Hold the Line (Chimera Company Book 5)

by Tim C. Taylor

  He swirled and sniffed. His nose was hit with the same peaty oils as before. “Caledonian Blue Label. Yat Darant, you are a genius.”

  “Damn right I am. Make sure that shines out from your little stories, and the two of us will get along just fine.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty: Claudio Zanitch

  Flight Deck, Ghost Shark, Tej System

  “Hey, gentle freaks,” Oouzo announced over the intercom. “Our continued existence means Ghost Shark has made a successful exit from the psychedelic cornucopia of bizarre that is jump space. Feast your eyestalks on the stupendous wonders of the Tej System. See those green dots in your nearest holo-display? My, there are a lot of them! Each dot is a warship. Behold the might of the Legion’s 4th Fleet. Aren’t we lucky to have these brave space jacks to defend us?”

  Oouzo changed the display to show a mushroom-topped metal dumbbell slowly rotating about its central axis. Scale guides showed the central spindle alone was four klicks long.

  “This is JSHC,” the Slern pilot explained. “Joint Sector High Command. Tej Sector HQs for both Legion and Militia are intertwined in Alpha Hub. The space station is so ancient that it predates artificial gravity, which is why it spins. A righteous design! They must have been right about the joint HQ thing, too. So far, Legion and Militia haven’t managed to kill each other here.”

  Impressive as the ancient space station undoubtedly was, Zanitch slid his gaze to the edge of the holo-projection and the banded gas giant JSHC orbited. A gleaming ring artifact encircled the planet. As a feat of engineering, the ring outshone the giant space station in both scale and wonder. It had been built long ago by an unidentified alien race, deliberately left in auto-maintenance mode for the future to use.

  “Alpha Hub is strictly for military types,” Oouzo continued. “Beta is much more my kind of place. It’s a vacation destination for thrill seekers. Gambling, flesh shacks of every variety, and diverse fantasy fulfilments with a specialty of combat arenas. Also, its cuisine is noted for its homegrown flavors…if you know what I mean. If you’ve ever hankered for Jotun goujons, Gliesan wing soup, grilled men’s thighs, or fried lady’s fingers, this is your chance. Just as well Beta’s an open carry zone. Make sure you’re packing heat, or those specialist restaurants will be packing meat. Yours.”

  “Is that mad snotball of a pilot making this up?” Zanitch directed his question at the Lungwoman, Pyruula. She, the most recent addition to their group of freaks, was a gang leader from a space station called Flux City. She seemed the most likely to know what really went on in the darkest shadows of space stations.

  “He’s right about JSHC’s reputation,” she replied. “I can’t testify to the truth. Why? Are you scared, big man?”

  “Not if you’re with me.”

  She seemed surprised by that. Had it sounded flirtatious? He hadn’t meant it to be. No one was saying it, but from what he’d worked out, Pyruula was big in the Smugglers Guild. He didn’t think anyone would dare touch her, unless they were being paid a fat stack of credits to take out a hit, which meant sticking close to her could keep him alive.

  “Whatever interspecies playtime you two are indulging in,” the Slern said indignantly, “save it for your quarters. You’re on my flight deck now.”

  Oouzo changed the display to the rings. “Aren’t they beautiful?” he breathed. Ethereal lights danced around the rings like the light pollution of faerie folk. At the gas giant’s poles, twin plasma hoops rose thousands of klicks into the void. It was stunningly beautiful.

  “The rings are primarily mining the gas giant’s magnetosphere,” Oouzo said.

  “Stow that shite,” Urdizine snapped. “You’re a pilot, not a frakking tour guide.”

  Oouzo switched off the intercom. “Captain Fitz said you were in charge of Indigo Squad, Urdizine. I’m fine with that—in fact, I don’t give a shit—but the Ghost Shark is mine. My boss is Captain Fitz. Not you.”

  “Just do your job and bring us in quietly to dock at JSHC.”

