“Tomahawk to Birdman,” Taylor said. “Radio the Osyrys and tell them to get a room ready. It appears we’re havin’ guests this evening.”
* * * * *
Chapter 10: Credits for Answers
As a show of good faith for future encounters, Taylor let five of the Dutya go, but took Scarface and one of the officers prisoner. He did, however, make the departing aliens a promise.
“Tell your crew to stand down from any attacks on my ship back at the starport, and we’ll cut your captain loose in plenty of time for y’all to transition out for your next score. Cross us, and we’ll hit your freighter with so much salt, you’ll think it’s a winter fargin wonderland.”
For whatever reason—be it concern for their commander, or their ship—the Dutya seemed amenable to Taylor’s deal. All parties went their separate ways after that, which for the Eagles meant a 20-minute hauler ride back to the Osyrys with two slug captives leaving slime slicks on the upholstery.
Nasty little bastards, Taylor thought.
One of the Eagles’ newest hires, Sergeant Rowen Reigns from Pensacola, was waiting in the cargo bay when the hauler came to rest on the platform. “Welcome back, sirs,” she said in her Flora-Bama drawl. “We’ve prepped the guest room you asked for. It’s ready when you are.”
“Much obliged, Sarge,” Taylor said, climbing out. “Did you get the other thing I asked for?”
The short, sturdy non-com with copper-toned skin and sun-streaked espresso hair signaled to a nearby corporal, who jogged over and handed a small pouch to Stan.
“Careful not to spend it all at once,” Taylor grumbled.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Stan grinned and slid the pouch into his pocket, while Jack and the others exited the hauler with the Dutya. Once everyone was down, the humans escorted the aliens up two decks to the brig, which housed a pair of small meeting spaces that doubled as interrogation rooms.
“Take a seat, gentlemen.” Jack showed the aliens to chairs opposite the center-room table.
“Ignorant humans,” Scarface muttered through his translation device. “It’s been more than a century since your pathetic species joined the Galactic Union, yet you still insist on identifying non-human members with your same ridiculous ape labels.”
Jack traded looks with Stan, who shrugged. “Fair enough. What do you wanna be called then?”
“Ick—”
“See, that right there was what we ignorant humans call a rhetorical question.” Jack shoved the aliens into their chairs. “Truth is, I couldn’t care less what you wanna be called. You’re on our ship now, which means you’ll answer to Mary fargin Poppins if that’s what I choose to call you. Savvy?”
Sergeant Reigns hid her snicker with a fist as she filed out to join Frank and Genovese in the observation room opposite the mirrored partition. This left Taylor, Stan, and Jack standing alone around the table, while the Dutya remained seated.
“There’s two things you need to know about me.” Taylor folded his arms. “First, I care an awful lot about a number of people…and you ain’t them. Second, I would do just about anything for those folks, includin’ lay some serious hurt on a couple of small-fry aliens who leave slime trails all over my ship.”
Scarface’s eye stalks bobbed as he chuckled. “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”
“Not necessarily,” Taylor said. “Think of it as more like an honest appraisal of the situation. Regardless, I’d highly recommend both you and your lieutenant here cooperate so we can part ways sans another trip to the salt mines.”
A long pause ensued before static crackled from the room’s intercom.
“Excuse me, Chief?” Genovese asked from beyond the mirror. “Gimme 60 seconds alone in there, and I guarantee we’ll have all the intel we need to find Paulie and the others.”
“I appreciate that, Captain, but I’ve got other ideas,” Taylor said. It also didn’t help that time was of the essence. He turned to Stan. “Commander, I believe you’re up.”
The eye stalks of both aliens faced forward as the grizzled Mississippian in the trench coat pulled up a seat across the table.
“There’s no need for further bloodshed…or whatever it is you have,” Stan said. “All we want is a minor bit of information about some former business associates of yours. That’s it.”
