DEADLY REFUGE (The Alorian Wars Book 2) Read online

  "All right. I'll be along shortly," she replied as she pulled her coveralls back on after wiping sweat from the bare parts of her body. The sweat was a sign the suit was environmentally sealed, otherwise painful burns from her flesh freezing would be evident, but it also meant that over time it would start to smell. No need to clean it yet, I'm sure there will be another emergency somewhere between a hot meal and a full night's sleep, she thought as she hung it next to the airlock. Thankfully, Pilot was good about alerting them to any potential hazards when it came to hull integrity. If an emergency did arise, she would more than likely have time to act before it reached a point of no return.

  She left her EVA suit dangling haphazardly next to the airlock and began walking towards the rest of the crew. The galley was one deck up and mid-ship, just a short walk from the airlock. When she arrived, Anki noticed Brendle standing next to the table while Deis and Malikea sat, waiting for her return. The galley was eerily quiet, which was unusual, considering how much Malikea liked to talk, almost incessantly. Anki kissed Brendle before taking a seat, the growing curiosity causing her to wonder if she was about to have to climb back into her EVA suit yet again.

  "What's going on?" she asked, searching for a clue on the faces of the rest of the crew.

  "We have a bit of a problem," Deis said, folding his arms onto the table and leaning forward. "We are running low on supplies and need to land."

  Anki nodded, "So what's the problem?"

  Brendle eased into the seat next to her. "The problem is that the closest world where we can restock our supplies is in Greshian territory. Deis thinks we might run into problems if the Replicade's transponder code has been populated into other sectors. If we show up as a potential hostile, then we run the risk of running into another ship like the Telran."

  No one wanted that to happen.

  "What are our options?" Anki asked.

  Malikea spoke next, "There is a world in Greshian territory that is relatively neutral. It's called Farax, but as I was telling Brendle, neutral doesn't mean it is very kind."

  "Kind to whom?" Anki asked. She felt her heart begin to beat a little faster. Her mind was already putting the pieces together. Surviving from a world recently annihilated by the Greshian Empire would be something that made her stand out. It was the kind of thing Deis and Malikea had spent months trying to avoid before they saved her and Brendle months prior.

  "He means they aren't kind towards Greshians," Brendle said, releasing a tense exhale he seemed to have been keeping to himself for a while. "Farax is only neutral because it has value to Greshia while also being an outlying territory popular to privateers running less-than-legal shipments through a series of keys in that part of the sector. It might be Greshian owned, but it is far from operated by the empire."

  Anki took in a deep breath. She couldn't imagine there being a world defiant against Greshians so close to the empire and yet allowed to continue to exist. There must be something important there, she thought. "In what way is Farax valuable to the empire?"

  Deis smiled, "It has the richest mineral deposits in the sector. Farax is worthless, but what is beneath Farax makes it one of the most valuable planets for a military complex as advanced as Greshia. Some of those minerals are instrumental to building their engine drives as well as keeping the keys open. If they lose Farax, their hold on the Alorian Galaxy will eventually weaken."

  "I don't see why they would be hostile to Greshians if they are valued so much," Anki said.

  Brendle cleared his throat. "The world is valuable, not the inhabitants," he said. "Farax originally served as a prison world for war criminals. This was before the keys played a role in traversing the galaxy. Instead of destroying those worlds they conquered, Greshia stood up new governments and exiled the previous rulers to Farax. As you can imagine, as the generations passed, the contempt for the growing empire grew."

  "Well, that makes sense," she replied, brushing a tuft of hair behind her ear. "So what kind of persecution do Greshians receive there?"

  Brendle looked up at Deis who nodded. "Apparently, the flavor of the day for Greshians on Farax is death."

  Chapter 3: Crase

  The blood hadn't finished pooling on the floor of the bar before Crase stepped out into the Farax sunlight. He squinted, coming into the light from the dark bar as the dead woman lay leaking against the now soggy floor. The cleanup crew would be called soon enough and the body discarded as easily as the daily trash. She should have known better than to come here to confront me, he thought, remembering the look in her eyes as the gaping wound in her neck opened before him, spilling her life, gurgling blood bubbling and frothing as she struggled to keep it in her body. It was futile, the cut clean and mortal. He knew she would wind up ushering in some kind of search party when she missed enough rendezvous with her chain of command, but he would be long gone by then.

  The nearby sun was already setting behind the horizon, bringing with it the swift chilling of the air tickling the bare skin on the back of his neck. The short daytime, and even shorter nighttime, put Farax in a vicious cycle of continuously screwing with a person's internal clock for those who had grown up on larger worlds' time cycles. Even the locals struggled to cope with the irregularities of daytime activities while coordinating with otherworld industries. Farax was its own world, failing to adhere to the design of normalcy; its purpose was something harsher, depending on who you asked. It was useful because it was held in such condemnation. Farax was where the shadows met the darkness and all was good when your business relied on the cavernous depths of the indelible night.

