The Orion Conspiracy (Max Mars Book 1)

by Tripp Ellis

  Max Mars

  The Orion Conspiracy

  Tripp Ellis

  Tripp Ellis

  Copyright © 2017 by Tripp Ellis

  All rights reserved. Worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Thank You!

  The Galactic Wars Series

  The Tarvaax War Series

  Author’s Note

  Connect With Me

  1

  The first time Max Mars died really sucked. She tried to avoid it whenever possible. Though, it was getting to be a difficult proposition—she had enemies all throughout the galaxy. Trouble had a way of finding her. She was like a magnet for it.

  Max was just minding her own business when they came for her. She should have never stepped off the transport. She was at a bar on Orion Station—Plasmatronics. Max had just ordered her favorite cocktail—Bulvacci Special Reserve Antarian Whiskey.

  It wasn't cheap, and the Special Reserve was hard-to-find. It was aged 28 years in oak barrels, unlike the cheap synthetic whiskey, which was just a mix of alcohol and flavorings. It was smooth and creamy, and had a little sweetness to it. It didn't burn at all. It tasted like pie. Life is too short to drink cheap liquor, Max was fond of saying.

  She wasn't even supposed to be here today.

  The transport had been diverted and delayed due to maintenance issues. The flight crew was estimating several hours to make repairs. Max could sit on board in the stuffy passenger compartment, or get off and have a drink. The screaming baby aboard the transport encouraged her to grab a cocktail.

  Plasmatronics was typical of space station bars inside transport terminals. There was a wide mix of people and aliens from all across the galaxy. The drinks were watered-down and overpriced. And the food was passable. That was another reason to order top shelf liquor—you could easily tell if it had been adulterated.

  Plasmatronics had a pretty good crowd. There was always a constant ebb and flow of people in and out. There was no day or night. The place ran 24 hours a day, seven days a week—just like Vegas. Trying to maintain some type of normal sleep schedule during intergalactic travel was a nightmare. Max tried to keep her body attuned to Galactic Meantime, but that wasn't always practical.

  An entertainment bot ambled up to Max. “Would you like to make a music selection?”

  “How much?”

  “3 songs for 15 credits.”

  “Galactic robbery!”

  “I could offer you a special price of 5 songs for 15? Or 10 songs for 20?” the robot countered.

  “Quite the salesman, aren’t you?”

  “I have been programmed with advanced negotiation algorithms to optimize both revenue and customer satisfaction."

  “What kind of selection do you have?"

  “I have everything. What would you like to listen to? Classical, smooth jazz, rock 'n' roll…”

  Max chuckled. "This isn't a smooth jazz kind of place.”

  “Agreed.”

  "Classic rock. How about something by Led Starship? Black Nebula? Artificial Idiots? Surprise me.”

  “As you wish.”

  Max paid the robot, and Helion Man filled the bar, emanating the state of the art tetra-phonic sound system. Max sipped her liquor and enjoyed the tunes. It was much better than the shrill tones of the screaming baby on the transport ship. She was almost enjoying the moment until…

  “If you could have dinner with anyone in history, living or dead, who would you pick?" a man in a suit asked as he slithered up next to Max at the bar.

  “Not you,” Max said, dryly. Her deadly glare should have been a clear warning to step away.

  “Ouch! Crash and burn,” he said, pantomiming a stinging sensation.

  Enjoying a quiet drink alone at a bar was a bit of a challenge for Max, even under normal circumstances. It didn't matter where she was, it wouldn't be long before some douchebag would worm his way up to her and make unwanted advances. Max's crystal blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones, porcelain skin, and plush lips turned heads wherever she went. She was the kind of woman that took your breath away. She was fit, athletic, and had all the right parts in all the right places. She made men's IQs drop whenever she walked into a room. For the most part, they became drooling fools. With raven black hair and model good looks, she was quite the heartbreaker.

  The liquor on the man’s breath wafted in Max's direction. She could see the indentation on his finger where his wedding ring was only moments before he sauntered up. If she had a nickel for every married businessman that hit on her in a space station bar, she'd have a zillion credits by now.

  “Bartender, another round for the lady. And I'll have whatever she's having. The name’s Tim, by the way.“ He held out his hand.

  Max looked him up and down, ignoring his attempt to shake hands. He seemed relatively harmless. Probably an insurance salesman, if she had to guess.

  The bartender slid two fresh glasses across the bar. She was young, had sandy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wore a low-cut tight tank top that inspired generous tips. “That will be 134 credits.”

