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All characters in this book are fictitious. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.
©2017 J. R. Handley
The Luck of the Draw Cantina was a smoky hole filled with cheering bodies. Amidst the ruckus was Ivan Petrov, who sat with his boots lazily resting on the table in front of him. He clutched a six-sided die in one hand and a mostly empty tankard of the gambling den’s cheapest swill in the other. This place was where he felt at home.
The walls and ceilings around Ivan appeared to be little more than metal sheets tacked onto wooden frame. The entire ramshackle of a building looked like it could collapse at any second. Though, he didn’t come for the decor. What mattered to him was the money the place had invested into gaining unfettered access to live video feeds.
The bar erupted into shouts and various other odd noises as some of the patrons jumped to their feet, baptizing the sludge-covered floorboards with whatever bizarre drink was clutched in their hands. He opened his mouth to join in the cacophony when the cantina barkeep approached and pushed his boots off the table. Ivan simply held his tankard out for a refill in response.
The Cochkala, which looked like an over-sized badger, made high-pitched chittering sounds while it filled Ivan’s oversized drinking vessel. A beep came from his slate, indicating his Universal Account Access Card (UACC)—pronounced yak by humans—had been charged for the drink. He was descending more into debt by the minute.
Ivan took three gulps of the coldish brew and felt the room spin a bit. This tipsy feeling, paired with the thrill of a high-stakes bet, made him forget about what a shit life he had. Much like the two gladiators he watched on the screen, he had been through an arena of sorts. Only he had lost everything in the contest.
“Come on Gilly, kick his ass!” he shouted as he watched the melee unfold. The underdog, a metal-fisted human, knocked the champion onto his backside.
He rolled his brother’s die across the tabletop. The metal cube with hand-carved dots landed on a six. This was a good sign, and Ivan jumped to his feet.
Every eye in the room had turned to the fight, as if mesmerized by the chance that the champion might be unseated. It appeared that a conclusion was at hand. The two contestants, battered and bruised, had regained their footing and continued pummeling each other.
Ivan needed the underdog to win. He didn’t technically have the credits he had wagered on the bout. The pale-skinned bounty hunter was so engrossed in the thrill of the fight that he missed the angry bookie approaching him.
“Time to pay up!” said Crovax as he pushed Ivan from behind.
He felt his chest and face hit the table. The force of the wooden faceplant caused his brother’s die to jump on the tabletop, roll, and land on one. His free hand was able to scoop up the precious memento just in time for two henchmen to drag him out of the building into the alley behind.
The two meatheads Crovax employed as security chucked Ivan onto the ground the moment they all cleared the swinging back door. A kick to the ribs flipped him onto his back. He struggled to breathe, but the dust made it hard. Ivan could see the two hired hands were both carrying illegal, merc-grade weapons. One of them had already unholstered a pistol and aimed it at Ivan’s chest.
“You all don’t want to kill an employee of the Peacekeeper Guild, right?” said Ivan as he raised both of his hands in front of his face defensively.
Crovax hissed between his pointy teeth and crossed his fur-covered arms in front of his chest. It was hard for Ivan to focus on the creature towering above him while the pinpricks of light danced in his vision. The pistol trained on his chest was distracting, too.
“Bounty hunters are not Peacekeepers,” said Crovax. “You are the toys they employ to do work for them. Now, where are my credits? I want what I’m owed, or else…”
The pause was followed by the weasel squatting next to him. The slave collar the bookie wore became more visible as the Zuparti’s beady, blood-red eyes narrowed at Ivan. The being’s appearance wasn’t nearly as frightening as the six-inch stiletto he produced and placed on Ivan’s cheek.
“I promise, I’m good for it,” said Ivan. He didn’t dare move as the knife would sink into his flesh, possibly even gouge an eye. He felt his pistol being pulled from his holster by one of the goons.
“I want my credits.” The universal translator Ivan wore struggled to keep up with the angry weasel. “I want them now, or I slice you up and sell you for parts.”
“I’ve got them. I think I just won big on the Gilly fight. It’ll pay you back, with interest!”
Squinting, Crovax used his free hand to pull out his slate. He glanced at the screen and laughed.
“You idiot, when you want to hedge your bets and put credits on both sides, you have to account for the odds. Plus, my master owns the other house you put credits down at. One last time, where are my credits?”
“There’s a couple contracts waiting for me at the be-hop.” He was referring to the Bounty Hunter Orbital Platform. “I can earn the credits I owe, and interest, if you just let me do my job.”
It was a lie, and the look on the weasel’s face told Ivan it hadn’t worked.