  Oouzo shot out a pair of pseudopods and crossed their tips in front of Urdizine’s face. “Listen to me, you sour green prickle. You Indigo Squad people signed up for a tour of duty. I’m providing the transport and telling you what you see out your portholes. If that doesn’t make me a tour guide, I don’t know what does. There’s a reason we call you humanoids dumbasses. Because your ass is where you store your dumb.”

  Zanitch burst into laughter. He was definitely using that quote.

  “At least that one knows he’s dumb,” Oouzo said. “Admittedly, there are a rare few whose brains eclipse their asses. Cap’n Fitz is one. You’re not so well endowed, Urdizine. All you’ve got between your ears is compost.”

  This setup on the Ghost Shark was rich with stories. Zanitch was here strictly for the money—he had no qualms about that—but since he was here anyway, he was looking forward to a helluva thrill ride. The flood of ideas for his stories would make an awesome bonus he hadn’t been expecting.

  If Chimera Company and their irregular sidekicks in Indigo Squad succeeded in their campaign, he could do more than digest the characters he saw around him, reconstituting them into his own stories. Why not simply write the story of Chimera Company? Everywhere he dug with a few questions, he struck story gold.

  Take the Zhoogene fuming on the flight deck, unable to respond to the slime blob of a pilot. Urdizine had been wounded and left for dead on a desolate ice world overrun by zombies. He was still unfit for combat duty. First, he’d established himself as a freedom fighter, then he was captured and stuck in a pen by an alien menace they were calling the Andromedans, then he’d helped lead thousands of victims to escape. The boss had put Urdizine in charge of Indigo Squad.

  Darant and Green Fish were two of his favorite people aboard the ship. The two were like bickering siblings, except on the subject of Urdizine. They both agreed the Zhoogene shouldn’t be leading Indigo Squad. They should.

  Then there was the fish woman, Pyruula, who’d turned up a week earlier, confused as hell as to what was going on. She’d had no idea she was one of these mutant freaks. To be fair, neither had he. But in her case, when you thought through the genetics, the Lungwoman must have had some very naughty ancestors.

  Apparently, her superpower was to bend people to her will. According to Zan Fey, Zanitch’s was to take unconnected snippets of information and see connections between them before he had any facts to justify them. He’d always thought he made such a good forensic accountant because he was damned smart. Turned out he was still smart, damnit, but he was extra special mutant smart.

  Darant was a catalyst for other freaks. A battery, some called him.

  There were 15 aboard Ghost Shark. The only non-freaks were Urdizine, Oouzo, and the cute girl who was there to guard them, name of Green Fish. The latter was almost young enough to be at school with his daughter.

  In fact, Jasia would love to be here. She’d worship Green Fish.

  His wife, though…Zanitch sucked a troubled breath through his teeth. Alice would have a problem with Izza Zan Fey.

  Izza was the leader of Indigo Squad, Urdizine being a temporary replacement. They’d all found their freak superpowers erratic, but they’d also learned that being physically close to other mutants boosted their powers. They’d practiced hard at working together, making steady progress under Zan Fey—until the day she came into season while they were all holding each other’s hands and minds.

  It was like a 100-megaton psychic sex bomb detonating in their heads. Zanitch still suffered from the aftershocks.

  Like many wives, his Alice had the regular Human superpower of knowing when her husband wasn’t telling the full truth. She’d know if he left out the episode with Zan Fey.

  He glanced at Pyruula, suddenly noticing that while he’d been watching the people arguing on the flight deck, Pyruula had been observing him.

  She was a Lungwoman, which meant she was shaped like a Human, but had fish scales instead of skin.
Her fingers were extra-long and inwardly curving. Two long strips of fish skin hung down from behind her ears and were wrapped in gold wire.

  He’d heard of the species and had always thought they sounded like monsters, but Pyruula was absolutely smoking. Or was that the lingering effect of Zan Fey’s sex bomb?

  Zanitch tore his gaze away from her and focused on the Slern pilot who was giving everyone a hard time.

  A slime race. He laughed. Slern were common on some worlds, but he’d never encountered one. They were essentially intelligent slugs with attitude, exactly the kind of thing fantasy role players dreamed up.

  Which…come to think of it, was a brilliant idea!

  “Everyone, shut it!” he yelled.

