by Jake Bible
That and the pupils in his golden eyes were vertical slits that pulsed in and out as he stared at the woman seated across from him.
“Call me a halfer again,” the man, Etch Knowles, said. He set his forearms on the table, almost on top of his row of tiles, and leaned forward. “Do it. Call me a halfer again.”
“Can we keep playing instead of spitting?” a severely obese Urvein asked from the seat next to the woman.
A bear-like race, Urveins could top eight feet in their prime and were built of muscle and thick hair. The Urvein in question had let himself go a long time ago and could barely reach his tiles from across his enormous belly.
“I gotta business appointment an hour after dawn,” the Urvein continued as he swiped at his wrist and brought up a chrono reading. “That’s in less than two hours. I’d love to win some of my chits back before then.”
“Fat chance, fat ass,” Etch said, his eyes still on the offending woman.
The woman was in her mid-thirties and beautiful even with the deep, jagged scar that ran from her left temple, across her cheekbone, and down to her left nostril. Dark skin with short-cropped platinum hair and bright green eyes, she’d turned heads when she’d walked into the gaming room fifteen hours earlier. Now she looked haggard and tired, not to mention close to homicidal, as Etch continued to extend and retract that single claw from his index finger.
“No need to get personal,” the Urvein grumbled.
“Call me a halfer again,” Etch said to the woman.
“Play your tile,” the woman replied. “It’s your turn.”
The corners of Etch’s mouth turned up in a brief smile. He leaned back, studied the woman, looked down and studied his tiles, then selected one and set it in the center of the table next to two similar tiles.
“Three set,” Etch said and the brief smile became a permanent fixture, widening until it took up his entire face. “Seventeens. Anyone got eighteens or higher to slap down? No?”
The entire table complained as they mucked their tiles into the discard chute. Except for the woman.
“Don’t need eighteens when I have a set,” the woman said. She placed a tile next to six others and smiled as the numerical progression lined up perfectly. “Line of seven. Hard to beat that.”
“Very hard,” Etch said and placed a fourth then a fifth seventeen tile next to the set of three already in the mix. “But not impossible. Set of five beats a run of seven. That’s how this game works, right?”
The woman leapt up from her chair, her hand reaching for a pistol that wasn’t on her hip. She slapped at her side for a second then rolled her eyes and sat back down.
“Good game,” she said and extended her hand across the table.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Etch said as he shoved the tiles in play into the discard chute then scooped up the nice-sized pile of chits that sat off to the side. “I’ve heard about your handshakes. Folks don’t live long once they touch that micro-toxin your palm is coated with.”
The woman’s green eyes widened then narrowed then relaxed as she in turn relaxed back into her seat.
“You did your homework,” the woman said.
“I always like to know who I play with,” Etch said. “Cassa Wickens is a name you don’t overlook. Killer for hire. And all that shit.”
“There’s more subtlety to me than killer for hire and all that shit,” Cassa stated. “But it’s hard for halfers to grasp subtlety, I know.”
“You had to go and say it, didn’t you,” Etch said and sighed.
The table was bolted to the floor. Which made Etch look like an idiot when he leapt to his feet and tried to flip it. All he ended up doing was give everyone still seated a good laugh.
“Jeez, Etch,” the Ferg said. “Calm all the Hells down, will ya? People talk shit at the table. Get used to it.”
“Talking shit and being a bigoted bitch are two different things, Klosp,” Etch said to the Ferg.
“You wear your issues on your sleeve, Etch Knowles,” Cassa said and laughed at the surprise on Etch’s face. “What? You’re not the only one that does their homework. I know all about the galactic scumbag called Etch Knowles. Had to make sure you paid your debts before I agreed to sit at the same table as you. Luckily, you do pay your debts. You rip beings off in every other way possible, but you always pay your debts.”
“You see any debts here?” Etch asked, pointing at his huge stack of chits. “Don’t need to pay anything if you all are paying me.”
