Page 1 of Hunted By the Wraiths
MARIS
The idiot was reaching for his weapon. Under the table, slow, thinking I wouldn’t notice.
Inventory: One idiot, about to become a liability.
I had maybe three seconds before he committed. Three seconds to decide if he died inside my cantina or out in the main concourse tunnel. Inside meant cleanup, awkward reports filed with The Quarry’s laughably inept security liaison, and bloodstains soaking into the already grimy placrete floor. Outside shifted the burden. Much tidier.
“Don’t.” My voice stayed flat, pitched just loud enough to cut through the low hum of the station’s ancient air recyclers. Same tone I used for overdue docking fees and territorial disputes down in the unlit mining shafts. “Hand on the table. Where I can see it. Now.”
He hesitated. Of course he hesitated. They always thought they were faster, smarter.
Inventory: One idiot, reconsidering.
I tallied the threats in the room while I waited for his survival instinct to hopefully win. Four exits if you counted the kitchen’s emergency vent access into the old, unmapped mining tunnels –I always did. Seven armed individuals in the main room. Well, not counting myself. Somehow, people forgot about me.
The air, already thick with the smell of stale spirits and recycled oxygen carrying the faint metallic tang of ore dust, suddenly felt heavy with the scent of their fear-sweat.
Three of those armed people are mine – Vashil near the bar, Jax by the main door, the new guard in the back. Four of them his, trying to look casual near the booths. Blaster fire would echo badly off the rough-hewn rock walls of The Last Drop, even with the cheap sound-dampening panels I’d installed. Messy.
He put his hand, trembling slightly, on the scarred plasteel table.
Smart. Finally.
Inventory: One idiot, temporarily downgraded to nuisance.
“You owe me for three shipments.” I pulled the manifest flimsy from my jacket pocket, the worn flimsy cool against my fingers. Slid it across the table. Its surface simulated wood grain, poorly. “That’s fifteen thousand credits. Standard rate. Plus interest for the delay. Plus the insult surcharge for making me track you down personally.”
“I don’t have fifteen thousand?—”
“Then you have a different problem.” I leaned back in my chair, letting the cracked vinyl creak. Let the silence stretch, filled only by the low thrum of the station’s seismic stabilizers somewhere deep in the rock. Behind him, Vashil shifted her weight almost imperceptibly. Her hand hovered near her sidearm. Ready. Always ready.
The man—Korvak, according to the manifest—was sweating now. Droplets beaded on his forehead, catching the flicker from the faulty industrial light strip overhead. Good. Fear worked better than threats. Fear focused the mind.
“I can get you half by next week cycle.”
“No.”
“Two weeks, final, I swear?—”
“You can pay me now, or I can start liquidating your assets myself.” I tapped the flimsy. “Your ship, the Rusty Eagle or whatever poetic name you gave that Class-3 hauler, is docked at Bay 17. Down in the old ore processing cavern. That heap is worth maybe twenty thousand if I take the time to part it out properly. Probably more if I sell the drive core to the Zhek syndicate off-station. They aren’t picky about registration logs.”
His face went pale, a sickly greenish tint under the cantina lights. “That ship is all I have.”
“Should have considered that before you shorted my delivery.” I pushed my chair back and stood. Conversation over. “You have until the next shift change klaxon sounds through the main concourse. Fifteen thousand credits on my account, or your ship becomes scrap metal under my administration. Your choice.”
I walked away before he could argue. Let him stew in the smell of desperation and cheap swill. He’d pay. They always paid when you gave them something concrete to lose.
The Last Drop was clearing out. My regulars knew closing time wasn’t a suggestion in The Quarry. Stragglers learned quickly or found somewhere else to drink. I had a reputation to maintain.
Years of hard work building it, one calculated risk after another in this hollowed-out chunk of rock XyloCorp had abandoned decades ago. It was mine now. Every dusty tunnel, every flickering light.
Vashil caught up to me near the bar, a solid slab of plasteel salvaged from an old ore hauler, bolted directly to the rock floor. “Think he’ll pay?”
“He’ll pay.” I grabbed a glass and poured myself two fingers of the local rotgut. Smelled like coolant. Burned satisfyingly on the way down. Did the job. “He’s got family on Dust MesaStation, according to his crew manifest. He won’t risk losing his only transport.”
“And if he runs?” Vashil leaned against the bar, arms crossed. Competent. Reliable.
“Then we track him down and make an example.” I drained the glass. Simple logistics. Waste of resources, but necessary for business. “Either way, the problem gets solved. Next item on the agenda?”
