Human Chronicles Part 2 Book 2: The Apex Predator

by T. R. Harris

  Since joining up with Adam Cain for their various adventures throughout the galaxy, Riyad’s thirst – and somewhat sadistic tendencies – had been held in check by the other Humans he operated with, many of whom were more skilled at the art of war than he, and therefore, not to be trifled with. That was a shame, because out here in the galaxy Humans were the supermen – stronger, faster and tougher than just about every race they encountered. In the early years of Riyad’s galactic tenure, he had taken full advantage of these special traits, enjoying the literal physical domination he had over others. That changed when more Humans showed up on the scene.

  And now Riyad was operating solo once again, freeing him to be as ruthless as the mission required – and with no one looking over his shoulder questioning his methods.

  The corners of Riyad’s mouth curled up as he looked over at the alien-on-the-bed. The creature had just admitted he’d never before met a Human, so all his knowledge was based on rumor and myth. Now the alien was about to get a first-hand introduction into what made Humans the terror of the galaxy. It would be knowledge the alien-on-the-bed would carry to his grave … if he wasn’t careful.

  Chapter 3

  Riyad took out a knife and cut a pant leg of the alien’s tunic up past the knee. The creature began kicking and twisting against the restraints.

  “Stop moving or I’ll cut you by mistake,” Riyad said.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  Riyad moved to the end of the bed. “I asked you nicely to authorize my trade status and all you’ve done is resist. Now the time for being nice has passed.” Riyad’s smile vanished.

  The Tel’oran froze on the bed and stopped struggling. His eyes grew even wider. “Why are you acting this way?”

  “I told you, I am a trader and all I seek is commerce. But now you accuse me of being a savage Human beast. I am truly offended by this, and where I come from, I would be justified in ending your life here and now.” Riyad beamed inside; believing his performance worthy of an Oscar.

  “I am but a servant in the Guild; I am just doing my job.”

  Riyad shook his head. “You haven’t up till now. I need you to sit down at that computer and make me part of the next trade convoy heading into the nebula.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  For an answer, Riyad reached down with his knife and deftly sliced a one-inch section of scaly, light-green skin from the alien’s leg. The Tel’oran gasped from the nearly unbearable pain, his breath drawn so short that he didn’t even have the means to scream out. Blood began to spill onto the bedding.

  “I will gladly slice off every inch of your skin unless you cooperate. The pain will be excruciating, yet you will not die – I will see to that. Instead I will make you suffer as no Tel’oran has ever before.” Riyad reached down with his blade again. “Shall I begin?”

  “No, please do not!” the alien cried out. “I will do anything you wish … anything!”

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Now with all the blood on the bed, I probably won’t get back my cleaning deposit.”

  “What … I do not understand?”

  Riyad cut the bindings with his knife, freeing the now-trembling and sweating creature. “Never mind; just get on the computer and don’t give me any bullshit about not being able to log onto your system, I know you can.”

  The Tel’oran used the sheet to wrap his bloody wound before moving to the table with the computer.

  “Bull-shit? Please don’t cut me again, I am endeavoring to cooperate, yet I do not fully understand all you ask!”

  “Just get on the computer.” The alien sat unsteadily at the desk, and as he leaned forward to the attached keyboard, Riyad placed the knife against the greenish skin of his neck. “And don’t do anything to alert your people. I’ll know if you do.”

  The alien inhaled sharply and nearly fainted. When Riyad withdrew the blade the Tel’oran relaxed visibly. “What kind of trader are you?”

  Riyad smiled. “A good one – my customers never tell me no.”

  “I can understand why.” Juous began to type feverishly, referring frequently to the datapad Riyad had placed next to the computer containing all the elements of his cover story. Ten minutes later, the alien leaned back in the chair.

  “It is done. Now when you check-in at the departure station, your authorization will be available for verification.”

  Riyad placed a hand gently on the shoulder of the Tel’oran, his smile returning. “Good. Now one last thing: Do you have anything in your society like a vacation or leave of absence?”

  “I understand the translation. Yes, we have both.”

  “Good! Now let your supervisors know that you are going away for a couple of weeks – a vacation or a leave of absence – whatever you would like to call it.”

  “I do not have an accumulated two weeks of vacation available, yet a leave of absence will be approved; it is without compensation.”

  “Wonderful!” Riyad said, genuinely pleased. “You would be surprised how similar both our societies really are.”

  Juous went back to typing. A few moments later he finished.

  “Are you done? Are you now on a leave-of-absence?”

  The alien turned back to the computer and clicked through a few screens. “Yes … the request was approved by automation. It is done. What happens next?”

  Riyad had moved behind the green alien. “You don’t want to know.” Riyad quickly locked his right arm around the neck of the Tel’oran and with his left hand, began to squeeze. Just before the alien lost consciousness, Riyad released him.

  “I could have killed you just then. Do you agree with that statement, Juous Minn?”

  The Tel’oran just nodded rapidly while rubbing his bruised neck.