  The arguing paused.

  “Oouzo’s got a point. Our mission is to get in a couple of days ahead of Chimera Company and lie low. Gives us a chance to perfect our giant alien freak mind until someone from Chimera contacts us. I don’t like doing that without a cover story, and Oouzo’s just given us a peach. We’ll be tourists.”

  “We already suggested that,” Urdizine said.

  “Yeah? Well, get this. We’re a weird-ass collection of freaks. We stand out. You might think no one in this universe has seen a bunch quite like us before, but there is one group we resemble. Freaks of a different kind. Outsiders. They lurk in the shadows, only able to be themselves with others of their own kind. You know who I’m talking about?”

  “A religious cult?”

  “Sexual deviants?”

  “Geologists?”

  “No, you puffed buffoons. I’m referring to gamers. Specifically role-playing gamers.”

  Pyruula pulled at the colorful strands of fish flesh running alongside her narrow face like artfully curled strands of hair…albeit hair that would taste good fried in batter and served as a starter.

  “The Human,” she mused, “has a captivating mind.”

  “Leave his mind alone,” the Slern said. “He’s right, and if we were real tourists, there would be one place in this system we’d be sure to visit first.”

  Oouzo flicked on the intercom. “Dear guests, get ready to do the Dyson dance, because we’re about to tour the ring structures and then pass through the flux tubes themselves. And if your taste buds are still drooling over talk of lady’s fingers and men’s thighs, don’t worry your freakish heads, because Ghost Shark’s got some serious legs on her.” He stopped abruptly, then shook like a blancmange. “The Shark has legs? Fuck! Your stupid language has even me speaking humanoid exceptionalism. Let’s just say Ghost Shark moves faster than fleas through a troupe of Ellondytes. And that means, gentle weirdoes, that despite our Dyson detour, you’ll be at JSHC in time for supper.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-One: Claudio Zanitch

  Ibson Arena, District Metz, JSHC

  Leaving the others behind, Zanitch strode out onto the arena proper.

  In the low gee, the sand didn’t suck at his weight. It felt almost delicate, and that was a word the big man rarely got to use to describe his experience of the physical universe.

  His boots crunched as he stepped on chunks of battle clutter littering the floor. There was a dented metal scale hacked from someone’s armor, rivets, torn strips of leather, dirty ribbons, and a whole lot of stains, and this was just the general crap. Debris bashed out during arena fights.

  There were bigger pieces that made his jaw drop. By a heap of boulders lay a broken wooden shield, pierced by a bronze trident. The shield was splintered, its boss bloodstained.

  Helmets, skulls, broken swords—there were plenty of such tasteful details—but best of all was the half-buried ribcage of a giant beast, bones long since bleached. The tip of its tail poked out of the sand 20 yards away.

  “Gotta be a dragon,” he whispered, trying to figure out how to persuade Alice they needed one in their back yard.

  Zanitch marched deeper into the oval of sand, then stopped when he felt the ground’s consistency change beneath his feet. He looked down and saw it was sticky with blood—bucketfuls of the stuff.

  “The blood is fake,” a man said, polishing a drinking horn behind the bar. He paused. “Well, most of it. The Ibson Arena wouldn’t be the success it is without a little blood and sweat from its patrons. The experience feels so real because it is real.”

  His voice was deep, yet clear. If the guy had been standing half a million miles away inside the Dyson ring, Zanitch liked to think it would carry through the vacuum to his ears. He had that kind of voice.

  The man caught sight of Urdizine and Green Fish, who’d waited on the tiered wooden steps that led down to the sand of the arena floor. “We’re not open,” he stated.

  Zanitch left the negotiations to Urdizine while he took in the joint. For a place describing itself as an arena, it was small. Maybe 500 Humans could squeeze in.

  Staff busied themselves restocking drinks and cleaning the tables. If you wanted to sit, the only option was a bench beside one of the long wooden tables. It was like a great feasting hall.

  Zanitch approved.

  The man cleaning the drinking horns didn’t approve of them. Zanitch figured this must be the boss because he’d somehow sniffed out that Urdizine was the one with the budget.

