Space Trader (Galactic Axia Adventure) Read online

  Space Trader

  Book 3 of the

  Galactic Axia Adventure Series

  * * *

  Jim Laughter

  Denton, Texas

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Axia Books

  An imprint of AWOC.COM Publishing

  P.O. Box 2819

  Denton, TX 76202

  © 2014 by Jim Laughter

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All characters and concepts of Galactic Axia are the property of the author and may not be used in any other work by any other author without written permission by AWOC.COM Publishing and Jim Laughter.

  ISBN: 978-1-62016-100-5 Ebook

  Chapter One

  With a sigh, the small, thin man pushed away from his desk and yawned. He leaned back in his chair, stretched the kinks out of his back, and closed his tired eyes. When he opened them, he noted that darkness had already descended. Had he immersed himself so deeply in the alien text on his desk that he’d lost all track of time?

  Professor Orilious Angle glanced at the antique wall chronometer and was surprised at the late hour.

  “Must’ve dozed off,” he muttered. Shoving his glasses up on his forehead, he rubbed his tired eyes and sighed again.

  Just then there was a knock at his office door. Earl Neswed stuck his head in as the professor fumbled to get his glasses back on straight.

  “Working late again, I see,” Neswed said as he let himself in the rest of the way. As head of security at the Mica Computer Institute, he was making rounds before heading home.

  “Just couldn’t put this book down,” the professor said with a wave of his hand toward the open text.

  Neswed looked at the book, then at a stack of other manuscripts on the corner of the messy desk. Although he was versed in many different languages as part of his job, he did not recognize this one.

  “Hot off the presses, huh?”

  Neswed snagged a stool with his foot, swung it his way, and sat down. “I don’t recognize this language.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s a rare set that came in this morning. A colleague sent them to me from a dig out on the rim.”

  “She still writes you, huh?” Neswed said with a grin.

  It was no secret that even after thirty years, Angle still heard from his old college girlfriend. At the time they were going together, he was a graduate student in computer science while she had been a graduate student in archeology. However, the love of their respective fields had proven stronger than their budding romance, and they had gone their separate ways. Neswed met this woman once about ten years ago when she visited Mica to lecture. Watching his friend, the professor, he discerned there had been more than mere friendship between the two scholars.

  “So, what’s got you prowling around at this hour?” the professor asked Neswed. “Thought you’d be home with the wife by this time.”

  “Not tonight. She’s at one of her ladies’ meetings.”

  “That’s good for both of you. Gives you a break and keeps you out of each other’s hair.”

  “It would if I still had any,” Neswed quipped.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “So where’d these old books?” Neswed asked, motioning toward the ancient texts. The professor picked up one off the stack.

  “From an ancient library on the rim,” the professor answered. “Seems there was an obscure branch of humanity out that way long ago.”

  “And I assume since she sent them, this branch is now extinct, right?”

  “Unfortunately,” the professor said sadly as he placed the ancient script back on the stack.

  “It’s obvious they understood the science of bindery,” Neswed noted, picking up a book and examining it. “I’d swear this book isn’t more than a hundred years old. The pages aren’t even brittle! What do they say?”

  “The books come from late in their history,” Angle answered, “and have given us some solid leads to what happened to those humans.”

  “Let me guess,” Neswed said. “Red-tails.”

  “Good guess,” the professor agreed. “They hadn’t developed extended space flight yet nor cosmic weaponry with which to defend themselves. Add the fact that the ruins show clear signs of Red-tail blaster damage and no human remains were found—that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?”

  “Will we ever be free of those vermin?” Neswed said. “Seems as if they’re popping out everywhere, harvesting and slaughtering at will.”

  “I know what you mean,” sympathized the professor. “I watch the young troopers I have in my classes. I can tell the ones who’ve been out there fighting these things.”

  “I guess I should be happy I’m a civilian on a fairly safe planet,” Neswed said with a sigh.

  “No one is safe with those transit tubes of theirs. They can show up unexpectedly almost anywhere.”

  “I just wish there was something we could do about it,” added Neswed in disgust.

  “I know that there’s considerable effort being put into detecting those tubes before they materialize,” the professor noted. “But not knowing their origination point, it’s impossible to predict where they’ll appear.”

  “We can only wait and hope.”

  “True, but who knows when we may face them here on Mica?”

  Both men sat in silent contemplation of their times.

  “So, how’s that nosey machine of yours doing?” Neswed asked, changing the subject.

  “You mean Ert?” the professor answered in mock bewilderment.

  “Yeah, the machine!” Neswed shot back. “You know, the one that I have to clean up after all the time. The one that thinks it’s more human than you and me.”

  “I’ll have you know that by all standards, Ert is as alive as you or me,” the professor said with feigned seriousness. The argument over the status of Ert was a constant one between the two friends.

