Kestrel Run (Galaxy's End Universe, Band 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1
How Low Can You Go?

Phaser Madsen adjusted the blaster so that it hung a little lower from his hip.
“What are you doing?” Bash asked.
“Just making sure I’m ready,” Phaser said.
“If you put that thing any lower, I’m going to buy you a boot holster for it.”
“What are you talking about? It’s perfect. See?” Phaser drew the weapon and had it ready to fire in a flash, though he had to admit he had to lean a little to get his fingers around the grip. Still, he couldn’t deny how great it looked strapped against his thigh as he admired himself in the pneumatic pan-directional transit pod’s shiny metal door.
“Put that thing away before you blow your toe off,” Bash growled, his long ears twitching with amusement.
Phaser heeded the advice. The Azinsian-built Class-Q blaster wasn’t the most powerful in the galaxy, but it was more than capable of removing a digit or two. It also had a notoriously light trigger, which made the accident a real possibility.
After a moment with only the hum of the pod between them, Bash asked, “You’re really not going to take the job?”
“We’ve been over this,” Phaser said, pulling the holster just a tiny bit up so he could reach the blaster easier.
“We don’t even know what he wants yet. It could be a really good run for us,” Bash said.
Phaser shrugged. “Knowing Gorm, it’s probably something that ends with us dining on prison food and bunking with a big cellmate who doesn’t like sharing.”
Bash’s furry face twitched with irritation, but he didn’t say anything.
“This is just a courtesy call,” Phaser added. “We’ll listen to what he has to say, politely decline, and get out of there as quick as we can.”
The pod glided to a stop and the door hissed open. They stepped off the transport and onto Outpost 5G9—the height of underworld havens. The tiny, rocky planet on which 5G9 sat had been originally scouted by the Cooperative nearly four decades ago. Their intent was to build a new training base, but like many Cooperative projects, 5G9 was forgotten about. That left the door open for others to step in and claim it.
Torgorn, an old guard crime lord, had begun construction on the planet almost as soon as he found it unclaimed in the Cooperative’s database. He had even registered it as an official waypoint in space travel with the Cooperative, who designated it 5G9. Of course, the outpost was just a front for his many smuggling endeavors. As his crime empire grew, Torgorn formed alliances with other crime lords. They had moved to 5G9 and it became the underbelly of the galaxy right under the Cooperative’s nose.
Unlike the docking bay, which smelled of burnt electronics, grease, and body odor, the interior reeked of ill-gotten gains. Everything was top of the line—luxury sleeping quarters, a massive cantina, and access to every vice imaginable.
Phaser pointed towards a bar that overlooked the colosseum of holograms around the amphitheater of private tables. “That’s where Gorm said he’d be waiting.”
“The Cantina of Clapping Corpses?” Bash read off the blinding sign hanging from the building. “Classy.”
“Don’t let the morbid name fool you, Bash. There’s more credits in there than we could make in two lifetimes.” Phaser fidgeted with his side holster again.
Bash raised an eyebrow. “Getting nervous, eh?”
“I think you’d better hang back. Just in case things go to hell in a handbasket and we need a quick way out. Think you can manage?”
Bash smirked and nodded. “What’s the matter? Scared your personality won’t be enough to charm the pants off old Gorm?”
Phaser rolled his eyes as they made their way past two bouncers posted outside the bar. One of them glanced at Phaser’s sidearm, but ignored it. Phaser frowned at the dismissal of his sidearm and pushed open the thick metal door for Bash.
Phaser made his way to the bar, while Bash cut a beeline for a rowdy game of Centauri Hold’em going on in a back corner of the establishment. He was never at a loss for company in establishments such as this. Most had never encountered a creature like Bash, one intelligent enough to play cards. Of course, Bash enjoyed the game a little too much, but Phaser knew he didn’t have to worry. The Metatherian would keep an ear up for trouble.
The cantina was full of the usual assortment of degenerates and criminals, from crime lords looking for their next deal to the lowly miscreant trying to make a few credits. Phaser did what any smart man would do. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact. He had a job to attend to and didn’t need any outside interference. Halfway to the bar, he caught a motion of color out of the corner of his eye. Phaser paused and glanced to the right, quickly scanning the crowd.
Frowning, he dropped his eyes again and continued toward the bar. It must have been his imagination. Still, he couldn’t shake the creepy crawlies that had slithered up his spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Phaser reached the bar and slid in between conjoined twins and a big man who had his temporal lobes pierced. The modifications were said to help stabilize creative thought. The only effect Phaser thought it had was making the person unable to form coherent sentences. He tapped the counter to get the female bartender’s attention. When she turned, Phaser was met with striking, glow-in-the-dark purple irises. She had matching lightning bolt tattoos under both her eyes. He’d seen a pattern like that before, but where?
He glanced at his reflection in the surface of the counter and checked his breath in his palm. He shrugged off his earlier creeped out feeling and pictured himself as John Wayne meeting Angie Dickinson in Rio Bravo.
He muttered to himself, “Here goes,” and turned back towards the woman. “Hey, beautiful eyes, I’ll take a pint of Gatling Grog.”
The big man with pierced lobes cracked his knuckles and took a step closer to Phaser so that his hairy navel actually lapped up onto the bar and touched Phaser’s hand. “Back off,” he growled through his many chins. “That’s my wife.”
Phaser removed his hand from under the man’s sweaty navel and stepped backward slowly, surprised he understood what the man said. He glanced at the piercings. Were they real? “Just making conversation, buddy.”
“You think you’re funny, huh? I’m not your bud-duh-dy.”
The stutter made Phaser glance at the piercings again. Maybe they were real.
The man grabbed Phaser by the collar with a meaty hand and pulled him right up on his belly. “What are you looking at? You like the work I’ve had done?” He pointed up at the holes in his head with a curved dagger. Beads of electricity sparked up and down the blade.
Even though the bouncer had shown no concern for Phaser’s blaster, he knew pulling it would be a huge mistake. In that kind of crowd, nobody would blink an eye at a blade. Blasters, however, tended to produce more blasters. Instead, he inched his hand towards the man’s drink sitting on the bar.
The fat man continued. “I’d be happy to help you out if you’d like some holes similar to mine. After all, I did ‘em muh-muh-myself.”
Phaser feigned a thoughtful expression and took a sip from the man’s drink. “Hmm, very tempting. Very, very tempting....