner, looked back at the spoonful of soup, then ate it.

  “I’m already screwed, so what does it matter,” Bishop said.

  Roak frowned. “You aren’t setting me up.”

  Bishop blinked at the statement.

  “What? Yeah, I am. We talked about this in the roller. I’m delivering you to them.”

  “But you weren’t expecting the food or drink to be dosed. You weren’t expecting the air to be tainted. You think they’re going to come in this diner, weapons inhibited, and try to take me as I am. That’s what I mean. You think the playing field is even.”

  “I’ve seen you in action, Roak. The playing field is never even with you involved. Skews to Roak, always. I’ve bet on the losing side too many times to figure you’re going to do anything except get your ass out of this.”

  “And take you with.”

  Bishop lifted the spoon in a half salute then ate more soup. “Only because I owe you thirty-five million chits.”

  “And change.”

  “And change, old friend, and change.”

  Bishop finished his soup. Roak let his stew grow cold and noted the waitress ignoring him again when she came back to check on them. She never asked him if he liked his stew or why he wasn’t eating it.

  “They’re in the back,” Roak said when the waitress walked away.

  “Are they?” Bishop asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he pushed his empty bowl away. “Could be.”

  “They’ve been back there the entire time,” Roak said. “Some of them. They’re split up along the stops you might have taken. The burger joint, the tavern, this soup spot, what was next?”

  “Terrible pies,” Bishop said.

  “Terrible pies,” Roak echoed. “The beings at the terrible pie shop are on their way here. The beings at the burger joint and tavern followed after us and are joining their f
riends in the back right now. How many do you think we’re looking at?”

  “We?”

  “We. Gonna need your help to fight this. I’m good, but not good enough to take them all.”

  Bishop shook his head emphatically. “No way.”

  “I’ll knock off the ‘and change’ part of your debt.”

  “It’s not that, Roak.” He put a finger to his chest. “I fight, I die. Heart goes boom.”

  “I figured that might happen,” Roak said. “What can you tell me about the device?”

  “It goes boom and takes my heart with it,” Bishop said. “What else do you need? A picture of the thing?”

  “That would help,” Roak replied.

  “That would help… What in the Hells are you talking about?”

  “You want out of this crapass situation you got yourself into?”

  “Got myself into? Have you not heard anything I’ve told you?”

  “Do you want out or not?”

  “Yeah, of course I fucking want out!”

  Roak slid a napkin across the table. “Draw me a picture.”

  “Roak, I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Possible, but not related to the task at hand. Draw the damn picture.”

  Bishop slowly took the napkin and snapped his fingers. The waitress appeared at the table.

  “You have a pen?” Bishop asked.

  “A what?” she replied.

  “An ink stylus,” Roak said, talking slowly and deliberately. “My friend needs to sketch something for me.”

  “Ink stylus? What planet do you think we’re on?” the waitress scoffed and walked away.

  “Sauce,” Roak said and grabbed a small jar of red sauce that had many warnings depicted in flames on the label.

  Bishop took the sauce, dabbed some on the tip of his finger, and drew.

  “That’s what I think it looks like,” Bishop said finally as he slid the napkin sketch across the table to Roak. “That help?”

  Roak picked up the sketch and studied it from all angles then nodded and set it on the table, upside down. He grabbed the sauce jar, dabbed his finger in it, and wrote a couple of sentences on the back before blowing on the results and handing the napkin to Bishop.

  “Stick that in your pocket,” Roak said. “Make sure it stays there. If you have somewhere more secure to put it, then do that. Do not lose that sketch.”