“ETA three rones until the Elite Battle Cruiser is within range, sir.”
“The traders’ ship is dead ahead, Commander,” announced Magar, his second-in-command.
With a few long strides, Tarak reached Magar’s side. Together they stared in silence at another viewing display where the traders’ ship appeared to hang suspended, motionless, in the black void of space. In reality the ship cruised with steady speed towards the rendezvous point. The other men ceased work to also examine the intel, tension etched grim lines into their dark visages.
Tarak flexed his fingers encased in protective gloves. Then allowed them to rest loosely at his sides. With his elbows bent, head lowered a fraction, he stood unmoving in a casual stance.
He was poised for battle.
“The Scaleen traders are devious. They are rarely truthful. This could be a trap given an Elite battle cruiser has also emerged into the same sector. Do we continue, sir?” First Officer Magar asked.
“We have little choice, Magar. All of us here know the ramifications should we fail in our mission. No, we must proceed, but we need to move fast,” Tarak growled. His voice though quiet exuded his indomitable will. He kept his face an implacable mask.
He turned to address a younger man, operating a vast complex array of intricate panels, schematic displays and holograms.
“Wyomeh, locate the quickest exit from this sector and ready the ship for the jump. Casis, declare battlestations and prime the auxiliary weapons. Magar, I assume we have two divisions ready for boarding?”
Receiving an affirmative nod in response, Tarak turned and strode towards the door.
Magar followed and motioned for Pilot Officer Wray to fall in beside him.
“Do you believe we can overthrow our enemies, Tarak? So many cycles have passed and yet the war rages on. I admit there are times when I wonder whether it would be better for us to depart the Darkos System. Seek a new world to live what time we have left in peace,” asked Magar of his friend.
“Do not let the other men hear you speak so!” Irritated, Tarak shot his second-in-command a cold look. “There is no peace to be had for us, Magar. How can there be with our race facing extinction?”
The warriors turned and entered a small apartment. Tarak punched in his code and several panels slid open with quiet smoothness. He perused the collection of weapons presented, then methodically attached his selection to various clips and compartments concealed in his armour.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed his friend’s glum expression. “We must fight to the end. Of more importance, we must continue our search. We must have hope.”
Magar remained silent and Tarak realised his friend did not need to ask the obvious question.
“Do you have hope, Tarak?” Wray insisted.
Tarak clamped down on the bitter resignation gnawing constantly at his very spirit. For over ten cycles their greatest minds had laboured seeking a solution whilst their warriors had waged war in a never-ending battle, and still no solution had been found.
Why should now be any different?
In reality he held very little faith they would attain their goal with whatever the traders hawked. The long reign of the mighty Warlord Guardians of the Seven Galaxies was at an end. His people, now little more than rebels fighting a desperate rear guard action.
Renegades who continued to wage war in an attempt to buy time—this was all that was left of a warrior’s duty. As one who had imbibed with his first breath the age old traditions of the Darkon code of honour and valour, he believed the only thing left for him and those who chose to follow, was to die in battle.
His gut clenched as if an Elite sabre prong squeezed it dry of all its juices.
By the stars of Darkos, his race would be remembered as proud and glorious warriors long after they were reduced to dust—his duty as the eldest son of their leader demanded it.
Hence, this journey so far from their home system to investigate the rumours of a mysterious payload. If the traders proved to be untrustworthy, he would deal with them then turn his attention to the next battle.
“I have no hope, Wray.” He faced his officers. “But at all costs we must continue to fight for our freedom. Should the goddess decree, we will die with weapons in our hands and honour in our hearts. No one will smear the name of the Darkons while I live.”
He clapped a heavy hand to the back of Magar, a blow which would have felled a lesser warrior. “Are we not the best fighters in the Seven Galaxies?”
The older warrior snorted. “Affirmative. No one can beat us in a fair fight. That is why after twelve cycles of war, they still have not conquered us.”
“Nor will they, my friend. Now we will stand, as always, united. I know of what you all will lose by following my lead on this voyage. I can think of no better companions to fight at my side. Come. Let us see how deceptive these traders are.”
