by Jake Bible
“It’s my job to sound like a scumbag,” Etch said. “If I sound like you, then the marks will know I’m not legit and I’ll end up spaced or buried up to my neck in B’flo’do spunk. The head of the gambling ring on Ballyway likes to take out snitches and cops that way. He laughs the whole time the sorry son of a bitch is being dissolved alive. Hells of a way to go.”
“Never understood the ops on Ballyway,” Angie said. “It’s an Eight Million Gods damn gaming planet. Billions of tourists a year get to gamble all they want and bring trillions upon trillions of credits and chits to that planet. There’s gonna be some under the table, so to speak, gaming going on. Let it happen. Waste of GV resources, if you ask me.”
“Did I?” Etch replied. “Because I didn’t. You’re shitting on years of my life, McDade. I worked my ass off to get where I was. And you want to know why? Because the head of the gambling ring likes to dissolve his problems away. That doesn’t happen in the legit casinos. Murder, off-books prostitution, illicit stim running, kiddie porn, you name it, that guy had a tentacle in it.”
“Tentacles? Oh, yeah, he was Groshnel. Right,” Angie said.
“And every time some dumb tourist crosses his path, they end up either permanently disabled or simply disappear,” Etch said. “That’s bad for business. The Galactic Fleet has to ensure that planets can operate safely or there’s no point in being part of the Fleet accord. Planetary administrations would be better off joining up with the Skrang Alliance. That bunch of lizards isn’t any better than the crime lords, but at least they’ll protect their assets with military might. We pay a high price for freedom, McDade.”
“Holy shit, Knowles,” Angie replied and laughed. “You drank all the propaganda juice when you were a kid, didn’t you?”
“Some of us have pride in our government,” Etch said.
“Hey, I have pride,” Angie said and leaned forward, resting her arms on the mess table. “I also have a decade and a half more experience in this job. I’ve watched overzealous detectives like you take that pride straight to the grave.”
“Then why do you do this job?” Etch asked. “Seriously. After the War ended between the Galactic Fleet and Skrang Alliance, you could have retired. You were a Tier Seven Master Sergeant. That pension ain’t too bad.”
“I’m here because the War never ended, Knowles,” Angie said. “It simply went underground. The Skrang are backing half the criminal syndicates in this galaxy. I want to take those sons of bitches down and make the Skrang hurt and keep on hurting. It’s a galactic economic war now, Knowles. Kick them in the bank accounts is how we hurt the Skrang.”
“Fine. Your motivation is whacked, but your dedication is solid,” Etch said. “Good. That’ll help keep me alive. Now, talk to me about the op.”
“First, you need to know, and this is not my call, I’m only co-manager on this,” Angie said. “I’ll be splitting the job with a GVD on Jafla base.”
“Jafla Base? Where the Orb fights are?” Etch asked, perking up. “I fucking love the Orb fights.”
“Yes, we know,” Angie said wearily. “Everyone in headquarters knows. We’ve all been cornered by you during championship fight season. You don’t shut up about the Orbs.”
“Have you ever watched a fight? Brilliant shit, McDade,” Etch said. “I get to see one live, yeah? If you are sending me into Jafla Base and I don’t get to see a real, live Orb fight, then I swear I will turn and join the first syndicate that will hire me.”
“Don’t joke about that shit,” Angie said. “And, yes, you will probably see quite a few Orb fights. Although, how you can stand those, I don’t know. It’s mortal combat. Fighters die, Knowles.”
“Only at the top levels,” Etch replied. “Lower-class fights are to unconsciousness or dismemberment.”
“Fuck me…” Angie muttered and shook her head. “I think the chief is making a mistake by sending you in.”
“Why am I being sent in? And what am I supposed to be investigating?” Etch asked. “Gambling is pretty dialed in on Jafla base.”
“It was,” Angie said and pinched her wrist then flicked her palm up and out so a holo display projected from her hand and over the mess table. “Shava Stem Shava. CEO and ordained ruler of the Orb fights was killed almost two years ago which has left a nasty power vacuum on that planet.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Etch said. “Some bounty hunter took him out over a job gone wrong, right?”
