Razer Edge: A Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter Novel Read online

“Flattery draped in sarcasm gets you nowhere, Roak. I will call back in ten minutes.”

  The comm went dead.

  “She seems like such a lovely AI,” Hessa said. “Perhaps one day we will meet.”

  “You don’t want that,” Roak replied. “She’ll get into your head and mess up the good thing we have going.”

  “There are many issues to unpack from that statement, but I will refrain for now.”

  “Good idea.”

  Roak waited. The minutes stretched until the comm activated. He let it ring.

  “And people say you are hard to get along with,” Hessa said.

  Roak answered before it cut off. “You get what you needed?”

  “Yes. And more. Pol Hammon. Interesting.”

  “Not confirming or denying.”

  “You are the only hunter that was contacted for the job, Roak. That is the interesting part. The twenty-five million chit bounty is expected for a person of Pol Hammon’s importance. For a human being, he has a mind that rivals some of the better AIs in the galaxy. Not mine, and perhaps not your current partner’s, but what he lacks in processing power he makes up for with instinct. He is the best tech in the galaxy.”

  “I’ll mention that to him when I see him,” Roak replied. “I’m sure he’ll be flattered. So, do you have the access I need to Razer Station?”

  “I do. It will not be cheap, though, Roak.”

  “You said no negotiating your price.”

  “I do not mean me. I mean Razer Station. I am sending you a list of names with their asking prices. Some of those names you can negotiate down, but some will shoot you between the eyes if you even mention a lower fee.”

  “I doubt you’ll tell me which names are which.”

  “Trust that doubt. List has been sent. You have your access, Roak. If you live, I expect a call to arrange the drop off of my million chits the second you have your payment in hand.”

  “I don’t have your new comm signature.”

  The communication went dead.

  “Yes, quite lovely,” Hessa said. “Perhaps you should eat and then rest while I research the list of names she sent us. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “If you ever have hands, you should learn needlepoint,” Roak said as he got up and walked to the lift. “There any of that roast terpig shank left?”

  “Yes. I will heat it for you. It will be waiting when you reach the mess.”

  “Thanks.”

  5.

  Razer Station wasn’t the usual galactic station. No central hub, no spinning arms or circular levels. It was a sprawling complex of cobbled-together starships, mining processors, smaller stations that Eight Million Gods knew how they were transported to the system, all held together by retrofitted connectors. In all, it looked like a child’s toy that was a jumble of lines, blocks, and spheres smashed together to make one, hardly cohesive unit.

  It was chaos floating on the Edge.

  As Hessa guided the ship towards the hangar they’d been given access to, Roak contemplated the Edge itself. It was in the name. The farthest edge of the galaxy. The last frontier where systems were few and far between and darkness reigned. Men and women of all races and species had gone mad staring into the nothingness that stretched from the Edge. It was reality and metaphor rolled into one. It was a hard place that Roak avoided as much as he could. He was hard too, but he liked the odds stacked in his favor. The Edge favored nothing and no one.

  “Are you alright, Roak?” Hessa asked. “Vital signs show you are anxious.”

  “I’m not anxious,” Roak replied. “I’m preparing. You think I’m difficult to deal with sometimes? I’m about to step onto a station that is populated by personalities just as difficult as mine. I’ll be a moderate on Razer Station.”

  “Well, that is a frightening thought,” Hessa replied. “Perhaps you should take extra precautions and arm yourself more than usual.”

  “No can do, Hessa. One pistol per being. That’s the rule when you walk through the hangar bay doors on Razer Station. I can obtain plenty more weapons while I’m there, but there is a strict rule about what you can bring onboard. A mortally strict rule.”

  “Strange rule for a station with Razer’s reputation,” Hessa said. “But, I suppose it is due to the homicidal tendencies of the inhabitants.”

  “You suppose right,” Roak replied. He watched the station grow larger and their hangar door began to slide open. The dock was packed with ships. “That’s a lot of ships. There a scum convention going on?”

  “I will scan the ships when we dock,” Hessa said. “See if I am able to obtain intel on their origins.”