Tarak secured the panel and the warriors stepped into narrow tubes which lined the opposite wall. In an instant they were whisked to a lower level. Here, there was a hub of activity. Maintenance crew on hover boards performed final checks of the crafts. Four lines of warriors marched towards the shuttles which were fired up, the blinking lights on their undercarriage signalling their readiness for flight. High above the runways, behind blast-proof flexiglass, technicians worked at their respective stations relaying instructions into their comms.
Tarak and his men split up, each heading to man separate transport shuttles.
He stalked towards the lead shuttle. The men pounded their chest with their right hand once in salute. Tarak acknowledged their sign of reverence. As he entered the craft heading towards the flight deck, he keyed in his protective armour code. From the confines of the armour encasing his shoulders and neck, a helmet emerged to mould against his head. The advanced nano technology immediately connected to his brain.
The barrage of information always came with a slight electric charge which never failed to cause his muscles to spasm in protest. He rolled his shoulders to shrug off the discomfort, settled into the pilot’s seat, his concentration already centred on the task ahead.
He would need to ensure they had more than one exit plan.
Neither he nor his second-in-command trusted the Scaleen traders. His lips curled in a forbidding grimace at the forthcoming confrontation. The transport shuttle left the relative safety of the Darkon battle cruiser, the angular shape of the traders’ ship in his sights.
A small contingent of twittering Scaleen traders glided along the curved corridors on their hover boards.
In their wake, Tarak and his men marched with military cadence, weapons primed and ready. All sensors tuned into the smallest hint of trouble.
Beside him, he observed Magar utilise his compu unit to sweep the chambers hidden behind heavy metal doors which lined the long corridor for signs of concealed militia.
So far, nothing.
And that by itself bothered Tarak. The hairs on his nape prickled.
Tension radiated off his men. His body tightened with the effort of maintaining control as adrenaline surged through his blood stream. Too much depended on him and his warriors. If the Scaleen traders deceived him, he would have difficulty in reining in his vengeance.
They stopped outside a well secured door and one of the traders performed a complicated series of codes on the control panel. The door slid open.
“Come. Come. You shall see. Here is what you have been seeking,” hissed the Scaleen leader. His one bright red eye glowed, an unholy beacon in the darkness of the grey hood which covered his pointy head. “Three energy chips is the price. You must pay now.”
In his excitement, his hover board wobbled. He pitched sideways with an agitated squawk.
Tarak brushed past. Behind him, the trader grumbled in his wake as he entered the chamber. His men followed, fanning out on either side of the entrance. By force of habit, five remained outside, their weapons pointing down the corridor which stretched in both directions.
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“By the holy hem of Cercis’ cloak, they register as human. And carbon based.”
He heard Magar mutter as he rechecked the scanner. Tarak noted the instrument in his subordinate’s hands give a minute wobble.
Tarak stood motionless, legs apart, his in-built scanners first checking the room for danger and then zeroing in on the inhabitants. There appeared to be around forty or fifty of them bunched together at the far end of the room. A small group of five stood in front and gave the impression of a protective barrier. He raised his brows.
Most unusual.
His stomach muscles clenched. Had those rogue traders found something of value? He drew a deep breath. Through the filters in his suit drifted the familiar scent of fear.
And …?
He scowled. Inhaled with deliberation using all his senses to collate data and analyse. A faint whiff. A scent he had almost forgotten. Female.
Then, to his extreme astonishment, sexual interest stirred deep down in his groin.
Nostrils dilating, he stalked towards the group in the centre of the room, his two subordinates kept pace. Without communicating with his men, he knew by the level of tension flooding the room, they also had detected the tantalising scent.
A Jurian male in an out-moded jumpsuit lingered close-by, flapping his hands. Three fellow Jurians waited in a huddle near the far wall. All the females were clothed in an odd assortment of garments. Different skin tones and facial features revealed they were of different races, bound together by their mutual fear of the enemy.