  It had been a confusing time when the ancient Horicon computer came back to life. Professor Angle’s class had been working on it for many weeks when it occurred. It had even projected a holographic image of a Horicon being and even addressed one of his students, a young man named Delmar Eagleman.

  A messy bureaucratic uproar arose at first and the higher ups at the Science Museum wanted to take Ert back to their facility. Professor Angle, with some help from the Ebilizer Institute on Shalimar, had managed to keep Ert exactly where he was. Some people were still unhappy about it, but Professor Angle didn’t care. He had it now and he planned to keep it as long as he could.

  One of those not so thrilled by the Horicon computer remaining at the school was Neswed. It had fallen to him to straighten out all the problems caused by Ert as he freely helped himself to the other computers and databases all over campus. That Ert always left things better than he found them was immaterial. Departments fiercely defended their turf, and even a curious computer was not welcome. Sardonically, Neswed referred to himself as ‘Chief-Ruffled-Feather-Smoother-Outer.’

  But in spite of all the difficulties the Horicon computer caused him, Neswed still treasured his friendship with Professor Angle. So they joked back and forth about Ert—Neswed not quite believing Ert was alive, and the professor
believing but harboring his doubts.

  “I still say it’s only technically alive,” Neswed said.

  “And so are we,” the professor agreed without looking up from the text he’d just picked up, “technically.”

  Neswed snorted. “I better finish my rounds and head home.” He stood and slid the stool back into place.

  “I might as well call it a night too.” The professor took a slip of paper, marked his place in the ancient text, and closed the book.

  “Let me ask you a silly question,” Neswed said. Professor Angle didn’t reply, but only nodded. “If that book is from an orphan branch of humanity, how are you able to read it?”

  “Simple,” replied the professor as he gathered up the small stack of books and placed them safely in the locking drawer of his old oak desk. “They’re written in the same text as the Horicon.”

  ∞∞∞

  Space Trader Ian Cahill took another sip of the drink in front of him. Although it appeared the same as the other drinks on the table, he made a point of it containing no intoxicants. He wanted his head clear while negotiations were under way. It was a policy that had stood him in good stead for many years.

  Cahill didn’t look like the other people in the lounge. His clothes were mismatched variations of old military uniforms; an unzipped open-collar flight jacket with the insignia and name tag removed, camouflage battle dress pants with a civilian shirt made of an alien cloth from a distant planet he’d visited many years ago. His brown leather high top boots where scuffed and unpolished. He wore a military-style hand blaster in a shoulder holster under his left arm as well as a high-caliber percussion cap hand pistol on his right hip. His scruffy brown hair draped over his neck and ears, hiding a scar he’d received from flying debris when a Red-tail torpedo struck his ship, the Cahill Express many years ago out on the rim.

  Cahill didn’t care to socialize with people which was why he’d chosen the solitary life of being a space trader over that of traveling with a convoy or being part of a consortium. He enjoyed the solitude of space, alone with his thoughts, free to travel to any star system in the galaxy that called to him from the darkness of space.

  Yet here he sat across a table from this man who’d refused to tell him his name, bargaining for an artifact of such curiosity that he’d agreed to meet him in a public setting instead of aboard the Express which was his preferred place of doing business.

  “Is that your final offer?”

  “One never has a final offer,” the man opposite him said smoothly. “Everything is open to negotiation if the price is right.”

  “That’s what I understand from many of my contacts,” the trader answered. “Still, it would seem that your price for the artifact remains unchanged.”

  “But that’s not true,” the smooth man said. “It’s just that you’ve not yet stated how much the item is worth to you.”

  “And you’ve not disclosed how or where you happened upon the item, or even if it’s legal to trade.”

  “Does its origin or legality concern you, sir?”

  Cahill chuckled to himself. He was not surprised at this almost typical ruse. One never brought everything to the table up front.

  “So you’re suggesting that other options are currently unstated.”

  “Other options are always unstated if the price is right.”

  Taking another sip of his beverage, Ian pondered his position. If he could get the artifact at a low enough price, he was sure he could make a profit on it with a dealer he knew out on the rim. But the price had to be right. After all, profit was his only motive, and he really didn’t care if it was legal to trade or not. Artifacts procured illegally usually held a higher trade value but were harder to explain if audited by the trade commission. Then again, a trade made under the table could earn enough profit to make the risk worthwhile.

  Years as a free space trader had taught Cahill many subtle tricks to help negotiations go his way. It had been the school of hard knocks, whose colors were black and blue, Ian always said that produced what he was today.

  Well known in quiet ways, Ian Cahill was rightly proud of his reputation. Even in this current negotiation, it preceded him to good effect. He saw a bead of sweat appear on the other man’s forehead and knew the time was right to digress.

  “So what do you think about the latest Red-tail incursions?”

  “Just a normal part of business,” the smooth man replied a little too quickly. Ian knew he’d struck a nerve with the man. “I hear the Axia is stepping up patrols.”

