by Jake Bible
Roak knew Pol had been using Bishop to his own ends. That was business. Not that Roak didn’t owe Pol Hammon a visit once the Bishop mess was cleared up. Pol owed Roak some chits and Roak always got his chits. But Bishop owed Roak even more chits which made the order of vengeance an easy one.
That and Roak really wanted to know what in all the Hells Bishop was playing at. After decades of knowing each other, why did the man turn on Roak? What was Bishop’s endgame other than wanting Roak dead?
Something or someone else was involved, and Roak needed to get to the bottom of that or he’d be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life. Or more so than he already did.
Hessa was right, not that Roak was going to admit that fact any time soon, but he was in a paradox of his own making. The more contacts he went after now, the fewer he’d be able to find later. Eventually, everyone he knew would go to ground, even the ones he wasn’t looking for, simply because they were afraid he’d slaughter them if they didn’t have the answers he needed.
Which was a fair assessment.
“So far, we’ve been hitting contacts that Bishop and I shared mutually,” Roak said. “We’ve gotten close, but not close enough.”
“There is nothing in the data to suggest we’ve gotten close to finding Bishop at all,” Hessa countered.
“My guts say we have,” Roak responded. “I trust my instincts over your data analysis any day, Hessa.”
“Yes, because that has served you so well,” Hessa scoffed.
“That reputation you say I am paradoxically destroying? I built that up well before you shoved your way into my life,” Roak snapped. “Don’t forget that, Hessa. You’re still learning this life thing. I’ve been living it.”
Roak held up a hand and knew Hessa could see the gesture.
“No cracks about the quality of my living,” he said. “Just know that I can do this without you.”
“Yes, you can,” Hessa said quietly. “But why would you?”
Roak’s initial reaction was anger. He wanted to snap at Hessa that he’d been surviving fine before she came along. He was feared across the galaxy as the bounty hunter beings hired when no other hunters would take the job. Roak was the man that got every job he took done. He was that good.
But instead of barking all of that at Hessa, he shut off the steam and stepped out of the shower. Finding a towel, he silently dried himself off.
“Roak?” Hessa asked.
“My caff ready?” Roak asked.
“In the mess, waiting for you,” Hessa said. “Would you care to eat?”
“Too jacked-up after the fight,” Roak said. “I’d puke it all onto the floor. Caff will do.”
“Then caff it is.”
Roak got dressed, putting on a pair of trousers, a thin shirt, then the usual light armor he wore even when he was safely on his own ship. For Roak, nowhere was truly safe.
3.
Two cups of caff in his belly, and a third cup in his hand, Roak strapped into the pilot’s seat on the Eight-Three-Eight’s bridge. The wormhole portal was directly ahead of the ship, its glowing circle of energy irising open and closed in a rhythmic pattern.
“Hessa?” Roak asked once he’d finished strapping into his seat and had secured his cup of caff. “What’s the portal doing?”
“Rebooting,” Hessa stated, but didn’t sound too matter of fact about it like she usually would have when reporting the mundane actions of wormhole portals.
“They don’t do that very often when a ship is ready to go through, do they?” Roak asked. “In fact, I’ve never witnessed a portal rebooting. This is a first.”
“I believe we should rethink our way of exiting this system, Roak,” Hessa said. “There is a second wormhole portal within seven hours of here.”
“You’re that worried?”
“I would not say I am worried so much as I am unsure of the situation.”
“You’re worried.”
Roak scratched his head then shook it. “No. We go through. The second the portal is back online, get us out of here.”
The wormhole portal stopped its irising and returned to its normal state of a circle with an energy shield contained within. Then eight ships exploded outward and shot straight at Roak’s ship.
“Defensive measures now!” Roak shouted as all eight ships opened fire.
Hessa was already reacting, sending the ship into a steep dive. The view shield erupted into flashes of red as the defensive energy shields were pummeled by plasma fire.