The Dutya lieutenant hissed a protest. “You can’t force us to tell you anything, human! You think you’ve beaten us with your ambush back at The Essence, but you have not. Our crewmates will come for us. You’ll see!”
“That would be ill-advised,” Stan said coolly. “As it stands, Swamp Eagle Security has no beef with your company. An assault of any kind against our ship would change all that, and no one here wants this. Besides.” He tilted his head. “We both know the Osyrys’ close-in defensive systems would cut your comrades to shreds before they even scratched her paint, much less breached her security.”
Jack put his hands on the table. “Translation, inchworms. You can take that false bravado of yours and shove it up your slime holes.”
Scarface’s gaze shifted to Taylor. “You say your company has no issue with my crew. I find that difficult to believe, considering your aggression toward us earlier tonight.”
“I told you to hold, didn’t I?” Taylor shrugged. “You should’ve listened.”
The alien captain glowered at his ponytailed counterpart.
“Now, now,” Stan said, raising a palm. “I think it’s fair to say that everyone here deserves a modicum of blame for the turbulent manner in which earlier events unfolded. It’s also fair to say that Chief Van Zant made you a promise back at the brothel that you wouldn’t be harmed if you surrendered. We’ve honored that promise, have we not?”
Scarface nodded.
“Good,” Stan said. “Movin’ forward, I see no reason why these negotiations should be anything but pleasant.”
Scarface arched an eye stalk. “So this is a negotiation now? Not an interrogation?”
“That would be our preference, yes,” Stan said.
The Dutya traded curious looks.
“Very well,” Scarface said. “Proceed with your inquiry.”
“You conducted a transaction recently with a group of traders,” Taylor said. “We wanna know who they were and where they were headed after they left your meet.”
Scarface made a clicking noise through his translator. “To reveal details about a transaction would represent a breach of trust between my crew and our client. We are freighters. We could never do this.”
“Please.” Jack huffed. “The word freighter may appear in the starport records alongside your name, but we both know your true occupation. You’re smugglers, plain and simple.”
“Even more reason to protect our interests,” Scarface countered.
Stan raised a finger. “What a curious word choice—interest, that is.”
Both aliens watched in silence as their fedoraed inquisitor reached into his coat for the pouch he’d received back in the cargo bay.
“In my experience, any successful negotiation inevitably comes down to knowin’ two critical things about the person across the table,” Stan said. “Critical thing one. What’s your counterpart’s position? Typically, that’s the surface-level stuff…the things they ask for up front. In this instance, that’s the preservation of your client’s anonymity. Sure, it’s important for you to keep up certain appearances, but we both know that’s not what you really want.” He adjusted his fedora. “This brings me to critical thing two, the most important thing…your interest. That’s your true objective. I’d wager you’ll go to almost any lengths necessary to get it, too, even if that means throwin’ a client under the bus.”
Scarface snorted. “And what, Commander, might I ask is our interest?”
“Simple. Money.” Stan zipped open the pouch and fished out a single shiny chit representing 100 credits. “What can you tell us about the KzSha?”
Scarface studied the chit for a long moment. “
The name is familiar, but my recollection of them is somewhat…hazy. The KzSha are insectoids, yes?”
“They are indeed.” Stan flipped the chit onto the table, where a slime-covered pseudopod snaked out to grab it.
I really don’t wanna know where that thing has been. Taylor winced.
“What else can you tell us?” Stan asked.
Scarface’s expression seemed to drift. “It’s difficult to say. We conduct so many transactions in this galaxy that many of them tend to blend together. I might need more time to consider your question.”
Stan produced another chit, this one representing 1,000 credits, and showed it to the aliens. “Just so we’re clear, that memory of yours will need to get a helluva lot clearer before this one hits the table.”
Scarface’s round black eyes widened. “The fog is lifting. Yes, I remember now.”
Funny how that works.