  “Don’t bother. Any ships here will be wiped of all IDs.”

  “Yet, I will still try. I have nothing better to do while you work.”

  “I am going to need your help navigating the station. You have that to do.”

  “Yes, well, it will hardly tax my capacity to do both at the same time.”

  “Better not.”

  Roak went to the lift and down to the side departure airlock. His light armor was of the highest quality, Tillinian design and manufacture. Light as cotton, but stronger than even the best-forged titanium. Even still, he wished he had more than a KL09 heavy pistol on his hip. Hard to kill was not the same as hard to drop. He’d rather be the one doing the dropping. A KL09 was a serious hand cannon, but it was a ubiquitous weapon on a station like Razer.

  Roak keyed the airlock open and glared down at the security contingent waiting at the bottom of the side steps.

  “Roak,” a Jesperian said. Humanoid. Ugly. Generally addicted to the food/drug they called “tacos.” Mean. Push a Jesperian and you got pushed back. “Welcome to Razer Station.”

  “You plan on announcing my presence to the entire hangar?” Roak snapped as he descended the steps. “Maybe not use my name so loudly, moron.”

  The Jesperian raised an eyebrow.

  “Picking fights ain’t how you make friends on this station,” the Jesperian said right before Roak clocked him across the cheek.

  There were six other security guards and they raised their various weapons, but the Jesperian held up a hand to stop them.

  “Nah, let the guy be,” the Jesperian said. He wiped the blood from his lips then held out the bloody hand, palm up, to Roak. “I respect that. Points for balls, Roak. But points don’t pay your way onto this station. Chits do.”

  Roak slid a handful of chits from a pouch on his belt. He eyed the other guards then handed over the money to the Jesperian.

  “What’s this buy me?” Roak asked.

  “Docking privileges,” the Jesperian replied. He rubbed his cheek. “Eight Million Gods damn. That’s gonna be sore in the morning.”

  “What cycle are we on?” Roak asked.

  “Midnight, station time. Good time to land. Most folks will just be waking up.”

  “Those chits only buy me docking privileges?”

  “And privacy for your ship. No one will touch it while you’re here. You? Well, you’re gonna have to speak to Binter about station access.”

  “And…”

  “And what?”

  “And where do I find Binter?”

  The Jesperian laughed. “He’ll find you, Roak. Shit, he’s watching your ass now. You can’t hide from Binter. Remember that.”

  “Good to know,” Roak said and eyed the hangar doors that led to the first passageway and his entry onto the station proper. “Can I go now?”

  “I’m gonna owe you for the punch,” the Jesperian said. “I’ll collect before you leave.”

  “You’ll try,” Roak said and pushed through the security guards towards the door.

  He’d gone a few steps before he froze then pivoted on his heels. Roak looked at a Shiv’erna that had seen much, much better days. The being’s long, elephantine proboscis was pocked with acne that looked like it was eating away the flesh. Not uncommon out on the Edge where decent med pods could be hard to come by.

  “That a
Flott five-six concussion blaster with laser cluster spread?” Roak asked the Shiv’erna.

  “Yeah,” the Shiv’erna replied, side-eyeing his colleagues. “What of it?”

  “Want to sell it?” Roak asked. “I’ve been in the market for one. I borrowed a Flott a while back and liked the feel.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” the Jesperian asked.

  Roak ignored the guy and focused on the Shiv’erna. “I’ll give you a fair price. Above market value.”

  “No market value for Flotts,” the Jesperian said. “Rare weapons call for rare prices.”

  Roak held up a finger without looking at the Jesperian. “Talk again for this guy and I break your knee.”

  The Jesperian laughed. “Oh, that so?”

  Roak stepped closer to the Shiv’erna. “What’s your price?”

  “I…uh… I don’t know,” the Shiv’erna stuttered. He looked at the rest of the guards, obviously uncomfortable with the attention. “Uh… Ninety thousand chits?”

  Roak snorted. “I hand you ninety thousand chits and at least one of your friends here will gut you and take it before morning.”