“That’s the rumor,” Angie said. “Don’t know for sure. Bounty hunters are Fleet Intelligence Service jurisdiction. But, yes, pretty sure that’s what went down. What also went down is the lieutenants in Shava Stem Shava’s regime immediately started selling off their own niches and territories to the syndicates. It’s hot, contested real estate since nowhere on that planet except the base is inhabitable. You get outside that environmental dome and you’re breathing dirt and sand for the last few seconds of your life.”
“Stay inside the dome. Got it,” Etch said.
“Chief picked you because gambling is dialed in on Jafla Base, like you said, except that means the majority of the betting is no longer legit. Someone with your tile skills will fit in perfectly,” Angie explained. “With your new rep of surviving a beat down by GF detention center guards, and winning a small legal settlement which puts more than a good amount of credits in your pocket, you should be able to work your way into one of the top tile games on the base.”
“But tile games have to be small nuts on Jafla,” Etch said. “The action is in the Orb fights.”
“Which gives you something to work towards,” Angie said. “You parlay your performance at the tile tables into a meeting with someone that can get you into the inner circle of off-books Orb betting. Once you’re in that circle, then you’re where we need you.”
“Because…?”
“Because we don’t care about off-books Orb betting,” Angie said. “We care about the other business that’s going on. The abduction and trafficking of beings for the sex trade.”
“Prostitution? That’s legal on Jafla, right?” Etch asked. “Why do the syndicates need to traffic beings? I’d think there would be plenty of young, dumb, down on their luck losers to fill that niche.”
“There are,” Angie said. “But legal prostitution is highly taxed and regulated on Jafla because of the close quarters everyone lives in. All that base needs is a breakout of Jesperian herpes and half the population would be sick by the end of the year. Not because they’d be spreading it through sex, but because there are half a dozen races that have DNA strong enough to modify the herpes virus and turn it into an airborne pathogen. We go from a recreational hazard to a full-blown epidemic in a matter of weeks.”
“Okay, so?” Etch asked. “The local Squad can’t handle that? I’d think the Galactic Fleet’s Health and Being Services Department would be locking that down, not Galactic Vice.”
“That was the plan,” Angie said. “But things got out of hand a year ago. Someone was bringing in captives at a rate that was overloading the Fleet’s ability to monitor. They called in the local GV Squad for some assistance. Then it got messy. Jafla PD lost a tactical team and the Squad lost a good detective. It was a setup that was supposed to send a message to butt out. Which the Jafla Squad has done for the past year as they work their contacts to find out who ordered the killings.”
“And have they?” Etch asked. “Or is that why I’m here?”
The spinning holo image of Shava Stem Shava was replaced by an even uglier image of a heavily scarred Slinghasp. Slinghasps were a snake-like humanoid race known for their industriousness and penchant to be workaholics. The one that glared out of the holo certainly looked like he’d been working his scaly ass off for a long time.
“Theff Gants,” Angie stated. “He’s been positioning himself to take over for Shava Stem Shava. Problem is no one legit will take him seriously. Everyone knew Shava Stem Shava was a syndicate stooge, even though he ran his own small empire with the Orb fights.
But even with the syndicate knowledge, Shava Stem Shava had gonads and he built the Orb fights into the galactic phenomenon it is. Gants doesn’t have that rep to boost him up, so all the legitimate galactic money that Shava Stem Shava had at his disposal has dried up. Gants is a thug, Knowles. No mistaking it.”
“And thugs will thug,” Etch responded. “If he can’t be taken seriously by legit organizations and institutions, then he’ll transition Jafla Base into a scumbag paradise and get rid of all legal pretense. I get it. Seen it happen on a few other planets. It gets messy fast. Any other assassinations of Jafla PD or GV Squad personnel?”
“Nothing major,” Angie said. “Which makes us think that something big is going to come down soon. Your job is to get close enough to Theff Gants so you can either implicate him one hundred percent in illicit activities or…”
Etch waited for Angie to finish, but she didn’t.