  Crase had grown accustomed to Farax and all she had to offer. Having spent much of his time hiding out in the badlands of this inhospitable world, he learned not to trust those who had only their own skin in mind. The world, the galaxy, was full of the kinds of people who would turn on their own in order to stand out. It was a harsh lesson to learn early in life, but it paid dividends for his future. The badlands was where he took his first life, and with it leveraged a place for him to influence change within the criminal underworld billowing forth on the rocky planet and out into the dark and beyond. Despite a challenging childhood, he had a lot to show for the sacrifices and hardships he had endured, even the skills he had honed lacking the need for death’s decay could be used as influence. A skill such as manipulation, the verbal leveraging of a weaker mind to conform to his own desires, that was the most profitable tool in his trade currently. The problem was that often the usefulness for those weaker minds dwindled to nothing and he was left to sever his ties and move on, recruiting the next in line for his bidding. Luckily, the current help hadn’t lost the imprint of his touch yet and, as much as Crase hated to admit it, the man was growing on him.

  He retrieved the com-unit from his pocket, dialed a single digit using the touchscreen, and brought it to his ear. On the other end was an associate, one whom Crase did not trust, yet one he found himself getting rich from. A normal person would shudder at the thoughts of what Belwa intended to do with the smuggled refugees he’d ordered Crase to obtain, but Crase was far beyond giving it any thought. His long career meant he had disassociated himself from the evils of his work. Instead, he focused on the money and power that financial independence gave a man such as himself; not to mention the loyalty it could afford when he needed it.

  None of the contacts on his com-unit were labeled. Even the method for reaching out to them was untraceable, going through a series of one-time-use transmitters to make the connection. It was all part of the way he committed his business to memory; and his use of unknown, stolen technologies that protected even his harshest investors. There was only one rule when it came to the trafficking trade: protect the money. It was the only rule Crase abided by, because the truth was, there was no such thing as honor among thieves, only a hearty dose of bloodshed.

  His eyes witnessed that fact countless times before his blade found the throat of his first victim. Bearing witness to death softened him to the
ideology of taking a life; he saw the purpose, the reward. The means of provoking the loss of life came out of necessity and not design, but it set in stone a hardened future for the young smuggler turned murderer. It was with steel he claimed that first life. And it soon became his favorite way to enact such transactions. It was personal without needing to be. It was his signature, even if it wasn't his hand in play. He never explored the origins of his practice. There were too many demons in that closet.

  A husky voice answered the call after several moments. Crase knew not to take it personally. Every data transfer was monitored by the receiver. The stupid ones in this business were the ones who got caught. His reputation preceded him because he had never been caught; even at the worst of times he faded into the dark, untraceable and undetected. Regardless of how much heat was raining down on his business, there was always another trick up his sleeve. He might not always cash in on a profit, or maintain a stolen ship, but at least he was free to take the next contract. That had to count for something, he thought.

  "My suspicions were correct. She was a mole for the Greshians. I still have the shipment, but it's a lot hotter now, which means I want more for it," Crase said as he picked at his teeth, waiting for the colorful response he knew a demand such as his would illicit. Belwa had a reputation as the kind of man to not cross. Crase thought it was fitting that he had the same reputation in the many circles he’d found himself in over the years.

  On the other end of the call, Belwa yelled, the rage thick enough Crase could almost smell it, but smart money was to take Crase's new offer, regardless of how much he would ask. Crase planned on ensuring Belwa would succumb to his desires like all of his investors eventually did. You don’t run a successful business by giving into your competition or allowing an investor to take advantage of you.

  "Triple it," Crase said, meeting the investor's snark with his own. The other man might have had the money to get away with murder, but Crase had the body count to show how it was done. Murder was just another means to an end, a disassociation from societal influence in order to reap financial gain. Belwa would find that truth to be a dire inconvenience if he didn’t comply with Crase’s demands. That was a sure bet if there ever was.

  Crase's ability to compartmentalize it in such a way probably said more about how disconnected he was from empathy than anything else. Perhaps that's why my methods are so effective, he thought, Life means nothing to me. His sneer grew wider with the revelation.

  The voice on the other line grew quiet, but the investor's breathing was heavy. Crase knew exactly how the other man would cave to his demands. Without giving the man the opportunity to concede, Crase said, "I expect full payment before first light. Send your men to my ship to collect the cargo."

  Crase closed the connection, not waiting for a response. He didn't need the response to know the investor would pay whatever Crase demanded. He also knew he didn't need the money, at least not in the way most people needed it. What he needed was a way off world and a few months to recollect himself. The constant droning of running an underground business was taking its toll on the aging man. He wondered how much longer the ghost of who he was would continue to haunt his business. They said piracy was dead, but the heart still beat in his chest. No need to give up the ghost just yet.

