The Starhawk Chronicles: Rest and Wreck-reation Page 5

The atrium was a bustle of activity, and despite being as well traveled as they were, Jesse was surprised to spot a few beings of races he was not familiar with. He was watching one couple in particular, which looked like nothing more than two blobs of viscous purple jelly, covered in feathers, with multiple feet and eye stalks. The two would walk a few steps, then seemingly on purpose collide with one another, bounce off, take some more steps and repeat the process. The way they normally walk, or a mating ritual? Maybe they should inquire at the front desk about getting a room—

  The thought ended abruptly as Jesse’s gaze wandered from the alien couple to the girl standing just beyond them. She was a young human, around fifteen or sixteen standard years of age. Pretty, but dressed in ill-fitting, too large clothes. The dark hair and eyes reminded him of—

  ‘lyssa?

  Jesse shook his head, rubbing his eyes with one hand. When he looked again, she was still standing there. An all too real ghost.

  Beside him, K’Tran followed his line of sight, and drew in a barely audible breath of surprise when he spotted her. “By the stars, that looks like—”

  “I know,” Jesse said. “Same age ‘lyssa was when she—” His voice choked off as a rush of memories flooded back at him.

  Alyssa. Sweet, fun-loving Alyssa. The ready smile. The playful gleam in her eyes. The way she would play-mock Jesse.

  Though the resemblance was uncanny, the dead look in the young girls’ eyes was what set her apart. Jesse examined her closer. The over-large clothes, made him think she had pulled them from a wastebin. Her hands were shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. Jesse followed the gaze of her dead, dark eyes.

  The crowd across the atrium was parting, or rather, was being parted. A large, craggy-faced Volkov, dressed in security black was pressing the onlookers out of the way for the group that followed. A half dozen men and women, all dressed in smart business attire, were gathered like buzz-gnats around the man in the center of their group. Jesse’s recognition of the man leading them was immediate.

  Arigh Boke. One of the richest men in the galaxy. The man who owned the very planet they were standing on, the very city they were standing in right now. Short, plump, but immaculately groomed and dressed. There was an air of arrogance that exuded from him as he showed his guests about. In my sight five seconds and already I don’t like him, Jesse thought.

  It was clear that someone else did not like him as well. The young girl was glaring icicles at Boke as he made his way in her direction. The Volkov guard approached and tried to shoo her off, but she stood her ground, and the look in her eyes gave Jesse a distinctly uneasy feeling in his gut. Something’s about to go down.

  Boke was within a few meters of the girl when she abruptly quit her angry statue act and moved. Pulling her hand from her jacket pocket, Jesse saw the small hold-out pistol just before she proceeded to ram upward into the Volkov’s jaw. As the guard fell, she brought the weapon to bear on Boke, who was only now beginning to take note of what was happening.

  Turning, Boke tried to escape but the wall of entourage behind him, unaware of what was transpiring, blocked him in their confusion. Boke turned again, terror masking his face as he sought another way out. The girl leveled the weapon and began to squeeze the trigger.

  That was as far as she got. Without thought, Jesse pulled one of his Colt Seventy-Seven pistols and fired, blasting the weapon from her hand. Stunned, she turned her gaze away from Boke just as K’Tran leapt at her, bringing her to the floor in a flying tackle.

  More of Boke’s guards seemed to appear from thin air. Two were training their weapons on Jesse while another half-dozen surrounded K’Tran and the girl still sprawled on the floor. The Volkov was dazedly struggling to sit up with assistance of another guard.

  The guard nearest Jesse shoved his weapon into Jesse’s face as the second ripped the Colt from his hand, and pulled its twin from its holster. “One move, dirtbag, and your head’s a cloud of vapor,” the nearest guard growled.

  A hand clasped around the barrel of the guards’ weapon, tearing it away from Jesse’s face. Both Jesse and the guard turned to see Arigh Boke standing beside them, his hand gripping the weapon with white knuckles. “You damn idiot!” Boke barked. “Do you not see that this man just saved my life?”