  “That mean you have ninety thousand chits on you?” the Jesperian asked.

  “He talking for you?” Roak asked the Shiv’erna.

  “Could be. Yeah,” the Shiv’erna replied.

  “Too bad. I warned him.”

  Roak drew his KL09 and blasted the Jesperian’s left knee to pieces. The man screamed and fell, blood gushing from the wound. The other guards started to move, but Roak placed the hot barrel of his heavy pistol right between the eyes of the Shiv’erna. The guards backed off. Slightly.

  “You decide to sell, come find me,” Roak said. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” the Shiv’erna said.

  “Better call a medic,” Roak said to the other guards. “For those that don’t know their Jesperian anatomy, he’s going to bleed out in less than five minutes. That race has a major artery in their left knee.”

  The guards didn’t look like they were going to lower their weapons. Five hatches on the side of Roak’s ship opened and heavy plasma guns extended, taking aim at the security group.

  “I warned him,” Roak said and slowly backed out of the hangar, his KL09 trained on the guards, their weapons trained on him.

  He didn’t take another breath until the hangar doors closed and he was alone in the passageway.

  “Hessa? Give me a five-minute head start,” Roak called over the comm.

  “You certainly have started the job off well,” Hessa replied.

  “Five minutes,” Roak snapped.

  “Five minutes, Roak. Where will you be going next?”

  “Closest bar. Grab a drink and wait for this Binter guy to find me.”

  “And why won’t he shoot you for shooting one of his men?”

  “Because I’m worth more alive than dead. If he was watching, he’d know I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Because you warned the Jesperian?”

  “Because I warned the Jesperian. Empty warnings will get me killed on Razer.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “It is moments like this that I am actually glad I reside in our ship and do not have a body like yours. Too exposed.”

  “I’ve told you that before.”

  “Yes, Roak, you have.” Hessa sighed. “Closest bar is three passageways over and five levels up. If you’d allow me to give you an ocular implant, I could send you a map.”

  “One unwanted implant is more than enough,” Roak replied as he walked. He didn’t holster his KL09. Felt like a good idea to keep it in hand and ready. “And I don’t need an ocular implant when I have you watching over me.”

  “Yay for me,” Hessa replied with so much sarcasm that Roak had to laugh.

  He proceeded to the hatch at the end of the passageway and took the first right.

  6.

  The bar was crowded, packed nearly to capacity.

  Beings of all races filled the stools and tables, leaving only space against the wall for Roak to get settled. There was a narrow metal shelf welded to the wall for patrons to set their drinks, but no seats to take. Roak had just enough room to turn, lean back, rest his elbows on the shelf, and watch the crowd. He had a wall to his back, so he was fine with the situation.

  Most of the patrons ignored Roak, but more than a couple kept shooting him glances. They tried to look nonchalant about it, but Roak was too used to being watched to not catch the side eyes and surreptitious glances over pints of beer and tumblers of liquor. If he was right, at least one of the interested parties was relaying vid via an ocular implant.

  That meant Binter would be arriving soon.

  “The knee? Harsh, Mr. Roak,” a gravelly voice said from Roak’s right.

  Roak turned, frowned, then glanced down.

  Standing only a little over a meter high was a greying Ferg. A race that looked like a cross between a praying mantis and a beaver, Fergs weren’t known for their ferocity or bravery. Roak chuckled.

  “It’s just Roak,” he replied and went back to watching the bar crowd. “Not that I know you or anything. Buzz off, Bucktooth Betty.”

  “Just Binter,” the Ferg said. “Not bucktooth and not Betty.”

  A grin slowly spread across Roak’s scarred face and he looked back down at the Ferg.

  “You’re Binter?”

  “I’m Binter.”

  “I’d make some crack about how in all the Hells could a Ferg be in charge of security for Razer Station, but I’m guessing you’ve heard every joke and insult there is, haven’t you?”

  “A million times over. I appreciate you not adding to the list.”