“Yeah, I’m done,” the Urvein said as he pushed back his chair and struggled to his feet. His massive belly jiggled up and down violently, almost knocking his meager stack of chits off the table and on to the floor. The being scooped up the chits and stowed them in a small pouch on his belt. He turned and nodded to Cassa. “See you in a couple weeks?”
“I’ll comm you later,” Cassa said, giving the Urvein a smile. “Unless I’m on the run after killing this punk ass bitch.”
“Yeah, good luck with all that,” the Urvein said and waddled away. Beings at other tables had to shift their chairs to let him pass as his wide hips threatened to knock them from their seats if they didn’t adjust fast enough. “Good gaming, everyone.”
There were a few replies of “good gaming” back, but most of the occupants in the room continued to focus on the tiles in front of them and the stakes on their tables.
“We gonna rumble, Etch Knowles?” Cassa asked. “Or we gonna finish playing a few rounds before we all get back to our ships and catch some shut-eye. I’m only on Ballyway for three more days before I have to get back to work. I’d rather not spend those days locked up because I slit your throat.”
“You’re not that good,” Etch replied.
“Actually, she is,” Klosp said in a whisper all could hear.
“Say you’re sorry for calling me a halfer,” Etch demanded. “Say it.”
“If it’ll get the game going again,” Cassa replied without hesitation. “I’m sorry I called you—”
The room wasn’t large, able to hold a dozen gaming tables, when half the tables, along with the players seated at them, were sent flying across the room to collide with the rest as the far wall was obliterated and a massive, smoking hole appeared before everyone’s startled and quickly panicked eyes.
“Raid!” someone yelled as heavily armed and armored troopers rushed the room, H16 plasma carbine multi-weapons swinging left and right while an electronic voice announced, “Galactic Vice Division! Surrender immediately and survive! Do not resist! Galactic Vice Division! Surrender immediately and survive! Do not resist!”
Despite the words being repeated over and over at an ear-splitting level, many of the players did not surrender immediately and decided resisting was their best option. The electronic voice was quickly drowned out by the sound of gunfire and screaming from those that made the wrong choice.
Etch threw himself onto the ground and laced his hands behind his head. He flinched and shook at every gunshot and plasma blast that flew over his head.
“Etch…?” Klosp whispered as he tried to crawl over to Etch. “Shit…”
Half the Ferg’s face was gone, his entire left side roasted to a cinder by a plasma blast. Etch grimaced as Klosp’s wide eyes locked onto his then became empty as the life left the being’s body.
“Eight Million Gods dammit,” Etch growled under his breath as the fighting continued around him.
Then it was over. Five minutes of all the Hells followed by a deathly silence that lasted five seconds.
“Get them up!” someone roared. “Get this gambling scum up off the floor and into the roller!”
Armor-gloved hands yanked Etch to his feet, forced his hands down from his head so they could be restrained behind his back, then proceeded to half-shove, half-guide him through the chaos of the raid.
“I knew you were bad luck,” Cassa snarled as Etch was marched past her. She had a nasty wound to her right shoulder and a medic was tending to it while three t
roopers covered her with their weapons. “Better stay out of my orbit from now on, halfer.”
“Kiss my ass,” Etch snapped as he was shoved towards a line of prisoners that were being led out through the huge hole in the underground gambling room’s wall. “Whichever half your lips can stand. I don’t really care.”
“Shut up!” a trooper shouted as he cuffed Etch upside the back of his head. “Talk again and you get a stun baton up your ass, scumbag!”
Etch didn’t talk again. Not for a long while.
4.
Etch sat in a holding cell with over twenty other beings for six days before he was allowed to make his comm call. He was weak and dehydrated, having figured out that eating or drinking anything provided by the guards led to intestinal distress that none of the species and races could avoid. That and using the latrine wasn’t an easy proposition considering his hands had thick polymer mittens on them to prevent him from using his claws.
