Galactic Vice Read online

“Sorry. That wasn’t at you,” he muttered as she passed.

  He continued down the sidewalk towards the closest public transport stop. His meeting was at one of the larger outdoor markets in Jafla Base and Etch did not feel like walking the thirty-two blocks to get there. He reached the stop and waited with the others that didn’t have access to or the means to own a roller of their own.

  “Nice day,” a perky Ferg said. She had a bright blue bow in her hair and was made up like she was about to be the main star of a stage production of the latest musical hit. “Supposed to be a huge sandstorm later this afternoon. The whole base will be that beautiful orange. You know that orange? I love that color.”

  “Haven’t been here long enough to see a sandstorm,” Etch said.

  The public roller pulled up just then, the three long segments bouncing and swaying as the vehicle came to a full stop. Half a dozen beings got off and went their separate ways before Etch could get onboard. The Ferg followed him to his seat and sat down with her hip almost touching his.

  “Oh, you are going to love the color of the dome when the storm hits,” the Ferg said, continuing the conversation as if Etch and she had been talking the entire time.

  “Great,” Etch said.

  He started to shift as if to stand up, but the Ferg put a hand on his knee and leaned closer. She batted her eyes at him and he recoiled. As he grabbed her hand to remove it, not too gently, he felt something under her fingers.

  “Perv!” she shouted and stood up, stomping all the way to the back segment of the transport.

  Some eyes glanced his way, but not for long. Most everyone pretended like nothing had happened. That worked for Etch since he found that his hand was no longer empty. A wadded-up napkin was stuffed between his fingers. He eased his hand down to his side and unwadded the napkin.

  A quick glance down at the napkin revealed a faint holo that read, “Glupernian potato stand.” Then the holo faded away and Etch was left with a less-than-clean-looking napkin in his hand. He tucked it into the space between the seats and looked out the windows across from him.

  Jafla Base was a hodgepodge of architectural eras and designs. Almost every race and culture that Etch knew of was represented by something. Except Earth. It was considered bad luck to emulate any part of that toxic planet. The ancestors of his human side had fled thousands of years ago, left the deteriorating mess and found their fortune out in the stars like every other human being that didn’t want to die of a thousand different cancers. No one in their right mind set foot on Earth anymore. No one.

  Of course, Etch had heard rumors of secret bases and Galactic Fleet data installations being built, utilizing the planet’s reputation as a dump to hide whatever covert operation was in vogue at the time. Etch didn’t put much stock in the rumors. The risk was too high to try to keep anything intact on that nightmare world.

  His stop was called and he got up without making eye contact with anyone and hopped off the roller. His feet had barely touched the plasticrete pavement before the transport was rumbling away. Etch stood in front of one of the side entrances to the massive street market and tried to read the crude map that someone had provided. To say it was confusing was an understatement.

  Etch sighed and walked through the entrance. He was early enough that he could wander and get his bearings in the market before he needed to be at the Glupernian potato stand. The hand-off of the meeting location had McDade written all over it. Etch needed to remember to thank her for the embarrassment of the interaction. It had been a perfect McDade touch.

  The market had pretty much anything that anyone would want to buy. It also stank. At least to Etch. Bodies pressed closely together, the intense odors of foodstuffs meant for a hundred different races, barely working incinerator bins overflowing with refuse, children unattended and standing there wailing while wearing obviously soiled clothes, drunks and junkies, vendors trying to get customers to buy way past overdue and spoiled produce. It was capitalistic chaos at its most base.

  Perfect cover for a clandestine meeting.

  When his stop had been called, the electronic voice had said, “Tiff-Span District.” From Etch’s brief observations, the Tiff-Spann District made Mesker look like a vacation spa.

  Even more perfect for a clandestine meeting.

  Etch worked his way through the stalls and stands, pausing here and there to study merchandise or pick up strange-looking fruit. He didn’t buy anything, but he certainly blended in with the rest of the browsers. A woman of indistinct genetic heritage motioned for Etch to approach her stand and he shrugged and obliged, shoving past a couple of arguing Jesperians to get to the stand.