“Hold on!” Hessa yelled, pulling the ship up from the dive and aiming it straight for the outer edge of the wormhole portal. “This will be unpleasant for your body.”
“Yeah, my mind ain’t liking it so much either,” Roak said.
The ship spun one hundred and eighty degrees as all plasma blasts stopped. None of the ships wanted to risk destroying the wormhole portal. Hessa arced the ship up and through the wormhole portal and Roak clenched his jaw as the two cups of caff fought to resurface. He managed to keep his gorge down, but it took all his willpower.
The view shield was a mass of swirling colors and impossible perspectives. Roak’s eyes burned as he stared at the image, but he didn’t dare look away. If he did, then the sudden shift in depth perception would have sent not only the caff spewing out of him, but possibly his stomach as well as half his intestines. Roak knew that was physically impossible, but he had no desire to test the issue.
“Stabilizing,” Hessa said though her voice sounded strained.
“Says you,” Roak muttered through gritted teeth.
The chaos that swirled in the view shield softened then began to smooth out, becoming a thousand lines of multicolored light that streamed past the ship. Roak sighed and eased his shoulders down, relaxing muscles that had almost tensed to breaking.
“Gonna need another steam after that,” Roak said. He glanced down and not a drop of his caff had spilled from the cup. Roak picked it up and downed the drink then sighed again. “Talk to me, Hessa.”
“Eight ships, all fighter class of various makes and models,” Hessa reported. “None had discernible markings that could tell us what their allegiance is. Plasma weapons were adequate, but old or we would have never made it to the portal.”
“And?”
The view in front of Roak switched from the streaming of trans-space to a replay of the attackers as they came out of the wormhole portal. Just before the last ship exited the portal, Hessa froze the image.
“Eight ships,” Hessa said. “That is the number the scanners picked up as well as my own visual confirmation. Except that number is a lie.”
“The shimmer. There,” Roak said and pointed at the screen. “Stealth? A Borgon Eight-Three-Eight like ours?”
“I do not think so,” Hessa said. “By using the size of the visible ship in front of the shimmer, I can extrapolate that the cloaked ship is a single-being vessel. Not a swift ship, but something similar.”
“A puddle jumper,” Roak said. “Reck.”
“Reck? The woman we worked with during the Shava Stemn Shava job?” Hessa asked. Roak did not respond. “Roak? Who is she? I believe it is time for you to tell me.”
“No,” Roak stated flatly.
“Roak, our very survival may depend on me having all pertinent information,” Hessa insisted. “Knowing who this woman is would be considered pertinent.”
“She wasn’t part of the attack,” Roak said. “She was tagging along.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because she had her PJ cloaked. If Reck wanted to attack us, she would have announced it so I knew exactly who was trying to kill me. That’s her style.”
“PJ? I am unfamiliar with a puddle jumper,” Hessa said. “Other than an ancient colloquialism, there is no reference in my databases.”
“Puddle jumpers are custom-built small ships. Totally off-grid production,” Roak said. “Single seaters, sometimes with a jump seat for a passenger, and with a very short rang
e. Usually used for the last leg of a mission. I’ve never seen one with stealth tech, but no reason one shouldn’t be able to cloak. Their quantum drives are exceptional and despite their intended design can actually travel considerable distances, if the vessel is maintained properly. Reck would maintain one properly, for sure.”
“How have I not heard of these?” Hessa asked. “They should be in my database.”
“No manufacturer makes them. Not a practical product. They’re mostly built by star junkies and gear heads,” Roak said.
“And this Reck is a gear head or star junkie?” Hessa asked.
“Both, to be honest,” Roak replied.
“Why would this Reck be part of an attack party on us?” Hessa asked.
“No idea,” Roak replied. “But I’m not too thrilled with coming across her path again so soon. I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing her or any…”
Roak trailed off and shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. We got away. Now we need to figure out where we’re getting away to.”