  The guard took a moment to register that he was now the one under fire before sheepishly backing off. The one that had appropriated Jesse’s weapons stood mute, looking confused, and waiting for someone to tell him what to do.

  Boke turned to the guards surrounding K’Tran and the girl. “You there, help that man up or so help me you’ll all be on garbage duty for the rest of your careers.” He beamed at Jesse. “This is no way to treat my saviors.”

  The Volkov helped K’Tran to his feet, while two others took the girl under each arm and hoisted her to her feet. A wave from Boke and they began to haul her off.

  “Boke, you son of a bitch!” she screamed, fighting against her captors. “Let me go. He killed my father. Let me go.” Her screams echoed throughout the atrium as they lead her off.

  Podo, Kym and Morogo came up behind Jesse as the guards relaxed their stances and the crowd that had turned to watch began to disperse. Boke gestured to the one guard to return Jesse’s weapons, all the while keeping the greasy, reptilian smile on his face. He made note of K’Tran’s sidearm as he joined them. “I am indebted to you gentlemen, though I don’t think you realize weapons are forbidden in Valhalla City establishments.”

  A polite threat, Jesse thought as he holstered his Colts. This guys’ smile seems more threatening than his guards. “We have permits. We’re registered bounty hunters with the Corinthal Hunters Guild.”

  “Ah, professionals,” Boke said. “From the marvelous way you disarmed that young ruffian I should have known. I should put you on my payroll and get rid of all these other incompetents.” He glared pointedly at his guards, and the Volkov in particular before turning back to Jesse with a smile and an extended hand. “Arigh Boke. Welcome to Utopia.”

  Jesse shook the hand, plastered a smile of his own on his face. “Jesse Forster.” He pointed out and made quick intros of the others.

  “Forster. I know that name,” Boke ruminated for a moment, and Jesse could almost see the glow rod go on over the portly mans’ head as recognition came to him. “Ah yes! Yours is the crew that stopped that dread Nexus Gang some months back, aren’t you?”

  If I had a credit for every time I’ve heard that over the past months. He fought hard not to roll his eyes at the adulation in the man’s gaze. “The same.”

  “Amazing. You should have contacted my offices. I would have seen to your every comfort. We enjoy having celebrities here you know.” He laid a hand on Jesse’s shoulder and leaned in, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “Brings in the tourists.”

  Jesse took a step sideways to get Boke to remove his hand as discreetly as he could. “I wouldn’t exactly say we’re celebrities—”

  “Nonsense,” Boke crowed. “You did the galaxy a huge public service. Nothing but the best for you now. Tell me, where are you staying?”

  Cripes. There’s no getting away from this guy. “Umm. . .the Imperial.”

  Boke had the sudden look as though he had swallowed something that disagreed with him. “No, no, no, that just will not do at all. “ He waved a hand and one of his aides appeared at his side, as if summoned by magic. “Tallera, Mister Forster and his friends here are my special guests. Have them put up here at the White Star. The best suites in the house, and make sure they are extended every courtesy.”

  “That’s really not—” Jesse started.

  “And dinner!” Boke cut him off. “Tonight, with me, in the Starscape lounge.” Jesse started to protest and Boke held up a finger, silencing him yet again. “My personal stylist will be along later to help you pick out some appropriate attire. And don’t you worry about your belongings. Tallera here will make certain that they’re brought over from the Imperial and distributed to your suites here.�
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  Again Jesse tried to object, but Boke smiled, slapped him on the arm, shook K’Tran’s hand, and gave a jaunty salute to the others. Turning quickly, he disappeared into the crowds with his followers. Tallera stayed behind, smiling blandly at Jesse. “If you just give me your room information, I can—”

  Jesse waved the assistant off to K’Tran, and approached the Volkov security guard who was still hanging around, directing onlookers away. “If you need me to make a statement, I’d be willing to come to your offices to make one.”

  That carved-from-stone face regarded him with tiny red eyes. “That won’t be necessary,” he rumbled. “We have everything we need.”

  The response troubled Jesse more than the assassination attempt. “What’s going to happen to the girl?”

