GALAXY RUN:
THE CASE
by
Sam Renner
+++++
PUBLISHED BY:
SIX to ONE Books & Media
Copyright © 2020
Sign up for updates from Sam when new books are ready.
01
Blood drips in thin streams from the gash on his head. It comes in wider rivers from his nose. Which, he knows, is probably broken. The tears in his eyes—pain tears, not crying tears—make everything in front of him a blurry mess. But his ears, those still work, and he can hear Uzel growling something in Uzeki. He doesn’t understand it—can’t speak Uzeki—but he knows it’s not good.
He also hears the two Uzeks that have his arms pinned to this alley wall breathing heavy from the chase he forced them to make.
He was close—so close—from making a turn out onto the street and losing them in the crowd milling about in front of the market. He could have donned the hood on his cloak, dropped his posture just so, and quickly looked like all of the people there buying ingredients for that night’s dinner.
Would have if not for that busted little robot someone had tossed aside and that bent little antennae that caught his foot as he tried to jump over it. He landed on a knee, his shin catching a brick as he went down. And now that aches too.
He twists his wrists, trying to force a little circulation back into them, but it only causes the Uzeks to grunt and snort some kind of warning and clamp down harder.
The tears—pain tears, not crying tears—are almost gone now. He can see Uzel pacing in front of him. He’s a squat little thing. Short arms and short legs and shaped like a garroway fruit that’s gone soft—thin at the top and thick at the bottom, like Nixon could put a thumb in his guts if he were to push hard enough.
The shadows here make his light green skin look darker than it is, and the calluses on his forearms look more like armored plates. Uzel continues to grunt something then looks over at the translator he’s brought with him. She’s a young Uzek and begins to speak. Nixon hears her, but he’s too lost in his own thoughts to actually comprehend what she’s saying.
She’s just a girl, and he hates that she’s already gotten mixed up with Uzel the Uzek.
“Where are the missing seeds? The twelve pounds?” she asks again.
Nixon tries to work up an answer, but he can’t. He doesn’t have a good one.
He’d told himself this wasn’t a position he’d find himself in. He was better than this. He wasn’t the same man his dad was, and he wasn’t going to go out the same way—busted up and broken over a few pounds of seeds. But that’s what he’s done.
But this is what happens on Exte. You take work where you can get it. You hustle credits however you can. Work your angles. Find people who need regular work done and then put yourself in a position to do it. Maybe you’re working for a day to help build one of those new towers going in over near the starport. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you get to do that for a week or more. That’s proud work. It’s the kind that leaves you something to point to and say “See that balcony up there on the fiftieth floor? I installed that.”
Most days, though, you weren’t that lucky. The work wasn’t something that made you proud. It was just something that earned you credits. You ran some deliveries. You helped organize something or clean something. Then, when that work dried up—or you did such a poor job of doing it that no one who needs it will hire you—you turn to the cartels. Like the Uzeks. They always had work. None of it legal. Like running seeds that they’ll then use to make Cloud90.
You do that for a couple of months, revelling in the credits you’re earning but also telling yourself that for the danger you’re putting yourself in—running seeds means dealing with the kinds of people who see you as nothing more than a cog in a wheel, a piece in a broken process—you should be getting more. And if they won’t give it to you then you’ll have to take it.
So, you take the small ship they gave you and fly it out to the desert. You scoop out a bucket full of the seeds from the canvas bag they are in and cover the bucket before you bury the seeds three feet deep into the sand. Insurance policy, you tell yourself. You’ll only get it if you need it. Find a fence for the seeds and restock your credits. Besides, it’s 1,500 pounds of seed. Who will even know if a few pounds are gone.
Who will know? Apparently, Uzel will know.
“The seeds, Mr. Nixon.” the girl says.
“Where are they?” It’s Uzel. It’s tough, but Nixon understands it. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Uzel speak in a language that’s not Uzeki.
“You steal my seeds.”
Nixon shakes his head and clears his throat. He clears it again and then again. He’s working something up from deep in his chest. Something that’s not an answer to Uzel’s questions.
He’s being dramatic about it, dipping his shoulders then bringing himself back up to standing over and over again, looking and sounding like a skeen cat bringing up a hairball.
Then he stops, his mouth full of something phlegmy and loose. He turns to the Uzek that’s pinned his right arm to the wall and spits this internal concoction in its face. When it hits the Uzek in the snout, and its grip on Nixon’s arm changes. It loosens just enough for him to yank himself free.
He has control of his right arm again. He spins to his left and puts a fist