  “I guess we need to talk,” Roak said and nodded his chin at the rest of the bar. “Doesn’t look like any tables are open. You got someplace you want to go where we can have privacy?”

  “Don’t need privacy,” Binter said and snapped his fingers. Half the bar looked his way. “Need a table!”

  Five became available instantly, their former occupants snatching up drinks and vacating post haste.

  “Pick one,” Binter said, his eyes on Roak the whole time.

  “Feeling lazy,” Roak said and pushed off from the shelf. He walked to the closest table and sat down.

  Binter joined him and the two men stared at each other, neither saying a word, until an exhausted-looking waiter arrived with a bottle of something brown and two dirty glasses. Binter spat into one glass, smeared it clean with the sleeve of his shirt, then did the same to the other glass before he poured for the both of them.

  “Don’t worry,” Binter said as he raised his glass. “This shit will kill anything. I only wiped the glasses because I hate looking at spots when I drink.”

  “Good to know,” Roak said as he raised his glass too. They nodded and drank. Roak coughed then chuckled. “I doubt I have any bacteria left in my body now.”

  “I doubt you do,” Binter said, setting his glass down. “My price is two hundred thousand chits. Can you handle that?”

  “Yeah,” Roak said. “I can handle one hundred thousand better.”

  “You offered ninety thousand for a Flott five-six concussion blaster with laser cluster spread,” Binter said. “I’m worth at least twice what a blaster is worth.”

  “Then one-eighty?” Roak smirked. “I’d rather not go higher.”

  “Two hundred. The extra twenty I’ll give to Spapson.”

  “Spapson?”

  “The Jesperian whose knee you destroyed,” Binter said and poured more brown. “You said you’d break his knee, not blast it all to shit.”

  “I did break his knee. With my KL09,” Roak replied. He pounded the drink and held out his glass. Binter smiled and refilled it. “I gave him plenty of warning.”

  “If you said you were going to shoot it, I think he would have been more reasonable. You know Jesperians and their knees.”

  “He should have had it better protected.”

 
“Enough,” Binter snarled. “I don’t want to argue about some Eight Million Godsdamn knee!”

  A few of the closer patrons picked up their glasses and left the immediate area. Roak took note. When Binter raised his voice, people got afraid.

  “Sorry,” Roak said. “Two hundred thousand chits. When do you want them?”

  “Now,” Binter said. “When else would I want them?”

  “I didn’t bring two hundred thousand chits on board the station with me. I have half that. And I’ll need them all to keep greasing palms throughout the station.”

  “Then we have a problem,” Binter said.

  Binter snapped his fingers again, and Roak found himself on the business end of more than a dozen plasma pistol barrels. Half he could duck and dodge. A quarter he might be able to get to and disarm. The rest would shred him to atoms.

  “Two hundred thousand chits. Here. Now,” Binter insisted.

  “Not here, not now because I don’t have two hundred on me,” Roak replied. He held up a hand, his eyes locked on the Ferg’s. “But if you go to my ship, there will be two hundred thousand waiting for you by the side airlock.”

  “Roak, that is not a good idea. We are way over budget,” Hessa said. “Two hundred thousand would put our on-ship stores of chits at a dangerously low level.”

  Roak ignored the voice in his ear and smiled at Binter. “Can you agree to that?”

  “Can you sit here and drink with me until I have confirmation of chits in hand?” Binter replied.

  “Will it take longer than fifteen minutes? Because I really do have a job to do and the longer I wait to do it, the more likely my target slips away.”

  “Your target? Who would that be?” Binter asked. “I have tried to find out, but the scuttle butt on usual channels has turned up nothing.”

  “You need to change the channel,” Roak replied.

  “I did and the talk on the less than usual channels was just as frustrating.”

  Binter grinned, showing those two very long, very sharp, front teeth of his.

  “But we only have a few folks on Razer right now that could warrant that kind of secrecy. I’ll narrow it down. Fast.”

  “You do that,” Roak said. He poured himself more brown and drank it fast. Only way to drink it without vomiting. “Your people at my ship yet?”