  “We’re not open,” he repeated sharply to the Zhoogene. “Try again after 1600 hours.”

  “We’re scouting ahead,” Urdizine said. “Looking for some details.”

  “It’s Amateur Arena tonight. Wearers of the 10 best costumes get their entry refunded and free drinks all night. My decision, which shall be final. Groups of 10 with at least two entering the sands get free medical insurance for the night, up to a maximum of one thousand credits. If I don’t like you, you don’t get in. And since you haven’t respected my request to leave, I’m leaning heavily toward the idea that I don’t like you.”

  “We’re looking to hire the joint,” Zanitch said.

  The man ignored them while he replaced his horn in the rack above the bar. He brought down another and attacked it with his cloth.

  “Main arena is available for hire every five-day,” he said without looking up. “Next two sessions are booked. Once a month we take the sand out to be sterilized and flood the pit with water. If you’ve never experienced inflatable triremes against Littoranes dressed as sea dragons, your life has sucked until this moment. It’s enormous fun, and it meets my amphibian diversity requirements.”

  “We heard you’ve something smaller,” Zanitch said.

  “If your money’s good, I could dust down the Hall of Spurrell.”

  “Oh, believe me, money won’t be an issue.”

  The man emerged from the bar and walked across the sand to Zanitch, though he was still polishing the horn. “Name’s Renaud Ibson. I own the place. How many people in your party?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Ibson pointed to the rows of horns hanging behind the bar. There were tankards, too, and what appeared to be Human skulls converted into drinking vessels. “These aren’t here for show. If they don’t get filled, I don’t make a profit. Then my creditors become agitated, which will make my staff lose the smiles on their happy faces. So I ask again, what numbers?”

  “Fifteen. And we want to keep our business private.”

  Ibson had been about to shake hands. He stopped. “Why private? What are you planning to do? Who told you about this place? We don’t exactly advertise.”

  “We require privacy.”

  “I decide what’s private and what’s plotting and unlawful assembly. My place may occupy a gloomy gray-zone of legality, but that means I need to keep the authorities real sweet. I won’t ask again. Who told you about this place?”

  “It was me, Mr. Ibson.”

  Catkins, their contact from the Phantom, a ship that wasn’t supposed to dock until tomorrow.

  Ibson stuffed his cloth into his leather apron and tossed the horn he’d been cleaning across the air to Zanitch. He strode across the bloodied sand to the Glie
san, arms wide. “Catkins, you mangy old buzzard. I thought you were dead.”

  “I nearly was, Mr. Ibson. It turned out I was having an adventure.”

  The two embraced.

  “I worry about you, Catkins, what with thinking you being dead and all. And now you bring these idiot friends of yours. Why the fuck didn’t you introduce them?”

  “At first, I didn’t think I would need to,” said Catkins. “All they had to do was one simple task, hire your venue. Then I had doubts about them and raced here as fast as I could.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure there won’t be a problem if they’re with you, but everyone’s on edge across the station. So I still have to ask, what sort of thing will you be doing?”

  “Role-playing,” Urdizine said. “Magic, enchantment, summoning demons—but mostly gaming.”

  Ibson grimaced. “You’re not wanting…animals?”

  Catkins frowned. “No. Well…for them to eat, which is an abomination. That’s not what you meant, is it?”

  Ibson shook his head. “I respect your vegetarian stance, my friend, but the Arena prides itself on its meats. Roasted, fried, broiled, minced, raw—no one has ever complained about the Arena’s platters. I’ve had magic groups here before. When they called for animals, it turned out they were either for sex or blood sacrifice, sometimes both. Those are lines I’m not prepared to cross.”

  “That’s not going to be…” Catkins paused and looked a query at Urdizine. “We don’t need animals, do we?”

  “Rest assured,” Urdizine told Ibson, “the only animals we’ll be wanting would fit nicely inside a bun. Perhaps with pepper and cheese sauce.”

  “Barbaric!” Catkins spat. He ruffled his wings.

  “You’re probably right, Catkins,” Ibson said, “but these are my kind of barbarians. Paying ones.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Claudio Zanitch