  The man's eyes bulged at the amount.

  An almost imperceptible smirk curled up on Max's full lips. “Shouldn't offer to buy strange women drinks.”

  The man fumbled for his wallet and paid the tab. “Well, are you going to at least answer my question?”

  “I already did.” Max finished her drink, and started on the new one.

  “Now, you and I both know that wasn't much of an answer."

  Max pondered this for a moment. “Your wife. I'm sure it would make for an interesting conversation."

  He tried to force a smile, caught red-handed. “Good answer. Enjoy the drink," he said, then sheepishly slinked away.

  Max could eat guys like this for breakfast, but the station police weren't going to be so easy to deflect. There were two at the front door. Two more spilled in from the kitchen. They weren’t screwing around, either. They moved wi
th tactical precision, entering the bar with plasma rifles in the firing position. They scanned the compartment and advanced at a rapid pace. Max could tell they were former military. Lean, solid muscle, and no-nonsense. Well-trained for station police.

  At first, she didn't think much of them. Probably looking to nab some perp, or intergalactic felon. It wasn't uncommon for cops to take down a traveler on the run. But Max knew she was in trouble when all four of them glanced in her direction, then signaled to one another.

  She couldn't, for the life of her, imagine what the problem could be. She hadn't done anything illegal. She hadn't killed anyone. At least, not on Orion Station. Not yet, anyway. Unless drinking Antarian whiskey was against station regulations, she should be in the clear. She didn't have any outstanding warrants or space violations.

  But the station cops were there for her. There was no doubt about it.

  “Fuckballs,” she muttered to herself.

  Max had already planned her escape route. She did it the moment she walked into the bar. It was an old habit. She knew exactly where the exits were, and where she was going if bullets started flying. It didn't matter how far away from the war she found herself, she was never going to let her guard down. Not even a couple of cocktails could slow her response time.

  Max had a decision to make. She could go for her pistol and shoot her way out. Maybe take a hostage. Or she could play it cool and just find out what they wanted.

  Despite the fact that there were four of them, Max was relatively confident she could extricate herself from the situation, if push came to shove. She had been in tighter situations before.

  Max continued to sip her drink. Soon, the angry barrels of plasma rifles were inches from her head. The area had cleared around her. Bar patrons parted like the Red Sea.

  "Set the drink down and put your hands in the air," one of the officers said. "Nice and slow."

  Max paused for a moment. She'd be damned if she was going to let the whiskey go to waste. She gulped it down and clinked the empty glass against the bar. Then she slowly raised her hands in the air.

  "Mind telling me what this is all about?"

  "I'll ask the questions. Stand up and step away from the bar."

  Max’s face tensed, but she complied.

  She felt an officer behind her grab her wrist and wrench it behind her back. The cold steel of a restraint slapped against her skin, hammering the bone. The officer grabbed her other wrist and yanked it with enough force to dislocate the average person’s shoulder. He twisted her wrist behind her back and slapped on the other restraint. Then he proceeded to pat Max down. The officer ran his hands along Max’s thighs. She wore a skintight bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination, and the officer’s fat hands slid up her smooth legs to her crotch.

  Max's ass was a work of art, and this jerk had a handful of it. She clenched her jaw. If she had her hands free, the guy would probably be dead. You had to be someone special to reach Max's holy land, and this cop was far from someone special.

  “You having fun there, big guy?" she asked.

  “Just doing my job, ma'am,” the officer stammered.

  “Grab my ass again and you’re gonna draw back a stump.” Max glanced his nameplate—it read G. O'Reilly .

  “Are you threatening an officer?" O'Reilly said.

  “Do you feel threatened?” she said, baby talking him.

  The other officers chuckled.

  O'Reilly continued to frisk her and found her plasma pistol. "This is an illegal weapon."

  "I've got a permit for that."

  O'Reilly smelled the barrel, checking to see if it had been fired recently. He didn't indicate one way or the other if he smelled anything. Then he recited Max’s rights in a dry monotone voice. "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be…" He rambled on the standard disclaimer.

  "You mind telling me what you're arresting me for?" Max asked.

  "As if you don't know."

  "I think there's been some type of misunderstanding. I'm on my way to—“

  "I don't care where you're headed. You're going to be doing an extended stay in our hospitality suite." O'Reilly barked at the other officers. "Take her away."