One of the females caught his attention. She stood straight as any warrior a pace or two in front of the others and with her square chin tilted starward, her posture radiated a proud defiance. He stared, his gaze sweeping over a slim body with soft curves easily discernable beneath the flight suit, to linger on her face, drinking in the clear blue-green of her eyes and the paleness of her skin. This one with her air of command and direct gaze baffled him. A strange pull urged him to step closer and he shook his shoulders as if to rid himself of an uncomfortable itch.
He forced himself to remain cautious. It would be foolish to assume success—for the traders were as slippery as coda worms.
This could be an elaborate ruse to throw them off guard.
And the swift recollection of the Elite battle cruiser heading with lethal intent towards their co-ordinates cooled Tarak’s heated blood.
Excerpt from Chaos Born by Rebekah Turner
As my eyes moved over Arthur Roper through the two-way mirror, it occurred to me the saying was true. It really was hard out there for a pimp.
Roper sat on a ratty bed in a ratty room in a ratty brothel in Bangkok, haggling with a bored looking woman for a discount on her services. The woman wore a dirty blonde wig and a white spandex cat suit several sizes too small. Her scarlet lips were pressed to thin lines, as if she’d gotten Roper’s measure and found him a quart short. Who could blame her? If my job required me to wear an outfit that gave me a painful looking camel-toe, I’d be unimpressed by life as well. Not to mention having to touch individuals like Roper. Personally, I’d need a flea bath after touching such a rodent. And touch him I knew I’d have to. Retrieval jobs were never easy. In my experience, no thief ever likes giving up their ill-gotten goods and they always need some encouragement.
Most of the time my jobs were security work, retrievals, sometimes even an exorcism or two. Here, in the Outlands, maybe I’d be called a mercenary. Back home, in The Weald, I was called a Runner. My work brought me into contact with all sorts of scum and Arthur Roper was no exception. Back home, past the tollbooths that guarded the entryway into the hidden world of The Weald, Roper ran a couple of low-budget brothels. Roper wasn’t a nice pimp; I’d seen his handiwork on a couple of women’s faces and it was the kind of hurt that never healed quite right. But now, this predator was my prey, and I was damned good at what I did.
I read the dirty blonde’s lips as they worked around what looked like imaginative profanities, and wished there was sound in the cramped viewing room. The click of a latch sounded behind me and a noxious vapour of cheap perfume filled the room. A thick voice spoke. “I don’t need this trouble. I want him gone.”
Turning my head, I saw Norma, the owner of the brothel leaning against the closed door. Her faced was scrunched as tight as her steel-blue perm and she wore a lemon-yellow velour tracksuit. Like Roper, she was otherkin: a crossbreed of the mystic races. Norma was lucky that she could pass for human, magic and glamour spells didn’t work for long beyond The Weald. From the uneven shape of her ears and the slope of her nose, I guessed that after mostly human blood, she had some elf and maybe a sprinkling of hobgoblin thrown in.
Roper wasn’t as lucky as Norma. A low-slung baseball cap couldn’t hide his diseased skin, crusty warts and piggy nose. As far as otherkin went, Roper was one ugly bastard.
“He says I owe him money.” Norma’s voice was like dark treacle in my ears; rich and sweet. I didn’t know Norma myself, but she knew my boss, Gideon, and his business well enough to be on the lookout for Roper; she had sent Gideon the tip Roper would be here tonight.
“He asks for too much,” Norma continued. “My debt to him is half what he claims. He would take everything I’ve worked so hard for. He tells me if I don’t pay, he’ll tip off the authorities in Harken City with where I am.”
I heard the hint and made a show of thinking. As well as a pimp, Roper worked for Joseph Daleman, a loan shark nicknamed The Hacksaw. If Roper disappeared, Daleman might come looking. That wouldn’t have been a big deal in itself; trouble was I owed Daleman money and who wanted to remind him of that?
My fingers absently traced the familiar grooves of the carved goat-head at the top of my cane. The brothel was in the Bang Phlat district and I could hear the pulse of the city outside: spluttering tuk-tuk’s, bright laughter of tourists and street vendors calling to them.
“I could discourage him.” I shifted my feet to take the weight off my lame right leg. “For an extra fee, of course.” While Gideon had rules about how to conduct business, I had never had a problem with making some extra money on the side.