“I might have a suggestion,” Hessa said. “You have been cross-referencing contacts that you and Bishop share. Perhaps we should ignore shared contacts and begin looking into beings that are singular to Bishop. Your mutual contacts have not yielded any useful information, and I do not expect that to change, so it may be more efficient to simply track him down in his world, not yours.”
“Bishop is a recluse,” Roak said. “He doesn’t have his own world. The man deals in classified intel and illicit information. He sets up jobs for various contractors. He was a bridge between those that would never cross paths on their own. The man lived alone and he stayed away from others. All we’ll find in his world is a lot of nothing.”
“Yes, well, I am not so sure you knew Bishop as well as you thought you did,” Hessa said.
“How’s that?”
“I have been scouring every mainframe I can get into without detection, even those that are worth the risk of brief detection, and I have to say that there are some oblique references to Bishop all across the galaxy,” Hessa said. “He was not as solitary as you thought, Roak. Which would make sense since he was able to fool you enough that betrayal by him came as a total shock.”
“Oblique references? Explain, Hessa,” Roak ordered, sounding exhausted.
“Collaborations between crime syndicates, arms manufacturers, gaming corporations, even branches of the Galactic Fleet,” Hessa said. “All have telltale signs of Bishop’s involvement. What I have found could simply be coincidence and perhaps the similarities can be explained some other way, but I do not think so. Roak, Bishop has been moving about this galaxy, wheeling and dealing, as you say, for years now.”
“I have never said wheeling and dealing.”
“The collective you.”
“Have I ever given you the impression I’m part of a collective anything?”
“Roak. Can we return to the topic?”
“Sure, sure. Lay it on me.”
“Bishop has something planned, or he is planning something for someone he is working for, and you being taken out was part of his plan. It would make more sense to find one of his contacts, one of the pieces of his plan, and simply wait for him to send someone after you.”
“Turn myself into bait? Not my style, Hessa.”
“Even if it nets Bishop in the end?”
“What do you think he’ll do? Catch wind of me and come looking to end this face to face?”
“Of course not. But whoever he does send will have more information than we do now.”
Roak thought for a second. “And if the beings he sends for me don’t have the answers, we’ll at least be one step closer to Bishop. Start logging his trail over the past few years, Hessa. I want to see what patterns you find.”
“Already done,” Hessa said, bringing up a graphic on the view shield. “I have six possibilities of where he might be or might turn up based on frequency of visit over the years. The best place to start would be Ballyway.”
“The gaming planet? We have mutual contacts there, Hessa. I thought we were going for Bishop-centric only?”
“We are, Roak. The contact I have is a small-time bookie by the name of Bvsho. He has a very low profile, yet I see he has made incredibly large credit deposits to a number of accounts over the past two years. None of the deposits have gone to the same account twice, but all of the deposits are for the same amount and have been made within exactly thirty-six hours of each other then they stop for several months before starting back up again.”
“How can you see a bookie’s deposit activity? Cracking Ballyway’s banking system is impossible. I doubt that little punkass SOB Pol Hammon could crack those systems.”
“Pol Hammon probably has cracked those systems multiple times, Roak. Do not be naive.”
“I’ll let that comment go and allow you to answer the Eight Million Godsdamn question.”
“I have my ways, Roak. And they are not always for you to know.”
“Cute. Real fucking cute.”
“I do try.”
“Bvsho? What race is he?” Roak asked.
“Cervile,” Hessa replied. “Although, from his holo, I see he has let his feline form become less than sleek.”
Cerviles were a cat-like race, covered in fur with deadly sharp claws that retracted from their fingertips. Lithe, agile, they were truly feline in every way.
Except the image of the being Roak was suddenly looking at on the view shield hadn’t seen lithe or agile in a long while. Bvsho was about as feline looking as a sack of flour stuffed with rocks.