“Shit, Angie, I’m not a cleaner,” Etch said. “That’s Fleet Intelligence Service black book shit. FIS are more than free to get their hands wet, if that’s what’s being asked. I’ll put pieces in place to nail Gants, but no way am I taking him out myself.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Angie said. “Don’t forget, the asshole killed a GVD. He went after us first. Chief is in agreement on this, Knowles. If the situation warrants it, you are authorized to use deadly force. And there will be very few to almost no questions asked afterwards.”
“Fuck…” Etch said and groaned. He tapped his temple. “I’m a thinking man, not a trigger man.”
“That’s debatable,” Angie replied. “About the thinking part.”
Etch mumbled and grumbled to himself for a few seconds then nodded. “Fine. The job is the job. I’ll put my all into this since you say after this op I’m burned and everyone will know Etch Knowles is a Galactic Vice Detective. Final glory for Etch Knowles, galactic scumbag, before I’m put out to pasture behind a desk.”
“Do I look like I’m behind a desk, Knowles?” Angie asked. “You make this op work and you’ll get promoted up the ladder faster than everyone else. You won’t see that desk for long.”
“Great,” Etch said, not sounding like he meant it in any way. “Alright, we have a target objective. Now, who the Hells has the brass gonads to claim co-manager with you? That’s gonna be a headache and a half, McDade. For me and for you.”
“No shit, Knowles,” Angie replied.
6.
“S’lunn!” a reedy voice screeched from the back office in the Jafla Base Galactic Vice Squad headquarters floor of the Jafla Base’s local galactic affairs municipal building. “Dammit, S’lunn! Get your ass in here!”
Tipo S’lunn slowly pushed up from his desk and turned to stare at the enraged Spilfleck that stood in the office’s doorway. Spilflecks were one of the upright lizard races of the galaxy known for their prominent neck frills. The being’s neck frill at that moment was fully enlarged and framed the man’s angry face like a gray-green saucer.
“S’lunn! Don’t just stand there! Get your ass in my office! Now!”
“Yes, sir,” Tipo replied, ignoring the looks of apprehension that the rest of the detectives were shooting his way as he slowly walked his way past desks and tables until he stood before the pissed-off Spilfleck. “Sir?”
“Where are you supposed to be right now?” Galactic Vice Squad Captain for Jafla Base, Kazparnan Jorg, asked, sounding like he knew exactly what the answer to his own question would be.
“Right here, sir,” Tipo replied with a wheeze as he scratched at the scarring on his face and neck. One nostril of his proboscis was completely collapsed and the other side looked like it was barely open. “I can’t meet this Knowles guy at the docking hangar or his cover will be blown.”
“Yeah, I know that,” Jorg nearly shouted. “You think I don’t know that? I do know that. Which is why GVD Knowles and his manager—”
“Co-manager, sir,” Tipo interrupted.
Jorg’s neck frill expanded even further and darkened to a forest green.
Tipo took a deep breath and said, “Sorry. Please continue, sir.”
“They’re going to be at safe house number three,” Jorg continued. “That’s your rendezvous for face to face meets. You were told that in the briefing. If you want this job, which I’m Eight Million Gods damn crazy for letting you talk me into, then you better get your shit stowed and head screwed on straight. Move your ass and get to that safe house now before they arrive.”
“That’s not the plan, sir,” Tipo said.
“Yes, that damn well is the plan!” Jorg shouted. “I made the plan! That is part of it!”
“Co-manager McDade and I decided we’d meet on our own somewhere else,” Tipo said. “Once we’re on the same page, then she’ll set up the first meet with Knowles. We’ll establish protocols from there.”
“I didn’t clear any of that,” Jorg said, stunned by the revelation. “Who do you think you are going over my head?”
“I didn’t, sir,” Tipo said. “McDade insisted on it and she has GV Division Chief Lu’Tes’Tu’s blessing to go with her gut on this op. I’m not stepping in front of that, sir. I already played it hard getting the co-manager position.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Jorg said and looked like he was going to spit on the floor. But he lowered his voice. “You screw this up and you’re done. We’re both done. I’m not talking just in the GV.”
“Well aware, sir,” Tipo said. “Not going to screw this up. I’m doing this for Xew, sir.”