  “Good, I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I must. Now I strongly suggest that you do disappear for a couple of weeks and speak nothing of this. We Klingons are very vengeful, and if I learn you have reported me, I will come after you and your bloodline. I ask again, do you believe me Juous Minn?”

  ********

  Ten minutes later, Riyad had grown tired of the Tel’orans constant babbling about how he wouldn’t tell the gods themselves about the encounter. Even though he knew he was taking a big chance by not simply killing the alien outright, Riyad didn’t feel a simple bureaucrat – no matter how obnoxious – should be killed indiscriminately. Yet as Juous rushed from the room, Riyad dropped his jaw, shook his head and spoke to the empty room. “Damn you, Adam Cain! You’ve turned me into a darker-skinned version of yourself”

  Chapter 4

  The Guild Transit Station was located at the main spaceport, about two miles from where Riyad had left his ship – a vessel that was a smaller version of the Pegasus. It was a concentrated-array starship similar to the others and capable of speeds unheard of within stellar systems. He named it Ifrit, after the Arabian mythological winged-creature of fire, figuring that if the Americans could name their ships after mythical winged beasts, then so could he. Yet his was one more indicative of his cultural heritage, and not that of the Americans.

  He entered the administration building as if he belonged there and was directed to the Convoy Assignment department. After providing his name and other basic information, he waited patiently for the clerk to pull up his data; a small laser-beam weapon was hidden in the waistband of his pants just in case the alien-on-the-bed had deceived him.

  It wasn’t needed.

  The clerk looked up and began to ask questions. “I do not notice any information regarding past convoy transits. Is this your first?”

  “Yes … is that a problem?”

  “No problem, yet are you aware that a pilot and assistant are required to make the transit to Lucon-Por?”

  “Why is that? My ship has advanced navigation capabilities.”

  The clerk regarded him for a moment, suspicion growing in her expression. “Navigation data is never given to Outers for a variety of reasons. First it i
s too dangerous to attempt the transit without guidance, and secondly, this is proprietary information exclusive of the Guild. As a first-traveler, I assume you were not aware of this, yet you or your shipping organization should have researched our protocols more vigorously.”

  “I was not aware of all your particular rules,” Riyad answered quickly. “Thank you for clarifying. A pilot will be fine, although the accommodations may be a little cramped.”

  “The transit will take nineteen hours and there will be no time for anything other than navigation and precise piloting. The Nebula is a very treacherous place to travel without guidance.”

  “I’m sure it is; any assistance will be welcome.”

  ********

  After learning that his convoy would be leaving in under an hour, Riyad quickly returned to the Ifrit to begin preparations. Minutes later, a beep sounded from within the pilothouse. His guides had arrived.

  Even back on Earth, pilots were common aboard shipping and military vessels. These were very skilled navigators, familiar with ports, rivers, canals and other areas where local knowledge was crucial. They were put in temporary command of the vessel during the transit, with their every command expected to be followed precisely and without question.

  The pilot for the Lucon-Por transit was a Tel’oran, as was his assistant. They entered the ship with a superior, condescending attitude and asked to be shown the pilothouse. When they entered the control room, the eyes of both the aliens grew wide.

  “I am not familiar with this control alignment,” said the older alien, obviously the main pilot. “I will require a briefing – no, ample time does not exist. Your passage will have to be delayed.”

  “A delay won’t be necessary,” Riyad countered quickly. “You are here to provide navigation – you can still do that – and I can pilot the ship.”

  “That is not how it works.” The two aliens turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Riyad called out. “I have something here that might help you with the controls.”

  Prior to embarking on his mission, Riyad was provided with a supply of Tel’oran money called ruiens, along with half a dozen other currencies Kroekus’s people thought might be needed. These were contingency funds to be used at Riyad’s discretion, and to him they were nothing more than stacks of worthless plastic.

  The pilot turned back to him. “And what is that? We are to leave within the hour; there is not enough time for me to learn these controls.”

  Riyad opened a small drawer in a side console and withdrew the equivalent of ten thousand dollars in Tel’oran ruiens. “Like I said, I can pilot the ship. All you need to do is guide me.”

  This was a gamble on Riyad’s part, and he carefully watched the reactions of the two aliens, ready to act if necessary.

  The Tel’orans leaned in closer to the money in Riyad’s hand; they glanced at each other, the younger of the two – the assistant-pilot – looking anxiously at the other. The pilot hesitated, before turning his attention back to Riyad.

  “For each,” he said as he snatched the stack of plastic credits from Riyad’s hand.

  Riyad smiled. Yes, the Tel’orans were very Human-like, which opened up a whole other set of possibilities for the two aliens. He withdrew another ten thousand ruiens from the drawer, yet as he went to hand this stack to the assistant, the pilot quickly intercepted the credits. Riyad watched with amusement as the pilot counted out five thousand credits and handed them to his assistant, keeping fifteen for himself. It was obvious that even in Tel’oran society rank had its privileges.

  “Very well,” said the pilot. “But you are not to record any of the navigation coordinates. Just do as I say, when I say it. Is this clear?”

  “Crystal,” Riyad answered with a smile.