  “She will be processed,” the Volkov said, sounding more annoyed with each passing second. “And then she will be confined.”

  That answer did not make Jesse feel any better than the last one. “Define confined.”

  It was at that point the Volkov decided that the conversation was over. With little more than a huff, he turned and walked off in the direction Boke had gone.

  Podo appeared at Jesse’s side. “I think we may have just seen a ghost,” he said, looking in the direction that the girl had been taken away.

  “You noticed that too?”

  “How could I not? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was Alyssa standing there. Had her temper too.” Podo paused. “I wonder what she meant, that Boke killed her father. Do you think there’s any truth to that?”

  “Not sure,” Jesse said, following his brother’s gaze. In his mind, he could still hear her screams, the pain and anger in them, and somehow he knew that she wasn’t lying. “But I’m sure as hell going to find out.”

  Chapter Eight

  The shuttle pod cruised swift and low across the turquoise surface of Utopia’s southern sea before rising and circling once around the lush green and blue island. From the balcony of his villa, Arigh Boke watched as the craft settled nimbly onto the beach-side landing pad and the sole occupant climbed from the cockpit.

  This was the way Boke demanded important news to be delivered—in person. He had long ago learned the value of face-to-face contact with his subordinates. A holo-conversation could be altered, the being on the receiving end could feign distraction, or choose not to make eye contact. In person, whomever Boke chose to speak with had no choice but to face his superior head-on.

  Besides, Arigh Boke took pleasure in the discomfort of others.

  He was not a physically intimidating presence. Of below-average height and above-average girth, Boke was not the sort that one would immediately feel threatened by. Indeed, he most resembled the long-dead Earth comedian Lou Costello, but in one-on-one dealings, dealings where the sanctity of his way of life was at stake, when profits mattered, there was nothing comical about him.

  And on this day, both his life, and livelihood, had been threatened, and those that he paid to protect both of these had failed miserably, laughably. Shown up by a group of tourists.

  As the pilot approached along the walkway from the landing pad, Boke turned and walked back into his suite, moving to the bar. By the time his valet drone had entered, announcing the arrival, Boke had refreshed his drink and fixed another for the newcomer. “Show him in.”

  The drone turned and exited, replaced by the ruggedly handsome pilot of the shuttle, standing in the doorway with the ramrod-straight bearing typical of years of military discipline. He stood at attention until Boke gestured for him to approach. Halting on the other side of the bar, he stood at parade rest, ice-blue eyes set in an angular face fixed on Boke from beneath short cropped white-blonde hair. He waited in respectful silence.

  Boke let his chief of security wait for a minute before speaking. Any other subordinate of Boke’s would start to sweat in nervous expectance of a dressing down, but not this particular subordinate. Arvane Scarab remained as icy as his gaze. Boke doubted if the man even could sweat. Handing him a glass, he said, “Your report, Mr. Scarab.”

  “The uprising in mine three-two-seven has been silenced,” Scarab replied, his inflection almost mechanical, and Boke wondered at times if his security chief was part cyborg. “Seven are dead, along with one of our men. There were several escape attempts made during the confusion, only one of which was successful. Two prisoners did manage to escape. A young male and female. Both human. We are tracking them now.”

  “I see,” Boke replied, keeping his tone neutral. “Progress on that?

  “We tracked the two as far as the Number Four game preserve. One circumvented that area, but we believe the other, the girl, entered into the preserve. There is no sign that she has since exited.”

  Boke took a long sip of his drink, absorbing the information. “Interesting. Quite interesting. There was also an incident involving some sportsmen in that same preserve earlier this morning, was there not?”

  Scarab inclined his head a fraction, his version of a nod of agreement. “It looks as though a hunting party was set upon by a clawshrike. Five sportsmen and their guide. There is a team going over the area now, but no one is believed to have survived. Clawshrikes are. . .thorough predators.” A hint of admiration entered his voice, as close to actual emotion as Boke had ever heard from the man.