“Of course.” Norma stood alongside me and I swallowed as her perfume engulfed me like a poisonous gas. “What’d he do?” she asked in her slow voice. “To get the attention of Blackgoat Watch?”
“Client business.” I tried to discreetly block my nose. Roper’s crime was stealing a satchel from someone with enough wealth to fund my trip out of The Weald. The satchel contained things of sentimental value, and the client was happy to pay whatever it took for its return.
“I heard you like to be called Chopper now days,” Norma said.
My smile melted and my fingers clutched for the charm that usually sat around my neck before I remembered it was broken. I bit back a curse. I’d heard the nickname too and wished I knew who had started it. I’d been assisting at an exorcism a month ago, and it had ended very, very badly. I mean, behead just one client and suddenly everyone’s a comedian.
Sensing my mood, Norma changed the subject. “But tell me, how fares life in Harken? I hear tales of more violence than usual.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I narrowed my eyes at her and Norma’s aura flickered in the dim light. A flame of orange blinked around her head; it tasted like a bitter pepper on my tongue. She was an anxious woman, hiding secrets.
Throwing her an easy smile, I flashed my dimples. I reminded myself she was a valuable snitch and to be nice. There weren’t many citizens of The Weald living in the Outlands, where the modern world beckoned with conveniences like electricity, phones and emails.
“How long have you been here now?” I narrowed my eyes again. “Eight years?”
Norma’s aura flushed forest green as she prepared to lie. I blinked a few times, clearing my vision. I didn’t need to know much more about Norma. I’d gotten what I’d come for.
“Maybe more like five.” She raised a hand to smooth her hair. “Had me a little pie
shop in Applecross. Got into some trouble with the law, so I moved here. I blend in easy enough, which is a blessing.”
I didn’t ask her to elaborate. Her story was common enough. The Outlands were a common hiding place for criminals from The Weald. “Business as usual in Harken,” I said. I watched as Roper tried to turn on the charm, a sickly sweet smile on his face, and continued. “I heard the Council of Ten are trying to pass a bill to legalise steam technology again.”
“That old chestnut.” Norma shook her head. “The old families will never allow it.” There was a pause, then she asked, “Did you hear about the Regulator who did all that killing in a beserker rage? Rumours say he fled to the Outlands.”
“You sure hear well, for someone hiding out,” I said absently. Roper was now trying to convince his woman of his prowess. Maybe he thought she should pay him. The woman didn’t look convinced. I hoped she was going to kick him in the balls and save me the trouble. Norma didn’t answer me, so I just shrugged. “I read something about it in the street press. Don’t know much else. Regulators have nothing to do with me.”
“Nephilim.” Norma spat on the floor. “Filthy beasts.”
Silently agreeing with her and wondering why she would spit on her own floor, I watched as Roper started fumbling with his zipper. “I’ll need some privacy.”
Norma moved away, velour thighs making a swishing sound. “Try not to get blood on the carpet. I have to pay the cleaners extra for that.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And those side tables weren’t cheap. If you’ve got to break something, use the lamp.”
“Fine.”
With a humphing sound and more rustling of cheap fabric, Norma left me alone, the door clicking shut behind her.
I smoothed back my hair, admiring my new clothes in the reflection of the two-way mirror before me. I had managed to squeeze in some shopping and Bangkok was perfect for my tight budget. The spoils included a pencil skirt with a sexy leg slit and a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline. I tried not to notice the straining buttons on the blouse, or the fact the skirt was a little snug. I was broad-hipped and busty, but had always managed to keep a respectable weight with a diet of gin and cigarillos. I knew my size, and there was no way I was going up. A small voice reminded me I was a stress eater and that the last month had not been kind. I told the voice to shut up and sucked in my stomach, adjusting my work-belt. It was made of leather and loaded with pockets that housed the various tools of my trade, complete with a throwing knife sheathed discreetly at the crook of back. A second throwing knife sat in a slim sheath inside my bra. I viewed knives the way I did shoes: a girl could never have too many.
Rayessa and the Space Pirates Page 11