  “One always hears those rumors,” Ian agreed. “But it’s a different story when a lone ship is out there between planets, even on the common lanes.”

  “That it is,” the smooth man agreed. “Some traders now prefer convoys with mercenary ships to guard them.”

  “Might as well join one of the trade alliances and drive a ship like a ground car,” Ian said. “You’re safe but your soul is a prisoner of fear.”

  “But at least you and your soul remain on speaking terms, rather than as the main course at a Red-tail feast.”

  “May you be the guest of honor?”

  Cahill lifted his glass in toast to the man. His counterpart looked less than comfortable. Ian made to stand up. “Well, I better get back to my ship.”

  “Hold a minute, friend,” the smooth man said, motioning for Ian to sit back down.

  Ian sat and waited. The ideas he had planted or reinforced in the other man’s mind were having the desired effect. Right now, he was comparing the price he wanted out of Ian with the risks involved in his life of trading. Truthfully, the risks would be the same whether he sold to Cahill or not. Life was like that. But right now, the man was imagining being eaten by Red-tails versus making a little less profit and living to tell about it. The fear that image could conjure up in a man’s heart was his deadliest enemy.

  “What would be a fair... uh, commission for you to take certain merchandise off my hands?” the man finally asked cautiously.

  “I’d have to consider the risks,” Ian said, now using the fear he had generated as a tool to lower the other man’s price. “How soon might you need to make this transaction?”

  “As soon as possible,” the man answered, falling for the old deadline trap. Ian decided to push a little more.

  “Are you planning to be in that convoy leaving tonight?” He saw the man’s eyes widen ever so slightly and knew he had him hooked. At this point, the man would virtually give Ian the artifact in exchange for a place of safety in the convoy. Cahill almost felt guilty at the ease with which he had maneuvered the man. Almost.

  But such is the nature of business, he reminded himself. If a person feared being burned he shouldn’t play in the fireplace. There were other ways of transporting stock if it was legal. In this case, however, the merchandise in question was in that gray area that the desk jockeys and pencil-necks who wrote the shipping regulations never fully explored.

  The man frowned and then scribbled a few numbers on a place mat and pushed it across the table to Cahill.

  “That is the best I can do under the circumstances,” the man said with finality.

  Cahill studied the figures. They were a thousand credits less than he was willing to offer. Then again, there was no reason to cheat the man. After all, he knew he could double his investment with the dealer out on the rim, assuming it was a legal trade item and didn’t get confiscated as a cultural treasure from some extinct planet.

  He had already weighed the risks and options when he first heard of this naive man and his desire to part with a certain artifact of unknown age and origin. It had piqued Ian’s curiosity or otherwise he would not have wasted the time to sit here and haggle.

  “Tell you what,” Cahill said after making a sour face or two. “You have it sealed and delivered to my ship within the half hour and I’ll kick in a half point bonus.”

  “You are most generous, sir,” the man said. “I’ll see to it directly.”

  Cahill p
ulled a keypad out of his jacket pocket, typed in a few numbers, and then produced a small disk.

  “There is an intake locker on the side of the main airlock of my ship,” Ian said and handed the disk to the man. “Place this disk in the slot and it will open. Put the merchandise in the locker. I warn you, it will close as soon as it senses your hands are clear, so be quick. The last fool I dealt with tried to snatch his delivery back and lost a couple of fingers.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “As soon as the locker is closed, it will relinquish the disk which can be cashed at the local currency exchange.”

  “What’s my guarantee that the disk is good for the agreed amount?” the man asked as he pocketed the disk.

  “The same as my guarantee that you will deliver the correct artifact to my ship,” Ian replied easily. “If it’s not delivered within the time limit, you lose the bonus I’m offering. If you try to cash the disk before confirmation of delivery, the disk will notify the exchange and you will be detained while the matter is investigated. And if you try to deliver and then snatch it back... well... enough said about missing fingers. They leave such a mess.”

  The man eyed Cahill’s shoulder weapon and sidearm, unsure if the trader was really as dangerous as he looked.

  “So you’re saying you and I don’t trust each other?” The man smiled a knowing grin from beneath a pencil thin mustache.

  “On the contrary,” Cahill said, returning the man’s smile. “I’m saying all we have is trust. I just like to keep an honest man honest.”

  Forty-five minutes later Ian Cahill approached his ship, the Cahill Express, in the docking bay of the massive hanger. He noted the illuminated indicator lights on the intake locker and smiled. He entered the airlock and secured it for departure. He knew the artifact was not only aboard but transported from the locker to a safe storage compartment by an inside conveyor system. The disk would have entered the artifact into his inventory, but labeled as Miscellaneous Merchandise to disguise its identity instead of Unknown Artifact. Ian liked his little machines. They did what they were designed to do and he did not have to worry about them misunderstanding him.