“The existence of a surviving child of the warlord, if in fact true, looms as a grave threat to continued galactic peace. Our first responsibility must be to eliminate such a menace.”
—Prime-Admiral Kemp Zaafran, Commander-in-Chief of the Triad Alliance
“WHAT A HELLS HOLE.” Keir Vantos didn’t find himself staring very often. He’d seen too much in his twenty-eight cycles for much of anything to surprise, horrify, or intrigue him. But this, he had to say, was stare-worthy.
Horde, Drakken Horde, everywhere. For a thousand years his people, the Coalition, had warred with the Drakken Horde. Now here were hundreds of them, displaced, confused and even frightened, milling about in a hastily set-up refugee camp. There were similar camps all over the Borderlands, the disputed space between the worlds of the Horde and the Coalition.
Not disputed any longer, he thought, twirling a nanopick between his lips as he lounged in the shade of Borrowed Time’s wing. He could escape the sun, but not the odors of too many bodies, strange perfumes and other scents that defied description, not that he cared to try. How the hells were they going to blend into Coalition society, or civilized life period, the grand plan of the overly optimistic reunification politicos? Tattoos covered the men as well as the women. They wore jewelry in places any sane human wouldn’t dream of piercing. And their hair—name it, he saw it. Blending Drakken into mainstream society would be like mixing oil and water.
That was the reunification panel’s problem. One man’s headache was another man’s profit, Keir always said. The past few months he’d carved out quite a nice little niche supplying the ships that supplied the camps. But why be the middle man when he could bring in cargo directly? Now he was a direct supplier. He might have to work a little harder, but it was worth it for entertainment value alone, being able to sightsee in the camps.
The odors of unwashed bodies and fear drifted in the weak breeze. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled as if the Triad would need more cleansing supplies, and soon. He took out his datapad and typed in the information.
Keir Vantos, provider of shower soap and scum swipers, he thought. Gods. The very idea sucked the last vestiges of his good mood away—not that hauling toilets across the light years had done much for his spirits or his pride lately anyway. He needed a shower and a nap. Hells, he needed a lot of things he wasn’t going to be able to do much about right now, like a real bed and maybe even a woman who wouldn’t mind joining him there for a few hours’ playtime. His lips curved. Maybe if this gig of supply running to the camps worked out, he’d be able to swing a little R and R next month. Tropics, playful ladies, tall drinks. He couldn’t remember the last time he took a vacation. The reason used to be that the money he was making was too good to pass up. Now it was because the money he was making wasn’t enough.
He went back to supervising the unloading of his ship. He’d been at it all morning, and the workers weren’t done unloading yet, ensuring a paycheck at the end of the day. No, it wasn’t the kind of money he used to make running the blockade. Then again, no one was shooting at him, either. Least of all Drakken. They were crammed into these camps now, awaiting transition into mainstream Coalition life, whatever the hell that was. Good luck to them. Keir hadn’t yet found anything close to mainstream that suited him—and he doubted he ever would. Mainstream, domestic contentment, mom, pop and kids—it was tied too closely with every bad memory he had.
Dust tickled his nose and made him sneeze. When were they going to get the roads around here paved? Maybe he ought to suggest hauling in asphalt. Every refugee’s boot hitting the dirt churned up fine dust. It burned his nose and eyes. The blistering heat only doubled the pleasure, he thought with sarcasm, swiping a hand across his face. Add a cold drink to his list that began with a nap and ended with getting laid. Except it looked like an icy beverage was as elusive as everything else he’d like. If there was a bar in this hell hole, it sure ain’t anywhere where he could see.
“Well, well, look at this. The former blockade runner is now a chem-toilet runner.”
Keir swung a dark stare in the direction of laughter. Two ensigns stood, chuckling at the chem-toilets being carried off his ship. Mardem and Zarren had been fighter pilots assigned to the last outpost he’d served before the war ended. They’d toasted cheating death many times in the bar there. It had been months since he’d last seen them. Seemed like an eternity.
He jumped down from the gangway. “Hell, yeah, I’m running chem-toilets. Guns or butt-catchers—what difference does it make? It’s all good money.” That last part was a partial lie, but no need to come clean about it, not with those grins on their faces. There was money in supplying the camps, but it wasn’t good. Peace had changed everything. He now had to worry about making a living when before he’d turn down offers. He peered at the docks and the long rows of cargo craft. In and out they’d roared all day. “I don’t see any fighters. Just cargo-freighters docked from here to tomorrow. Don’t tell me you’re trash-hauling, too?”
The pilots swore, looking sheepish. “Not much action these days,” Mardem admitted. “People are being RIFed left and right. It’s the biggest reduction in force in history. We’re lucky we’re still in the service let alone bitching about what we get to fly.”
“I told you rocket-jockeys about the benefits of being civilian. You wouldn’t listen.”
Mardem shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how to be civilian. I never expected I ever would be civilian. I wanted to be a fighter pilot all my life. I don’t want to do anything else. Who dreamed this damn war would end—” he snapped his fingers “—like that, overnight, with no warning? Blast it all, Vantos. I’m not done killing Drakken.”
Keir’s parents weren’t either when the Drakken killed them. No one was ever done killing. That’s why the war went on for over a thousand years. That’s why he’d pulled out of it. He’d quit. Not because he was a coward. Because if anyone ever put a weapon in his hands and dropped him in front of a Drakken, he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t like being spring-loaded to kill. Innocents got killed that way.