The cell smelled like a sewer and Etch was more than glad to be led away from it, if only for a few minutes.
“What in all the Hells?” Etch snarled into the comm when he was finally alone in one of the communications bubbles that prisoners were allowed to use to speak to their legal representatives. All the other bubbles were empty which meant he didn’t have to try to hide his anger. “You cut the game short by a week and I’ve been sitting in my own piss for almost that long. Wanna tell me what the fuck went wrong?”
“Nothing,” a wizened voice replied. It was a female voice, but not human, and it sounded exhausted. “The op was performing beautifully. Your cover was intact. But there were extenuating circumstances that required we pull you out without blowing that cover. The raid was the only way we could do it without exposing you.”
“Come on, Chief,” Etch replied. “You couldn’t wait a few more hours and pick me up out on the streets? People died, Chief. Klosp was a piece of shit, but he didn’t deserve to have his face blasted off.”
“The deaths were unfortunate, but we needed your extraction to be real and messy,” Galactic Vice Division Chief Morga Lu’Tes’Tu responded with a sigh. “We didn’t expect as much resistance as we faced. They were gamblers; they should have dropped their tiles and raised their hands. Instead, some opened fire. We did what needed to be done.”
“Good for you and your justifications,” Etch said. “Now, how about telling me why? Sixteen months of prep and five months of infiltration. That’s how long it took me to get in on that game. A game that would have led to an invitation to the private rooms upstairs. Chief, I was about to shut down the largest illegal tile game in the galaxy.”
“Not quite,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu said. “There’re a couple ones that are larger, which is why we needed you out. I’m sending you to one of those games. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Etch asked and looked at the comm console, having no sense of time in the detention center.
It was almost midnight galactic standard time. That explained the empty comm bubbles. Public defenders weren’t dedicated enough to work at midnight. Not for petty gambling scum clients.
“Tonight,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu answered. “I have a shuttle waiting which will take you to a GV ship parked next to one of the out-of-the-way wormhole portals. Too many tourists by the other portals.”
“Fuck tourists!” Etch shouted then took a deep breath. “Sorry, Chief…”
“Understandable,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu responded. “I know this is hard, but everything will be explained when you’re in a secure environment. Which means I need you to do one more thing for me, GVD Knowles.”
“What?” Etch asked, one hundred percent sure he didn’t want to know the answer.
“Only way we can get you out right now without raising suspicion is a medical emergency,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu said. Her implication hung there for a couple of seconds. “Knowles?”
“Which inmate is jumping me?” Etch asked finally.
“Not an inmate. The guards,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu said. “That way none of the other inmates can decide to join in. It’s going to hurt, Knowles. A lot. I am sorry.”
“I better be getting a bonus for this,” Etch said as he leaned the back of his head against the cool surface of the plastiglass bubble. “At the very least, a few extra vacation days.”
“I’ll put in for the bonus and you can consider the vacation days approved,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu said. “Once your next op is completed.”
“I figured,” Etch said. “Anything else I need to know before I get the Hells kicked out of me?”
“You’ll be fully briefed on the ship,” Chief Lu’Tes’Tu said. “I am sorry for this, Knowles, but when you hear what is happening, you’ll understand.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I will,” Etch said then killed the comm.
As soon as the signal went dead, four guards entered the comm bubble room. Etch slid the bubble open and stepped out to face the guards.
“We doing this here or when we get back to the cell?” Etch asked.
“The cell,” one of the guards said. “Witnesses make it more believable.”
Etch looked the guards up and down and quickly realized they were not standard detention center employees. They held themselves like trained operators and it was with that realization that Etch believed Chief Lu’Tes’Tu.
It was going to hurt. A lot.
“Fine,” Etch said and allowed himself to be led back to the holding cell.
On his way, he was marched past the other holding cells and couldn’t help but notice a rage-faced Cassa Wickens tracking him as he was escorted the cell she was in. Etch also couldn’t help but notice as Cassa drew a finger across her throat then pointed at him.