  “You like small pebbles?” the woman asked, her accent as indistinct as her genetic makeup. “Or you like large pebbles? I have all sizes.”

  “Uh, I’m not looking for pebbles today,” Etch said.

  “You look for this one,” the woman said and held out a plain, gray, circular rock that was only an inch across. “Very lucky.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not looking for pebbles. But thank you,” Etch said. “Just browsing today.”

  “Take pebble,” the woman insisted, grabbing Etch’s wrist in a grip that he quickly realized he was going to have a hard time getting free from. “Gift. Take.”

  Etch took the pebble, but only so she would let go. He slipped it into his pocket as she let go of his wrist.

  “Thanks,” he said and hustled away. She didn’t call after him or say anything as he retreated into the crowd. Etch had no idea what that was all about.

  He wound his way through almost the entire market before he spotted the Glupernian potato stand. He’d come in at the complete opposite side of the market. Etch made a point of checking out all the stands around it before he decided to start inspecting potatoes.

  “Make sure you keep the pebble on you,” Angie said as she walked by him. “I wanna listen too.”

  Etch glanced out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t see her. The pebble. Of course that would be a McDade thing too.

  “We don’t have much time, so walk with me,” a Shiv’erna said from Etch’s right side. “I’ll go first, you follow right behind. I know a place we can talk.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” Etch said.

  The Shiv’erna sighed. “No, I don’t.”

  15.

  They reached a half-broken bench on the very edge of the market, tucked between a less-than-healthy-looking bush of a species that Tipo didn’t know and a pile of empty food cartons. Tipo sat down and glanced about to make sure no one was watching before he nodded at Etch.

  “Not much time, man,” Tipo said when Etch hesitated. “Sit your ass down so we can chat.”

  “Little out in the open,” Etch said as he cautiously sat down. “Eyes everywhere.”

  “You know what a broken bench means in markets like this on Jafla?” Tipo asked.

  “Not a clue,” Etch replied.

  “People will think we’re negotiating terms for sexual favors,” Tipo said. “A halfer and a scarred-up Shiv’erna sitting here means no one will make eye contact and everyone will avoid looking at us at all costs.”

  Tipo watched Etch study the crowd. A crowd that was actively ignoring the both of them.

  “You’re right,” Etch said. “My apologies. Etch Knowles.”

  “Tipo S’lunn,” Tipo said. “Glad we could finally meet since I’m technically supposed to be your co-manager.”

  “Yeah, McDade doesn’t work well with others,” Etch said. “She also doesn’t like being told what to do, so you’re lucky you even got this meeting.”

  “I thought we were going to meet that day at Pitcher’s,” Tipo said.

  “Same here,” Etch replied. “McDade had other plans.”

  “She seems to always have other plans,” Tipo said, but not without some joviality. “She cares, though, which is more than I can say about a lot of GVDs in my Squad.”

  “Got a few burnouts here on Jafla?” Etch asked. “That
doesn’t put me at ease. Burnouts end up on the take fast.”

  “Which is why we’re meeting here, man,” Tipo said. “Just you and me. I don’t need any possible leaks getting word back to Gants that his new prize tile player is at the least a snitch and at the most an undercover GVD. That wouldn’t be good, man.”

  “No shit,” Etch said. “You think you have a mole or two?”

  “McDade does,” Tipo said. “I’m not exactly going to argue with her.”

  “Few win that try,” Etch said.

  “I’m getting that, man,” Tipo said and laughed hollowly. “Boy, am I getting that.”

  “So, what do you want to know, S’lunn?” Etch asked.

  “Progress. Are we making any?” Tipo asked.

  “Some,” Etch said. “I’m gaining trust. But it takes time.”

  “McDade said it could be a year,” Tipo said with undisguised disgust. “That can’t be right.”

  “No, that’s about right,” Etch said. “I’ve got a Lipian friend. She’s making headway with the clients and loves to talk when she gets off shift. I’ve learned a lot.”