  2

  Max racked her brain, trying to figure out what she was being arrested for. The officers marched her through the corridors of Orion Station, toward the prison processing area. The hallways were bustling with activity. The massive facility had the population of a large city. There were residential sections, business districts, commercial areas, medical centers, and industrial facilities. There were even several parks with domed roofs that gave stunning views of the cosmos. Living on the station was almost indistinguishable from living in any modern terrestrial city. But the higher transient population gave the station a slightly elevated crime rate. The OPD dealt with everything from petty theft to drug trafficking, prostitution, assault, and murder.

  Max was ushered through a maze of passageways to the police station. It was a state-of-the-art facility, with all the latest criminal justice technology. Like any police station, it was alive with activity—detectives working cases, beat cops bringing in detainees, and civilians filing complaints. There were giant screens tracking criminal activity on the station, as well as a predictive modeling algorithm to determine areas of potential crime. For the most part, it was accurate in determining criminal hotspots. But the random crime-of-passion was much harder to spot.

  The officers pushed Max into the prisoner processing center. There was a line of detainees ahead of her. The woman in front of her was not pleased to be in custody, and was quite vocal about it. She was an orange creature with dark spots and a humanoid body. She was most likely from Tralfur. “This right here is some bullshit. I want my attorney. I ain’t telling you mother fuckers a goddamn thing.”

  “Calm down, ma’am,” an officer said. "You'll get your chance to speak with an attorney.”

  “How am I supposed to be calm when you've got me in handcuffs?”

  “If you don't like the handcuffs, maybe you shouldn’t have broken the law."

  “I told you, I didn't do shit. You’ve got the wrong person.”

  The officer rolled his eyes.

  She was quiet a moment, then, “I gotta pee."

  The officer's eyes narrowed at her. "Hold it."

  “I said, I need to use the restroom."

  “And I said to hold it.”

  “I’ll go right here,”she threatened.

  “Go ahead. You won’t be getting a fresh change of clothes anytime soon.”

  She scowled at him, but thought better of soiling herself and having to wallow in it for the next several days.

  The officer grabbed her arm and pushed her along.

  “Get your hands off of me. You've got no right to touch me."

  The officer unholstered his STN-60 stun pistol. “One more word out of you, and you're going to take a long nap."

  “Oh, no, you can’t do that. I know my rights—“

  The woman had barely finished speaking when the officer shot her with the neural disruptor. Her body went limp and flopped to the deck. She would be out for at least an hour, maybe two. And when she woke up, she might not even remember how she got here.

  The neural disruptors were an effective, non-lethal means of crowd control. Though they weren’t without risks. The most common side effects were short-term memory loss and temporary amnesia, along with a hell of a headache. In rare instances, some individuals experienced permanent memory loss, disruption of motor skills, and even stroke. The officer dragged the woman’s body forward to the processing desk. It didn't matter to them whether she was conscious or not, they would still scan her biomarkers and book her into the system.

  It took 20 minutes for Max to reach the processing desk.

  “Name and ID number?" the officer behind the desk asked. His nameplate read A. Murphy.

  Max said nothing.

  “We’re going to figure out who you ar
e eventually, might as well save everyone the time and trouble."

  Max still said nothing.

  "Fine, have it your way,” he said in monotone. He had an expressionless look on his face. He was so sick of his job it wasn't even funny. Booking in scumbags day in and day out wasn't exactly a fulfilling career.

  Officer O'Reilly un-cuffed Max. “Don't give me any trouble."

  “Place your hand on the scanner pad,” Officer Murphy said.

  Max just stood there and stared at him blankly.

  “It's not optional.”

  Max still didn't budge.

  “Do it, or I'll do it for you," O'Reilly said. "You might have the right to remain silent, but we can legally compel you to provide biometrics and DNA data."

  “I’m well aware of my rights."

  O’Reilly pulled out his stun pistol and pressed the barrel against the temple of her head. The weapon was supposed to be used at a minimum distance of 2 feet. Usage at such a close distance was likely to cause brain trauma.

  Max placed her hand on the biometric scanner. She didn't particularly feel like getting shot with a neural disruptor, and they were going to get the information anyway.

  “Look into the retinal scanner," Murphy said.

  The station’s computers would take a few minutes to connect with the Federation database and pull up Max's information. In the meantime, they continued the processing ritual. She was 3D scanned to create an accurate representation of her image. Her voice was recorded and analyzed. And a DNA sample was swabbed from the inside of her cheek.