  “What?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Riyad took his place in the pilot seat, as the two aliens hunkered down at the navigation console. Maybe I should have tried that with the Tel’oran trade official, he thought. It might have saved me a few bucks. Riyad had been charged for the missing sheets from his hotel room. Oh well, at least they didn’t keep the entire deposit.

  ********

  The pilot’s name was Ruszel Crin and his young assistant, Canos. Even though handsomely compensated for relinquishing the controls of the Ifrit, Ruszel still appeared uncomfortable with the whole affair. Although the aliens were not beyond taking a bribe, Riyad got the distinct impression that this was a first for both of them. Still, they went about their duties without another word about the credits that had just changed hands.

  “Lift-off with chemical drive and then proceed to these coordinates,” Ruszel commanded without looking from his console. The coordinates appeared on Riyad’s screen.

  “Is that where we meet up with the others in the convoy?” Riyad inquired, as he engaged the engines. “How many ships are going with us?”

  “There are sixty-three heading out,” Canos said, speaking for the first time. “It is a small convoy this time; what is your cargo?”

  “Medical monitoring devices – quite advanced models.”

  “They must be incredibly small,” said Canos. “Most ships transporting merchant goods into the Nebula are very large. They have to be, to carry enough cargo to supply all the planets on the route.”

  “How many planets will we be visiting?”

  Both aliens stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at Riyad.

  Oops!

  It was Ruszel who broke the stunned silence. “You do not know the number of planets on the route? Have you never done this before?”

  “Don’t get all bent out of shape,” Riyad scolded, trying to retake the initiative. “This is my first time doing this. We don’t normally have to join convoys to engage in honest trade.”

  “Yet you must have inquired during the application process?” Canos stammered. “How could you go so blindly into this endeavor?”

  “To answer your question,” Ruszel interrupted, “there are fourteen planets on this particular route. That is why there are only sixty-three merchants participating this time out. And following up on Canos’ statement, unless you have half a million or more of your monitoring devices onboard, you will run out of stock long before you complete the circuit.”

  Half a million! He barely had three hundred. Should he tell them…?

  “Once you are depleted of inventory, you will be required to complete the entire circuit,” Ruszel continued. “You will not be allowed to leave the convoy and depart early.”

  “This is more of an exploratory trip,” Riyad explained, improvising. “I’m just out to demonstrate my products and establish contacts. Surely that’s done all the time.”

  “Not within Trade Convoys,” said Ruszel. “There is another process for that through the Guild.”

  The Ifrit was still on chemical drive and lifting high into the atmosphere of Tel’or. Riyad should have switched to gravity drive long before this; his chemical propellant was being used up much too quickly.

  “So I made a mistake – sue me!” Riyad shouted. “Should I take my twenty thousand ruiens back and return to the surface? Hurry … I’m running out of fuel with all this talk.”

  This got the aliens’ attention. Once received, the credits were hard to give back. “You may initiate a shallow-well. And no, we will proceed,” Ruszel replied, ignoring the panicked look on the face of his assistant. “But I must warn you, your reception on the planets of the Nebula will not be welcome without having gone through the proper channels to establish trade networks—”

  Riyad saw Ruszel’s jaw drop when he engaged the generators and the concentrated-array of eight focusing rings initiated a well. The Tel’oran could see the power readings on the pilot screen and the number of rings now online. “Please try to concentrate, Ruszel,” Riyad said loudly, attempting to break the alien out of his trance. “Where do I go now?”

  Ruszel literally shook himself out of his transfixed state, and then awkwardly turned back to
his screen. He sent over a set of coordinates to Riyad’s station. Once this was done, Ruszel stood and approached Riyad’s console.

  “What make of craft is this?” he asked without taking his eyes from the monitor and its surrounding gauges. Riyad detected no malice in his question, just immense admiration, boarding on awe.

  “It’s a custom design. You have a good eye, Ruszel; you know your ships.”

  “Both of my eyes are good; it is a requirement of being a pilot,” the alien replied. “And yes, I do know ships, better than most within the Guild corps.” He leaned in closer and actually reached out a hand and ran it reverently across the pilot’s monitor. “I have come in contact with nearly every kind of vessel built within the Nebula and the Expansion, and I have never seen an eight-array starship. How have you managed to accomplish this without harmonic disruptions?”

  Riyad smiled. “I just fly them; I don’t know what makes them work.” An honest assessment of my mechanical skills, Riyad thought. Others – such as Adam Cain – liked to tinker with their ships and understood more of the principles behind their operation. Not so Riyad Tarazi. His cruel and violent upbringing in the slums of Beirut, Lebanon, had afforded him neither the time nor the opportunity to develop such a skill-set. In fact, by the time the typical American teenage male was learning how to rebuild his first engine-block or sink a jump-shot from the top of the key, Riyad could already field-strip a Russian-made AK-47 and construct an IED out of everyday kitchen components. Each individual skill-set came in handy, depending on the environment in which one was raised. For Riyad Tarazi, staying alive was more important than knowing how to install a Holley carburetor in a ’68 Camaro.