“You are barely a bounty hunter.” The weasel pushed his blade into Ivan’s cheek, breaking skin. “If anything, you are a glorified prisoner guard for the real hunters. The point—” Crovax stopped to lick the blood from the blade, “—is that there isn’t a job an unranked, useless, hunter like you could take to break even.”
Crovax paused in thought, stood, then nodded to his two flunkies. The knuckle dragger who had a gun trained on Ivan holstered.
“You made the right choice, Crovax,” said Ivan, pushing out a breath of relief.
“Having you beaten to death? I agree, it was the right choice.”
Ivan went for the pistol holstered on his leg, but only found air. His other hand, the one still grasping his brother’s die, defensively covered his face as the two henchmen kicked the shit out of him. Rolling onto his knees and attempting to crawl, he shouted for help.
Four hands grabbed his back, and for a moment he was airborne. His body came to a crashing halt against the back wall of the cantina. The flimsy metal surface didn’t hurt, but the beam it was nailed to did. The force of the blow caused his slate to fly out from beneath the duster he wore. The poor device was already dated and barely functioning; just like Ivan. To his surprise, the speakers still managed to sputter out a message.
“Ivan Petrov, badge ID number eight-seven-zero-five, congratulations on your advancement to apprentice,” the smooth, female robotic voice droned. “You have been selected for a Tier-4 contract. Meet with the bounty hunter that selected you at the Bounty Hunter Orbital Platform, immediately.”
The message continued to repeat as Crovax lifted his hand, stopping his goons from resuming their assault. Ivan showed his appreciation by puking the contents of his stomach onto the dust and sand-covered ground.
“Nice try,” said Crovax. “You record that yourself?”
Groaning, Ivan used a sleeve to wipe away some of the vomit that was clinging to his unkempt beard. He didn’t have a clue what the hell the message was about, or why he’d been inexplicably advanced to apprentice. He’d been an un-tiered bounty hunter for a long time, by choice.
“That’s an official be-hop communique, just look at the transmission codes. If you kill me, the Tier-4 bounty hunter that selected me for this mission is going to come sniffing around. Let me do my job, and you will get your credits, with interest.”
Crovax’s long whiskers twitched. The weasel whispered something to one of his goons. Before Ivan could react, a small, needle-tipped dagger pierced his shoulder. He yelped in pain as the blade was withdrawn, then he was lifted to his feet. Soft fur tickled his cheek as the little beast whispered into his ear.
“You owe me and my boss, so I’ll let you go collect this bounty. I’m adding another twenty percent interest to your balance. You try to disappear, we’ll find you.”
The moment Crovax stopped speaking, the hands supporting Ivan were gone and he fell to his knees. His pistol landed in front of him, now covered in grit, and he looked up to watch the trio head back into the bar. After the door closed, he slumped back to his butt.
Why the fuck have I been selected for a Tier-4 bounty? he thought while he inspected the tiny, bleeding hole in his shoulder. He knew there was only one way to figure out what the hell was going on and dig himself out of this hole: he’d have to pretend to be a real bounty hunter for a change.
Bounty Hunter Orbital Platform, near Planet Saxet
The be-hop was coming into view as Ivan slumped in the passenger compartment of the taxi shuttle. He had gone home to clean up, but water was pay-to-use on Saxet. He had managed to change clothes, oil his weapon, and wipe himself off with some liquor-dampened rags. Everything that mattered to him was stuffed into a duffel he slung over his shoulder.
He had decided against shaving the unruly beard and shoulder-length black hair that had run rampant on his head. The jet-black swell of hair served as a mask. Fully shaved and groomed, he would look exactly like his dead twin, Viktor. He didn’t want to see the ghost of his best friend in the mirror. That would defeat the purpose of his self-imposed isolation on Saxet.
The shuttle lurched, and reminded Ivan of his earlier beatdown. He tried to silence the pain by focusing on the be-hop. He’d only been there once when he received his badge.
The extent of his dealings as a bounty hunter were largely digital. Jobs came to him through his slate. Sure, he dumped prisoners at the docks of the be-hop, but only legitimate hunters went inside the structure. They would use the resources within to plan missions and securely catalogue evidence for the Peacemakers. To Ivan, those things sounded a lot like work and responsibility, two things the past had proven he should avoid.
Ivan picked dirt out from under his fingernails while he looked out the window. The orbital platform had the basic shape of a sideways cylinder, surrounded by a series of rotating rings. There were docking ports and struts for the thrusters that kept the platform solidly in a LaGrange Point. He knew other species referred to these locations by different names, but they could go to hell. Ivan was a human with roots back to Mother Earth, even if he’d been languishing on Saxet for the last several years.