  “Such as?” Tipo asked.

  “McDade hasn’t filled you in?”

  “I want to hear it from you, man.”

  “Sure. I’m learning the hierarchy of Jafla tile games. I’m still small time, but I think in about two months I should be able to work my way into one of the big games. One with a couple of whales in it. If I can do that, then I can finally get an audience with Gants. Gants likes to vet his tile players when they get to that level. Experience and performance aren’t everything with the guy. From what I’ve heard, he insists on face to face so his gut can tell him if the person is worth the risk or not.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like Gants,” Tipo said. “But that long? Can’t you push the timeline?”

  “Sure,” Etch replied.

  “You can? Great!”

  “I can also eat the end of a slug chunker and blow the back of my head off,” Etch continued. “It’ll be less painful than pissing off Dark. Where would you like me to do it? Right here? I don’t have a slug chunker, but I’m sure I can buy one off some vendor in this market.”

  “Point taken, smart ass,” Tipo said. He had to sit on his hands to keep from bunching them up into infuriated fists. “The thing is, man, that I’ve already wasted a year. I can’t wait another.”

  “We haven’t wasted shit,” Etch said. “I’ve been working my ass off since I arrived a couple months ago. I’m making pretty Eight Million Gods damn good progress. I try to push it and not only will it take much longer, odds are that Gants will realize he’s being targeted for the sex trafficking and move the operation to a different base or station or outpost. Jafla is filled with potential clients because of the Orbs, but beings are beings and he can find a market for his goods somewhere less risky even if it doesn’t net him the same profit.”

  Tipo tried to counter the logic, but he couldn’t find a flaw. He knew the only flaw in their operation was his own impatience. Tipo shook his head, glanced up at the sky, then nodded.

  “A year?” he asked.

  “A year,” Etch replied. “Maybe less. But I don’t want to oversell it, so if it is less than a year, then we’ll consider ourselves lucky. Cool?”

  “Cool,” Tipo said. “What do you need from me?”

  “Nothing right now,” Etch said. “I’m not at a level where I need much. But once I get into the higher games, I may ask for a list of informants and contacts your Squad already has on the payroll in the tile houses. I want to avoid them as much as possible, otherwise we’ll only end up circling each other and going nowhere. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Tipo said. “Jorg, my Squad Captain, probably won’t authorize that kind of information release. If you get found out and they torture you…”

  “Not going to happen,” Etch said. “I don’t get tortured.”

  “You do if Gants wants you tortured,” Tipo said.

  Etch flicked a claw from one of his fingers and placed it against his own throat. He drew it across the skin without drawing blood and stared hard at Tipo.

  “I’m faster than any of them,” Etch said. “If it gets to the point where I’m busted by Gants, I’ll take myself, and all my intel, out of the equation. Fast.”

  “You say that now,” Tipo responded. “Not going to be so easy if the time comes.”

  “You ever been tortured?” Etch asked.

  “No,” Tipo admitted.

  “I have,” Etch said. “Back when I was a Fleet Marine. Got captured by the Skrang for six days. My platoon found me and got me out of there, but those six days were, and still are, some of the worst moments of my life. Skrang are vicious. Gants is a thousand times worse from what I’ve heard. I’ll handle myself without even blinking if the time comes.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Tipo said.

  “Ya think?” Etch responded and chuckled. “S’lunn, you need to take a few steps back and look at the big picture. You’re too close to this. Trust me. I know. Let McDade run the op and hang back to assist. You try to push any part of this and you’ll only fuck things up. Understood?”

  “That’s not how I want to play this,” Tipo said.

  “I know,” Etch said. “I can see that plain as day. But you have to. You’re the part of this op that worries me. I can’t afford to be worried when I’m undercover. I have to play my best and act my best. I have to live and breathe and be who I am or I’ll get sniffed out and snuffed out. That little worry at the back of my head about whether or not you’re going to get impatient and pull a trigger that will end up getting me killed is going to make my job very, very hard.”