Etch gave her a “yeah, yeah, you’re gonna kill me, so what” nod and roll of his eyes. Cassa spat against the energy shield that kept the prisoners in their cells. The sizzle of her spit echoed in Etch’s ears as he was shoved along for a few more meters before he was back at his holding cell.
“You gotta resist,” the lead guard whispered as part of the cell’s energy shield dissolved to make a tight entryway. “Make it look real.”
“Not a problem,” Etch replied quietly right before he whirled around and slammed his forehead into the lead guard’s face.
Except that face was covered by a riot helmet energy faceshield. Etch’s head exploded with pain and he stumbled back into the cell’s energy shield which had instantly reformed as soon as he had made his move. More pain exploded in Etch’s head as the back of his skull, and the hair on it, began to sizzle from contact with the energy shield.
“Come on, you bastards!” Etch roared as he struggled to get his bearings. The holding cell corridor swam and spun in his vision. Etch tried to shake it off, but it only made the disorientation worse. “I said…come…on…”
He stumbled forward and was instantly stopped by five stun batons impacting various parts of his body. To Etch’s credit, he remained upright through the initial attack. But once the guards began to work on his hips and legs, he was down on the ground in the blink of an eye. They kept wailing on him well after he was completely incapacitated.
The last things Etch heard were two of the guards laughing as he lay there and flopped like a fish out of water, the voltage from the stun batons still working through his body. Then he went still and someone suggested they get a medic. There were quite a few cat-calls and laughs from the holding cells, but not as many as there normally would have been and not with as much enthusiasm as bored beings liked to muster when there was finally some action to watch.
As Etch drifted into unconsciousness, he wondered just how bad he looked. If he looked as bad as he felt, then it was no wonder the laughs were few and far between. No one wanted to jinx their situation and end up like him.
Black cotton filled his ears and occluded his vision and Etch welcomed the relief. A nice rest sounded great at that moment.
5.
Sixteen hours in the med pod was what it took to get Etch pat
ched up enough that he could function fully yet still look like he’d been beat to all Hells. The medic in charge of his recovery made it very clear that orders were to keep him looking rough, so when they reached their destination, Etch’s cover story would hold up under scrutiny.
It was that cover story that Etch was learning about as he sat in the ship’s mess and gobbled his third bowl of extra sweet protein mush. Seated across from Etch was an annoyed looking human. She watched as half of what Etch tried to scarf up fell back into the bowl.
“You know the synthesizer can always make more of that shit,” Galactic Vice Division Operations Manager Lieutenant Angie McDade said. “How about you slow down before you choke to death and ruin this entire op, Knowles?”
“Bite me,” Etch said around a mouthful of mush. “Hungry.”
He glanced up and gave her a sarcastic smile. Angie rolled her deep-set, pitch-black eyes and leaned back in her chair.
In her late forties with shock white, close-cropped hair, Angie McDade did not look like the person you gave a sarcastic smile to, but Etch couldn’t give a crap. Dressed in cargo pants and a tucked-in, sleeveless T-shirt, Angie crossed her muscular arms over her chest and tried to look as intimidating as possible. Again, Etch couldn’t give a crap.
“What?” Etch asked after a satisfying belch. “You got something to say, so say it.”
“You’ve been deep too long,” Angie stated. “Chief should have pulled you from the field after your last op was complete. She should not have ruined the op in order to put you into an even more strenuous situation.”
Etch shrugged. “We all have our opinions. I just do what I’m told.” He belched again, looked down at what was left in his bowl, belched a third time, then shoved the bowl away and sighed. “How strenuous of a situation are we talking?”
“This’ll be your last undercover job,” Angie said. “This one will burn you. Chief will have to put you on investigations only, not operations, from here on out.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t tell me jack shit about the op itself,” Etch said. “Stop trying to mind fuck me, McDade. Play me straight here.”