  Dust was settling from a heavy wind when Neular stepped out of the bar. Crase turned to look at his assistant, squinting his eyes as the wind pelted his face with grit from the coming storm. Farax was unpleasant at the best of times, but this time of year Crase hated it; the weather was never constant, much like his life. Still, the weather demanded his respect. If too much dirt and dust kicked up in the torrent of wind, then it could make taking off unnecessarily dangerous. Not only did the heavy wind wreak havoc on the flight controls, but the dust threatened to stall small thrusters. All it would take would be a loss of lift, and his heavy ship would come crashing to the ground. Death wasn't something he was interested in experiencing, despite the fact he stared at the possibility of being killed with every shipment he made. Maybe it was cockiness that made him continue with the line of work he had chosen. It wasn't stupidity, he thought as he walked out amongst the foot traffic of the tiny town. Nuelar followed quietly behind him.

  The two men turned left at the end of the street, away from the prying eyes of the bustling populace. At the end of the dirt path was a transport, hidden in plain sight, obscured by stolen technology Crase routinely used to escape and evade. The two-person craft was instrumental in his success. The larger ships used by others in the pirate trade made them more detectable, more prone to boarding parties. Not the tiny transport he and Neular boarded now.

  “The investor will send his men for the shipment before daybreak. I need you to keep an ear to the ground and let me know if you suspect anything. I have my suspicions that Belwa was behind the mole,” Crase said as he rummaged through a dark, leather bag.

  Neular nodded his head in affirmation, gripped his employer’s wrist for Crase’s attention, and spoke in the muffled speech of a tongue-less man. “I aghee,” he said, his mouth unable to form the word “agree”.

  Crase nodded before returning his attention to the bag. He stood straight, his head not far from the ceiling of the transport, and handed Neular an energy weapon. “If you run into trouble, shoot your way out and get back here. We’ll blow the shipment if things go south. Otherwise, here’s hoping my paranoia isn’t grounded in reality.” He meant the words to be a joke, but Neular only nodded as his dark gray hand gripped the handle of the weapon.

  Crase watched as the only man he ever truly trusted left the tiny transport and headed for the main ship they used for business. The Lament was only the latest name added to the list aliases his ship was known by. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he remembered the vessel’s true name, but remembering such things was a haunting endeavor. His mind drifted towards the refugees he’d captured five days prior, what their future under Belwa’s control might look like. It was a dark thought, but it evaporated as quickly as it formed. With thoughts of the shipment, and the soon-to-die people on board, his mind drifted to the fortune that shipment was worth to his investor. And then he thought of how sweet vengeance would taste if he killed everyone onboard if Belwa did turn on him. That thought darkly turned to one of hopefulness.

  Chapter Four: Anki

  Anki adjusted the sleeves of her coveralls as Brendle stepped onto the bridge. The cool rush of air circulating from the vents did little to mitigate the nervous sweat forming on her brow. She dabbed it away, frustrated at how poorly she felt the intense course in piloting the Replicade was going. When it came to flying, she made a better passenger, but everyone’s expectations were gnawing at her hungrily. She knew what they wanted, but she also knew she wasn’t confident that she could deliver. It was a lot to learn over an intensely short period of time. Of course, the guys aren’t listening to my side of the story, she thought as she fought the irritation growing in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t irritation as much as it was nerves mingling with fear, she knew, but it was best to keep the higher ground when dealing with those kinds of emotions. Otherwise I might give in to them.

  "What are we doing here?" She asked as Brendle drew closer. She could feel his warmth radiating onto her, even though he wasn’t quite touching her. She liked the proximity at any other time, but her stress was building and the beginnings of claustrophobia threatened to take root. She swallowed it down and took a deep breath.

  "I don't know," Brendle replied. She could see him smiling at her through the reflection in the monitors in front of her. It was another mischievous smile, but the playful one she liked, not the one he used when they sparred and he wanted to make her think he was going for her legs when he intended to try and pin her arm behind her instead. If she was honest, she liked both. Besides, she didn’t have the heart to tell him she could read his face and tell when he was trying to mislead her. That would take all of the fun out of it for me.

  Anki stood
on the bridge of the Replicade, staring at the screens and marveling at the technology. She’d never flown in this class of ship before and her heart thudded in her chest nervously, despite the fact her boyfriend stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, reassuring her with his company. She was a little slow at learning the spacecraft. Most Luthian ships were not this advanced technologically and the drive system made the maneuverability something far more agile than any ship she had flown before, but mostly she struggled with the idea of pretending to captain the vessel as they made their way to an inhospitable world. But it is nice to know I’m not alone, she thought as Brendle held her close.

  "I don't know if I can do this," Anki said, for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes. She had urged him to reconsider in the bedroom; that she did not want to mess up the mission and land amidst hostilities. Even if her vernacular was correct, she had seen enough mishaps on Luthia to know how far south a flawed mission could go. Flying in the dark was easy; there was enough space to not hit anything, but landing on a rocky planet and sounding like you knew what you were doing was something else entirely. She had seen how the Replicade responded in lower atmosphere. It bucked under the lightest touch and that had been under Brendle’s more skillful hand. She could just imagine the fiery destruction of the warship as it plummeted uncontrollably into some inhabited town. Deis said Farax was nothing but badlands, but she wasn’t so sure. With all the stories she heard, Anki was certain there was more to Farax than what they wanted her to believe. Even the topographical map of the area showed more than just badlands, at least that which was visible through the gaseous atmosphere.