  “That’s not my intention,” Tipo said.

  “Good. Because my job is already very, very hard,” Etch said as he stood up. “I don’t need you making it worse. Let McDade run the op, alright?”

  “I won’t get in the way,” Tipo said.

  “Not the same,” Etch said and started to walk off. “I’m going home to sleep. Get me a message by tonight that you understand what I’m saying or I call this op off. It’ll destroy my career, certainly destroy McDade’s, and probably destroy yours, but that’s what I’ll do unless you agree to let McDade run the op so I can breathe easy. I leave the apartment at about eight. Get me a message before then.”

  And Etch was gone, lost back in the crowd of browsers and shoppers, junkies and drunks, thieves and pickpockets. Tipo tried to track him, but it was impossible. Etch was good at becoming invisible. Tipo admired that.

  He leaned his head back on the bench and thought about his next move. He probably needed to report to Captain Jorg. Then again, if he did that, it could make the situation a lot more complicated than it already was. The smart thing was to do exactly what Etch said and let McDade take point and keep point through the op while he hung back and provided support from his position in the Squad.

  And Jorg had already told him what needed to be done if Knowles took too long and became a problem.

  “Hey there,” an unusually thin Urvein said as he stumbled up to the bench and Tipo. “Should we talk?”

  “No thanks,” Tipo said and got up. “Already worked out my evening.”

  “You sure, sweetie?” the Urvein asked. “Because I could make your evening even better.”

  Tipo walked towards the market exit without responding. The Urvein called out a few choice words, but they were lost in the other choice words that many of the shoppers and stand owners were calling back and forth to each other.

  16.

  The blood was a deep indigo and Theff Gants stared at it with disgust.

  He hated blood on his hands. Literally speaking.

  “Towel,” he hissed.

  The man was full Slinghasp, so no matter the words, he hissed. Some of his kind tried to break themselves of the speech habit. Not Theff Gants. He reveled in being Slinghasp. He loved how beings underestimated him when
they first interacted. He loved shoving that underestimation up their asses.

  Like with the corpse that lay at his feet.

  “Where’s my fucking towel?” he roared.

  Three bodyguards appeared with clean towels in less than a second.

  Gants took the towels, wiped his hands, tossed the towels in the faces of the bodyguards, then gave the body at his feet a good, hard kick.

  “Clean her up,” Gants ordered as he walked across the Club, empty due to the time of day, and sat down at one of the many bar stools. He snapped his fingers. A triple whiskey appeared at his elbow almost instantly. “Leave the bottle.”

  The prescient bartender had already done so and was walking away to grab the freshly soniced glasses out of the dishwasher under the bar.

  “You get me, Schigg,” Gants said to the bartender’s back.

  “That’s my job,” Schigg replied.

  A tall, thin man of indeterminate race, with skin a bright yellow and eyes that glowed like embers, Schigg cocked his head and gave Gants a side look. “Getting you is why you pay me what you pay me.”

  “So fucking true,” Gants said as he downed his whiskey and poured himself another triple. He raised the glass and gave the rim a quick tip in Schigg’s direction. “If only everyone on my payroll was so practical.”

  He downed that drink, slammed the glass on the bar, and spun in the stool so he was facing in the direction of the bludgeoned corpse. His three bodyguards stood by the body, all looking like they had no idea whether they should clean it up or shit themselves.

  “Like these morons,” Gants said. “Can you believe I paid good money for these genetic freaks. Gwreq, Urvein, Leforian, Tcherian, and even a little Cervile. Size and strength, but that DNA cocktail couldn’t produce a single, fucking brain cell!”

  Gants picked up his empty glass and flung it at the bodyguards. It bounced off the forehead of one of them, knocking the being back a step.

  “I said to clean her up!” Gants shouted. “Why is the bitch’s body still on my floor?”

  “She’s Jafla PD,” one of the bodyguards said. “Where do we put her? They got trackers in their brains.”