Death King

by Danielle L. Parker

Chapter 7

Jim Blunt, Captain of the starship Pig’s Eye, earns a living the hard way at the raw edge of human space. Caught between Earth’s long arm and the unwelcome attentions of humanity’s alien rivals, the Asp, the captain sometimes finds himself in more trouble than even an outlaw trader can handle.

Abel Verity’s old leather chair creaked as he leaned back and prodded the balky lump in the bowl of his pipe with yellow-tipped fingers. Blunt shifted his posterior on the worn springs of his own chair. The particularly sharp spring in the lower right quadrant had already goosed him.

“I hope you were not followed, Captain.”

“I was,” Blunt said, “for a while. They skidded off the road and wrapped around a street sign. I didn’t see anyone get out. The second car lost a tire and went down a ravine.”

“Shame,” murmured Verity, puffing on his pipe. “This snowstorm is the worst in the last fifteen years. Every decent man should be home in bed. And of course tires don’t stand up well to bullets. You never saw his face, you say? Shame, that.”

Blunt shook his head. “Never got a glimpse of him. Stood talking face-to-face for more than five minutes and couldn’t tell you if he had hair on his head or horns.”

Verity picked up a paper and squinted before letting it drop. An open folder lay on his desk; Blunt could make out only the upside-down red warning on its cover.

“Well,” the spymaster remarked, “Fortunately, camera eyes are not so easily confused as the human brain. We have the recordings from the good Councilor’s own internal surveillance system as well as his extensive guest list. There is a nice shot of you, Captain Blunt, as well as your suave tuxedoed companion. Unless he has access to serious reconstructive facilities, or he’s a shape shifter — and all things are possible in this uncertain universe — I suppose we’ll identify him sooner or later.”

“I’m working on it,” replied a voice from the corner. Foster was perched on the room’s remaining chair, his usual mug of oily coffee on his knee.

“An auspicious beginning,” Verity said. “But only a beginning. We need to know where those labs are. What do you have in mind, Captain?”

Foster hefted a second cup. “Coffee, son? Creamer? Sugar?”

Blunt, rising to his feet, accepted the offered brew. Coughing after his first sip, he wiped his lips and shuddered. “Got an antidote, I hope, Foster.” He stirred in more creamer. “Don’t suppose you can give me any hints about those labs, Verity?”

“Afraid not,” Verity replied, squinting at a round ring of smoke. “I can tell you only he typically uses a two-stage drop. He drops product on various asteroids, moons, and other forsaken locales first. He seldom uses the same location twice. Later, often as much as a year later, his second-stagers pick up the drop and ferry it to the end destination. Which is Astral or Cameltown, mostly.” He shrugged. “In short, we haven’t a clue. It was only luck that we intercepted the Nautilus with a full cargo. Thanatos is a careful man — or whatever he is. I suppose we have even more reason to suspect he’s not human, now.”

“Don’t suppose,” Blunt said, observing the oily depths of liquid in his coffee mug with doubt, “you can give me any hints as to what he might be, either?”

“Who knows?” Verity closed the folder on his desk. “There are stranger beings in the Rim, Horatio, than you or I are capable of comprehending. Certainly, we’ve never encountered his kind before.”

Blunt nodded. He set down his cup on the edge of Verity’s desk. “Thought so. Well, I know someone who might know. I’ll have to talk to him.”

“Him,” Verity repeated, delicately moving the mug aside “Or perhaps, her? I have such trouble with their mutable genders.”

Blunt scowled. “Him,” he growled, shrugging his leather jacket across his broad shoulders. He picked up his battered hat and settled it on his head. “I’ll be in touch. Going to take a little trip.”

“No need to tell me,” Verity said. “Cameltown, of course. Before you go, Captain. What do you intend to do about the rendezvous with Thanatos?”

Blunt, half through the open door, paused. “I’ll let you know,” he answered over his shoulder.

Silence fell after the clunk of the closing door. Then Foster cleared his throat. “Think he’ll run? It’s getting pretty hot, even for him!”

Abel Verity leaned back in his chair and tapped out his smoldering pipe. “No,” he replied at last, “he won’t run.”

Proceed to Chapter 8...