  Again, Boke was silent, looking into his glass, swirling the liquid around as he processed what he heard. “And yet, someone must have survived. I was informed that the guide’s vehicle was missing from the scene, but later found outside the guide’s dormitory, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That is correct, Sir. The guide, an Edwin Sweeny, has not reported the incident.”

  Boke looked into those icy blue eyes. “Analysis?”

  There was no hesitation in the larger man’s reply. “The fugitive somehow managed to make it through the game preserve unharmed, leading the clawshrike to the hunting party, either by accident or design. In the ensuing chaos, she made off with the guide vehicle and made her way back to Valhalla City.”

  “I see,” Boke said, stepping from behind the bar. Scarab turned in place to follow his movement, still ramrod-straight, his drink still untouched in his hand.

  Boke whirled to face Scarab. The abrupt move might have startled another man, but the security chief made no show of surprise. “You are aware of the incident that took place at the White Star earlier this afternoon?”

  “I was informed of it on my way here, Sir.”

  “So you are aware that the girl that made the attempt on my life is the same one that escaped from the mine?”

  Scarab’s face was stone. “I am, Sir.”

  “I pay you and your men good money to protect me and my holdings, yet when it comes to the capture of one young girl, one intent on my assassination no less, it falls to a group of tourists to stop her.”

  “Your personal guards have been reassigned from my own hand-picked troops. The former ones are being. . .disciplined.”

  “I want more security on the mines. One more outbreak and the entire population will have to be disciplined. You and your security crew will take their places.”

  Scarab said nothing, betrayed no emotion. Boke enjoyed watching his subordinates squirm. Scarab might be the best hired gun around, but his lack of reaction to even the severest dressing down was absolutely frustrating.

  After a long, tense silence, Scarab spoke. “Am I finished here, Sir?” Still, no hint of any emotion. His voice was flat, monotone.

  Boke waved him away. Scarab placed his drink, still untouched, back on the bar. He turned in a tight spiral, striding off toward the door, when Boke thought to stop him. “One more thing,” he said, and waited for his associate to turn back to face him, only the slightest trace of curiosity crossing his features. “If I recall correctly, some years ago, before you got into this line of work, you had worked as a bounty hunter, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Then the name of the man who foiled
my assassination may be familiar to you. You see, he was part of a crew on holiday here. Forster is his name.”

  Boke was startled to find that the name did indeed have the reaction he was looking for. Though it was only a fraction of a second, he caught the look that flashed across Scarab’s stony features before he regained his composure. When he spoke, however, his monotone had lost some of its edge. “I know the name, but it must be a coincidence. Thom Forster was killed years ago.”

  “Then this would be the son, I believe. Too young to have been operating back then, but making a name for himself nowadays. Took down the Nexus Gang a few months back.”

  “I do not watch the news,” Scarab replied. “Was one of his associates an older, white haired man?”

  “Yes. The one that actually tackled my assailant.”

  “Pasker,” Scarab growled, and Boke knew that he had struck a nerve. “It is Forster’s offspring. I did not know the whelp had taken on the family business.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Thom Forster was never a friend. He and Pasker are the reason I left the bounty hunting business.”

  “Really?” Boke’s intrigue was genuine. In the months since Scarab had worked for him, this was as close to passionate as Boke had ever seen him. “You do have to tell me about that sometime.”

  Like the flip of a switch, the security chief’s glacial façade went back up. “With all respect, Mr. Boke, I do not.” Without waiting for a dismissal, he turned and walked out.

  Under other circumstances, Boke would have been infuriated with such insubordination, but this was a special case. For the first time since hiring Scarab, he had gotten his first real insight to the mercenary’s psyche.

  Boke walked back out onto the balcony, taking another sip from his drink, and watched as Scarab returned to the shuttle, lifting off less than a minute later.

  ***

  Jesse had to admit that he was impressed with the near-military efficiency of Boke’s assistant. Within an hour, she had their belongings moved out of the Imperial and into the Presidential Suite of the White Star. Minutes after that, Boke’s personal stylist had arrived, taken all their measurements, promising to have outfits ready for them in time for their dinner engagement.