“I can honestly say I have never seen an obese Cervile before in my life,” Roak said, sounding impressed. “This guy must never move, and eat all day long, to foil a Cervile metabolism.”
“He has certainly fought hard, and won, against his own genetic predispositions,” Hessa agreed.
“How far off are we from Ballyway?”
“Two days,” Hessa said. “I could make it faster, but we’d risk being traced. I would rather use some off-books portals for our journey so we can arrive at Ballyway unannounced.”
“Smart thinking,” Roak said. He yawned and stretched. “Despite the caff, I’m done for tonight, Hessa.”
“It is early morning in galactic standard time,” Hessa said.
“Don’t care,” Roak replied as he stood up. “I’ll be in my quarters sleeping the trip away. Wake me when we’re a few hours out. I have a couple contacts I can use so I can move about Ballyway undetected.”
“Is it wise to alert anyone to your presence, Roak? If Bishop has betrayed you, then you have to consider all of your contacts are compromised.”
“Not her. She can’t be compromised.”
“Her who?”
“Carla.”
“The tavern owner? The tavern owner that had her last tavern destroyed because of you?”
“Yeah. Her.”
“Oh, yes, sure, what could go wrong with telling her of your presence on Ballyway?”
“She’s good people, Hessa. Pretty much neutral across the board.”
“Pretty much? You are willing to risk your life with pretty much?”
“It’s gotten me this far.”
“I will refrain from commenting on the obvious problems with that statement.”
“Except you didn’t refrain, did you?” Roak walked to the lift. “I’ll be asleep in my quarters. Disturb me at your own risk, Hessa.”
“Go and sleep, Roak. I’ll handle everything while you slumber.”
“I appreciate that.”
Roak left the bridge and entered the lift. He was already half-asleep on his feet by the time the lift slowed and opened onto the corridor that housed his quarters. One foot in front of the other became an arduous task and the walk to his door was a journey of intense concentration.
Roak was asleep as soon as he collapsed across his bed.
4.
Other than a couple visits to the la
vatory, and a brief trip to the mess for some protein mush, Roak did sleep the entire journey to Ballyway. Hessa woke him when they were four hours out from their final destination. Roak steamed, ate more protein mush, then made his way to the bridge.
“Not going to wear your power armor?” Hessa asked. “I would have to think we have reached a stage where that should remain on you at all times while outside this ship?”
“Can’t really walk around Ballyway with power armor on, Hessa,” Roak said as he adjusted the fit of his light armor across his left shoulder. He rotated his shoulder a couple of times and nodded. “Plus, I can move a lot faster in my light armor. With the crowds on Ballyway, staying agile is always the best choice.”
“Need I remind you that the last time you visited Ballyway, you had squads of shock troopers—”
“Nope. Don’t need to remind me at all, Hessa. Thanks for holding back,” Roak said. “Now, open a channel to Ballyway for me. Connect to the Fadilipso Casino and Hotel.”
“Open channel? Roak, that is a very bad idea.”
“Trust me.”
“Trusting you is beside the point.”
“Not this time. Make the connection, Hessa.”
“Fine.”
There was a shrill beep in Roak’s ear then, “Fadilipso Casino and Hotel. Gatskatpak speaking.”
“Gatskatpak,” Roak said. “Perfect. I need outside line number forty-three, please.”
“The name on the call, sir?” Gatskatpak asked.
Roak grumbled. “Galactic Steve.” He grumbled some more and waited as a series of clicks echoed in his comm.
“Outside line number forty-three is ready, sir. Thank you for using the Fadilipso Casino and Hotel for your communications needs. Will you be staying with us when you arrive, sir?”
“No, Gatskatpak, I will not. Please erase all logs of this conversation when I disconnect.”
There was no response. The comm went silent as the last series of clicks sounded in Roak’s ear.
“What?” a gruff voice asked. The voice was a bass rumble that came close to shaking Roak’s aural implant loose. “Who’s this? Hey? Hello? What you want?”