Keir pulled a fresh nanopick out of his pocket. “Look, when the time comes, and it will, and you get booted out of the service on your ass, come talk to me. I’ll give you rocket-jocks civvie lessons. Set you up in the business.”
“And we can be chem-toilet haulers like you.”
Smirking, Keir swore. “What’s taking up space in your cargo hold, rock-jock? Troops? Plasma bombs?”
Mardem cleared his throat. “Dehydrated vegetables.”
Keir cracked up. The ensigns joined him after a moment or two of feeling sorry for themselves.
They glanced back at the Drakken flowing by, an unending influx arriving from worlds beyond. Zarren shook his head. “At least a third of them are suffering from diseases we eradicated generations ago. The average citizen hasn’t a single nanomed in their blood.”
“Hells, even pets have nanomeds,” Keir said.
“You can’t help but think of them as animals. They treated each other worse than they treated us. The warlord made sure he and his imperial officers were protected by nanos. Screw the rest of the population.”
Keir pulled the pic from between his lips. “Seems they already did. Is this a surprise to anyone?”
“Broken limbs, colds…” Zarren took an accounting of the refugees as they trudged past. “Tumors…scars…”
Those things humanized them. Turned the enemy into people.
Vantos, is this you talking? These refugees’ compatriots had tried to shorten his lifespan so many times over the past dozen years that he wondered if he’d ever be able to live and work with Drakken like they were regular people. Now he was thinking they were. Underdogs, even. The Drakken race was tied to every bad thing that had ever happened in his life. It wasn’t something a man shook off overnight.
“Listen up, Vantos,” Mardem said. “We had a secret briefing today—need to know only. You need to know.”
“No, I don’t.” Military secrets came with too many obligations.
“Yes, you do, buddy. Vantos, for years you’ve given us pilots inside information from your runs. You helped us, and we never gave you nothing in return.”
“Didn’t need to. It evened out in the bar.”
“No way in hells. And you know it. We relied on you more than our intel people on where the Drakken were hiding. You single-handedly cut the rate of ambush in half. So here’s something in return.” Again he cast his gaze around as if nervous someone was listening. “We had a briefing today. Top secret. But you’re one of us.” The ensign glanced at his friend and lowered his voice. “The boss says to keep an eye out for the warlord’s kid.”
“The son was killed.”
“He has another. A daughter.”
Keir choked. “Gods, are you serious?”
“Headquarters wants her. Bad.”
“I’ll bet.” Who wouldn’t want the ultimate war prize: a piece of the old man? The queen and her consort killed him in self-defense. That pretty much stole the ultimate satisfaction from the Coalition high command. “It was his daughter. Look at who the guy employed. I’d have kept her hidden, too. I’m surprised we haven’t found out where by now.”
“The palace records are a flargin’ mess, in code and disorganized. But they’re working on it.”
“By the time they crack the code, she’ll be long gone,” Keir said.
“She is. That’s why they’re going to offer a bounty to anyone who can bring her in. If anyone can, it’s you.”
“A bounty, you say.” Keir tried not to look too eager. Anything that combined an adrenaline rush with profit got his full attention. “How much?”
“Fifty million queen’s credits.”
“Fifty?” Keir wheezed. “Fifty million? Hoo, baby.”
“They’re announcing it soon—tomorrow or the next day—but I’m telling you now. Off the record, Vantos. You’d better not say anything to anyone.”
“Say something? Are you blasted kidding? Competition’s something I don’t need.”
“That’s why we want to give you a head start,” Mardem said. “For old times’ sake.”
He had a blasted run to make, a roundtrip to the depot and back. He needed the money and couldn’t get out of it. But he’d be back. “Give me something more, Mardem. How about a physical description?”
“No one’s got any pictures, but they showed us a composite based on the parents. Over ninety percent probability it’s what she looks like. Gorgeous, tall, blond. Hazel eyes, or green. A real bombshell.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely keep an eye out for her. She’s going to make me a rich man. I’m half in love already.”
Mardem snorted. Then he took a call on his PCD. “They want us back in the hangar. See you around, you crazy runner.” Mardem bid him farewell with a salute and walked away with Zarren.
Keir called after them. “You rocket jockeys take care of those vegetables!”
Zarren flipped him off. Chuckling, Keir walked back toward his ship. Fifty-million queens! With that kind of money in his pocket, he’d be able to quit this damn gig and head out to points unknown, maybe start his own transport company—high-risk stuff, that sort of thing.
If the warlord’s daughter was still alive. If the Triad didn’t get to her first, the believers would. They had scores to settle.
And Keir had a living to make.
If they’d resorted to a reward for the warlord’s daughter’s capture it meant the high command had exhausted all leads. Why? He racked his brain, trying to look at the puzzle from all angles. Maybe the warlord’s daughter wasn’t statuesque or even blond. Maybe she’d lived a low-key life under an assumed identity. Maybe, just maybe, she was nothing like what anyone thought and that was why no one had found her yet.
The thrill of discovery shot through him. You’re on to something, Vantos. Screw toilet patrol. The minute he got back to Zorabeta, he was going hunting. It may not be as exciting as running the blockade, but fifty-flargin-million queens were his if he was right about this, and he was getting the feeling he was. The entire galaxy was headed down the wrong path. But not him. No, not Keir Vantos, runner extraordinaire. If anyone could see alternative ways in—and out—it was he. Let everyone else look for a bombshell. He’d search for the girl no one suspected.