“Our exchange with the KzSha happened about two months ago,” Scarface said. “Truth be told, it was one of the easiest transactions I’ve ever conducted. My crew arrived at the designated coordinates, then paid our fees and collected our cargo. Afterward, the KzSha went their way, and we went ours—no questions, no backstabbing. It was a most favorable exchange.”
Jack muttered a curse. “By cargo, you mean sentient beings.”
“Terminology is irrelevant,” Scarface said. “We are Dutya, not clergy. We were paid to procure cargo from the KzSha and deliver it to our buyers off world. It was no different than any other transaction.”
Taylor tried in vain to hide his disgust. “Where did this meet of yours take place?”
“The fog, it…seems to be returning.” Scarface’s expression began to drift again. “I remember a planet, but the name seems to be eluding me…”
Taylor nodded to Stan, who flipped over the chit.
“We received our cargo from them on Newtep in the Jesc arm,” Scarface said.
“Is that where the KzSha operate from?” Taylor asked.
“No,” Scarface said. “Newtep was just a stopover for them. Although…”
Taylor wrinkled his nose. “Although, what?”
“I did hear a rumor…”
A long pause ensued.
“This is bullshit, Chief!” Genovese pounded the glass. “Don’t pay those scumbags another cent! Let me in there now, and I swear to gods they’ll give up their own mothers by the time I’m done with them!”
Taylor glared back at the mirror, then motioned to Stan, who tossed out another chit.
“It’s probably nothing,” Scarface continued. “Another freighter captain I know said he heard from one of his companions at The Essence that the KzSha maintain a hive colony on the planet Droxis in the same system as Newtep. That’s apparently where they hide their…umm…inventory, until it’s time to deliver said resources to market.”
“So we’re takin’ intel from psychic alien hookers now.” Jack palmed his face. “That’s fargin fantastic.”
“As I told you, it’s just a rumor,” Scarface admitted. “For all I know, the story is complete rubbish. Nevertheless, if I read you humans correctly, you intend to find that out for yourselves.”
“And if we are?” Stan asked.
Scarface leaned forward, black eyes narrowing in their stalks. “I sincerely hope you do.”
“Why’s that?’ Taylor asked.
“Because then you’ll be the ones in chains,” Scarface said with a touch of amusement. “Mark my words, apes. The KzSha will cut down your crew like a buzz saw. As it stands, you could scarcely defeat a group of inebriated Dutya in a surprise ambush outside a brothel. Now you expect to pit that same pathetic effort against a fighting force as ferocious as the wasps?” He snorted. “The KzSha will tear your crew to shreds, then sell off what’s left to the highest slave market bidder. My only regret is that I won’t be there when it happens.”
Taylor gnawed his lip as part of him began to reconsider Genovese’s offer. “One last question. What do you know about the River Hawk Defense Group from Earth?”
“Never heard of them.” Scarface oozed to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, neither my lieutenant nor I have anything further to barter with for additional credits. I expect that means we’re done here.”
Taylor signaled Reigns back into the room. “Our guests here are free to go. See to it they’re escorted straight back the way they came and directly off the ship. After that, report to the bridge on the double. You’re on graveyard duty.”
“Ayew.” Reigns snapped a salute, then herded the aliens out as Genovese and Frank entered the room.
“What makes you think we can trust their intel?” the Buma asked.
Taylor peered down the hallway to ensure the Dutya were out of earshot. “Sadly, Frank, after tonight, I think it’s fair to say words like trust and Dutya probably won’t go together in a sentence around here for a very long time. Problem is, their Droxis tip is the only viable lead we have. All we can do now is run it down as best we can and hope for the best.”
“Hope.” Genovese frowned. “Seems like that’s in pretty short supply these days.”
“That may be, Captain, but it ain’t all gone just yet.” Taylor patted the other’s shoulder. “Hang in there. Dismissed.”
* * * * *
Chapter 11: Street Survivors
Taylor departed the brig after sharing an extra word with the Farts and headed for his quarters with a stampede of questions running roughshod through his mind. What are the KzSha up to out here? Why Emza? Why the River Hawks? None of it added up.