The captain’s face flinched then softened somewhat at the mention of the deceased detective. Somewhat.
“Get out of here, S’lunn,” Jorg ordered.
“Sir, I’m still waiting for contact from McDade,” Tipo said.
“She has your comm signature,” Jorg stated. “She can call you wherever you are. For now, get out of my sight. Seeing you just pisses me off.”
“Yes, sir,” Tipo said and nodded to Jorg then turned on his heel and went back to his desk to collect his coat, badge, and pistol. He put them on, ignored the furtive looks from his colleagues, and got out of there as Jorg had ordered.
He was down on the ground level of the municipal building, halfway across the lobby, when his comm chimed.
“GVD S’lunn,” Tipo answered.
“Tipo?” a quiet voice asked. “Are you busy?”
Tipo stopped in his tracks, glanced around, then hurried over to a corner of the lobby where he wouldn’t be eavesdropped on.
“Mess’a? What’s wrong?” Tipo asked.
“It’s a bad day, Tipo. Bad dreams again. Those dreams,” Mess’a Tikk responded, sounding like she was a million miles away. With the amount of stim she was doing, Tipo was surprised she could work her comm. “I miss him, Tipo. Can you come by?”
“Not right now, Mess’a,” Tipo said. “I’m working.”
“Always…working…” There was silence for a long while. Tipo was used to the silences. Then, “Tonight? I’ll make dinner…”
“Sure, if I’m not working late,” Tipo said. “I’ll comm you. Don’t worry about dinner. If I come over, I’ll pick up something so you don’t have to cook.”
“I can…work a stove…” More silence.
Tipo waited for a couple minutes until he heard the light snores coming from Mess’a’s end of the comm. He killed the signal and closed his eyes. They weren’t closed for more than a couple of seconds when his comm chimed again.
“Mess’a, listen, I’ll come by tonight no matter how late,” Tipo said. “We need to talk about—”
“Who’s Mess’a?” a woman asked.
Tipo started then swiped at his wrist to see who was calling. Lt. Angie McDade.
“Shit. Sorry about that,” Tipo said. “I thought you were a friend.”
“Wait… Mess’a Tikk? Your late partner’s wife?” Angie asked over the comm. “Shit, S’lunn, how messed up are you on all this?”
“I’m not messed up; she
is,” Tipo replied. “Have you landed, McDade?”
“I technically can have you call me Op Manager Lt. McDade, you know?” Angie said.
“Never gonna happen, man,” Tipo said.
“Didn’t think so,” Angie replied. “And, yeah, I landed and am at some dive bar. Shitty beer and shittier prices, but everyone looks like they want to mind their own business.”
“What’s the name?” Tipo asked.
“Hold on. I have a coaster here,” Angie said. “Pitcher’s. What in all the Hells does that even mean? Is it because they have pitchers? Or is someone’s name Pitcher?”
“I know it,” Tipo said.
“That’s not encouraging,” Angie replied.
“Sit tight and I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Maybe thirty depending on traffic,” Tipo said. “Can’t take a GV roller or I’ll be spotted pulling up. I’ll use a taxi, but they are notorious for gouging riders by taking the long way.”
“Good to know,” Angie said. “See ya in thirty then.”
“Try not to drink the place dry,” Tipo said. “You’ll end up with the shits for a century if you drink too much of that swill.”
“Is the liquor any good?” Angie asked.
“No,” Tipo said. “See ya in thirty.”
He killed the comm and hurried from the building. It took him a while to find a taxi that would pull up to the municipal building since most of the commercial transport rollers were controlled by one of the syndicates and they had strict orders to bust cops’ gonads.
Once Tipo did get one to stop, he initiated a masking protocol so the driver couldn’t report who was in the taxi. Tipo got a hard glare in the rearview mirror, but he returned the glare equally as hard until the driver pulled away from the curb.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Mesker District,” Tipo said.
“Got a specific address?” the driver asked.
“Yeah, but I’m keeping it to myself,” Tipo snapped. “Get me to the Mesker District. That’s all you need to do and all you need to know.”