Page 77 of Journey to the Forbidden Zone
His orders were clipped, absolute. The two assassins flanking him nodded once. They checked their laser pistols as a matterof routine, then secured them in shoulder holsters inside their leather jackets.
The station corridor beyond the docking umbilical was a claustrophobic artery choked with the stench of cheap booze, stale coolant, and unwashed bodies. Flickering lumen strips cast long, dancing shadows. Distant shouts and the thump of bass-heavy music filtered through the bulkheads.
Julear moved with predatory silence, his boots making no sound on the grated deck, his orange, Sensoori skin practically blending in with the neon. Vek and Tarn followed, spectral figures in the gloom.
No one they encountered in the crammed corridors of the grimy waystation took notice of them. This wasn’t the sort of place where people asked questions, and Julear and his team looked no different from the rest of the crowd – just three more vagabonds seeking to carve out a pathetic existence in the Belt. If Julear had been willing to give it any real thought, he’d have expressed utter contempt for this trash masquerading as UPA citizenry.
But he wasn’t willing. He had a mission, and that was the only thing that mattered.
They wound their way through the patrons at The Lost Spacer. Only the bouncer, bartender, and prostitutes took any notice of them. The service personnel quickly ascertained they were not customers of theirs and turned their attention elsewhere. The bouncer, a large Mechan with what might have been plasma or kinesis blasters on two of its four upper limbs observed them carefully. Julear made a mental note to have Tarn kill it before they left.
They arrived at a concubine chamber converted to office use. A plastic, makeshift door covered the entrance. Julear shook his head in disgust. This Maltese had incompetent security.
Julear nodded to Tarn, who stepped forward and ripped the door aside. The room beyond was an assault on the senses after the desolate corridor. Thick, cloying smoke hung in the air – incense mixed with something harsher, chemical. The smell of poorly aged whiskey warred with stale sweat. Gaudy holos flickered on one wall, showing garish dancing figures, while market reports ticked by on others.
Behind a metal desk sat Maltese. To his right stood an enormous human in a cheap suit, a bodyguard, Julear supposed. Both men looked comically surprised at the intrusion. Vek shot the heavy in the head, his laser beam boring a neat hole in the bridge of the fool’s nose. He crumpled to the ground with a thud.
The fixer looked like a toad that had swallowed something distasteful. His jowly face, slick with sweat despite the room’s chill, blanched from its unhealthy pallor to a sickly gray as Julear swept into the foul “office.” Maltese’s eyes, small and piggish, darted between the three intruders, wide with panic. One meaty hand scrabbled for something beneath the desk. Vek turned his weapon on the corpulent outlaw.
“Don’t,” Julear said, his voice smooth, his smile predatory.
Maltese froze, his hand hovering halfway to what was likely a hidden holdout. His other hand clutched a half-empty glass of amber liquid, trembling so violently the ice cubes clinked like chattering teeth.
“Both hands on the desk,” Julear ordered.
His free hand shaking as if he’d been afflicted with some terrible palsy, Maltese put his hand on the desktop. Julear glanced at the one holding the drink. Swallowing hard, the fat human released the glass and put his other hand palm-down on the surface, matching the first.
“Good,” Julear said. “Now, let’s talk.”
“Wh-who the fuck are you?” Maltese stammered, his voice a reedy wheeze. “This is private property! You can’t just?—”
“Shut up,” Julear said, annoyed. “I’ll ask the questions. You’ll provide the answers. Understand?”
Maltese nodded. Sweat poured down his temples onto his swollen cheeks. Julear smiled like they were going to be friends.
“Good. You are Maltese. Fixer. Information broker.”
“Yeah? So what?”
Maltese tried for bluster, but Julear had been in this work too long to fall for that kind of bluff. Fear radiated off the lowlife like cheap cologne.
“You handled a shipment,” Julear went on. “High-value, biological cargo. Bound for Babcinq. It was misdirected.”
Maltese’s eyes widened a micro-fraction. Damn, this fool wasn’t even good at being a criminal. His tells were obvious.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied. Then he added, “I handle a lot of shipments,” as if that would cover up the dead giveaway of his reaction.
Julear nodded almost imperceptibly to Vek. The cool assassin squeezed the trigger of his pistol casually. A red laser beam streaked across the room and seared a hole in Maltese’s shoulder.
The fat pustule of a man screamed like a child and grabbed at the wound so fiercely, the shift in his considerable weight nearly sent his creaking chair over backwards. Tears streamed from his eyes, mixing with the sweat.
“Let’s try that again,” Julear said, his voice calm. “You handled an extremely sensitive shipment. Its destination was Babcinq. It was misdirected.”
Julear paused and smiled unpleasantly. His red fin arched forward as if it, too, could threaten Maltese. Then he added:
“You know which shipment I mean.”
For a moment, he thought the dumb bastard might actually resist further, that he might require a second shot from Vek’s pistol. But then Maltese’s pudgy shoulders sagged in defeat.