Taylor coasted into his room after reaching the entrance and made himself tea before settling into his favorite chair in front of the Tri-V to think. There’s gotta be a point to all this. There’s just gotta be. Taylor checked the time after what felt like 20 minutes. Two and a half hours. Really? The time was just shy of 2330.
Resigned to the notion that sleep would be elusive at best that evening, Taylor pushed himself upward, then headed for the Osyrys’ galley in search of a late-night snack and some peace.
“Evenin’, Chief,” Corporal Jamal Newhouse said as Taylor entered. Known simply as House among the crew, the Georgia corporal was a burly man in his late-20s with a square jaw and farmer’s hands that were covered in callouses.
“Strange seein’ you down here this time of night,” House said. “What’s the word?”
“The word is insomnia.” Taylor grunted. “We got anything left on the burner this late?”
House considered. “Nothin’ on the burner, no. I do, however, think I could scrounge up some of Frank’s leftover banana puddin’, if you’re interested.”
Taylor’s mouth watered at the word banana. “Done and done.”
“Be right back.”
Taylor waited at the counter while the dark-skinned corporal vanished into the kitchen, then returned a minute later, carrying a large, enclosed bowl of Frank’s signature dessert.
“If there’s nothin’ else, I’m gonna finish up in here and call it a night,” the corporal said. “Stay as long as you like.”
“Thanks, House,” Taylor said. “I owe ya one.”
“Anytime. Oh, and by the way, you’ve got company if you don’t feel like eatin’ that alone.” House motioned to the corner, where a lone figure sat ensconced at a table, nursing a bulb of coffee.
Genovese.
“He came in just before you did,” House said. “I guess he didn’t feel much like sleepin’ tonight, either.”
I guess not. Taylor thanked the corporal for his time, then scooped up his bowl and floated over to the River Hawk captain’s table. “Mind if I join you?”
Genovese looked up. “Last I checked, this is your ship. Be my guest.”
Taylor pulled himself down into the seat across the table and strapped in. “I gotta tell ya, man. I love a good cup of coffee as much as the next red-blooded American, but if I were to drink that at this hour, I’d be up all night.”
“Seems to me you’ve got that
problem anyway,” Genovese said.
“Good point.” Taylor shoved his spoon scoop though a slot on his bowl, then returned the clam-style utensil to his mouth, along with a sizable helping of dessert. As expected, the blast of banana and meringue mixed with bits of vanilla wafer were to die for.
“Holy shit.” Genovese blinked. “If your expression right now is any indication, I really do need to try some of that.”
Taylor chuckled and wiped his mouth. “Frank’s pretty much the undisputed champ around here when it comes to chow. I kid you not. I had a guy offer to come work for me this past spring solely because he heard about last year’s Thanksgiving menu. Frank’s like a foodie savant, always has been.”
Genovese nodded and returned to his coffee.
“So what’s got you up so late?” Taylor asked.
“Probably the same as you,” the captain said. “The Hawks. The KzSha. Droxis. Pretty much the entire buzzsaw that’s conceivably waiting for us when we transition out of hyperspace in a few days.”
Taylor took another bite of his dessert.
“You know, things have been movin’ so fast since we left Earth that I haven’t had time to thank you for comin’ out here,” Genovese said. “You’re a credit to your community’s reputation, Chief Van Zant. I mean that.”
“Eh.” Taylor shrugged. “You said it yourself back at the hospital. No matter where a person comes from, once they’re Duval, they’re Duval. Loudmouthed or not, Paul Torrio fits that bill. He’s also a good merc and a good man. He ought not be left out here if there’s a chance he can come home.”
Genovese cocked his head. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. About Paulie bein’ a good merc and all.”
“How come?”
“Because you fired him,” Genovese said bluntly. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m sure you had your reasons. Even still, one typically doesn’t cut an employee loose if he thinks the person could be an asset to the company.”
The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) Page 9