October 5, 2111
Malcolm Richardson
Hondora - an industrious planet covered with choking air and filth all over the streets. That filth includes the citizens who call this place home. Malcolm couldn't think of a planet with more crime and a higher concentration of individuals with no qualms over killing for personal gain; after all, a lawless dystopia can attract some insane individuals.
It would be only a few minutes until Brad parked the ship at the lot near Kemmer's Bar. Malcolm had just finished reading all the mission reports, as well as the personal files on both Shadow-Walker and Uslar Kip. Vaalima, lying on the only couch in the cramped common room, was flipping through pages on Valiic and Narrisa. Even though she was a competent hunter and would occasionally offer inventive strategies, Malcolm was the type of guy who trusted only one man to make sure a job was done right - that one man being himself. So, inevitably, he would find himself reading those same files in her hands.
Vaalima snapped Malcolm out of his intelligent mind. "As a maelkii myself, I find it hard to believe both Narrisa and Valiic would do something as dishonorable as to abandon the very values they fight to uphold, especially a maelkii couple that would undergo the archaic tradition of swearing an honor pledge so they can fight together indefinitely."
The maelkii were a unique species to Malcolm, more unique than most. He respected that fact. These days, thousands of maelkii houses, or glorified closed-cultured communities, have started to embrace more modernized values. And it's a shame some maelkii, a species known for their thick culture and rich traditions, would even consider disregarding them. However, the Quallic House, the house Valiic and Narrisa are from, is one of those houses that root themselves like a tree in traditions that have lasted thousands of years for the maelkii.
"If I were in their place, it really isn't that big of a stretch to justify their actions, despite how wrong they are," Malcolm responded.
"How so?"
"My theory: They found it more honorable to stay loyal to their friend - their fellow warrior, if you will - over the ARW. I'd say there's a seventy-seven percent chance of that theory being true."
Vaal giggled. "You did it again."
"Did what?"
"Tacked on a percentage to another one of your theories."
"That's because our job hinges on odds. What are the odds target one chooses to do option three? What about option four? The odds that target three figures out a way to put a dent in plan four, intentionally or not. See, it's all about the odds and how we work our plan to capture our targets around those odds so we have the maximum chance of succeeding."
There was a sudden bump as the ship came to a halt on the landing pad. Malcolm grabbed his gear and nodded for Vaal to follow him off the ship. "Brad, stay with the ship. This shouldn't take long," Malcolm commanded over the cyberwatch.
Vaal and Malcolm stepped outside onto docking bay ninety-two. The air in the Underlevel was heavy and humid. Malcolm's black cornrows started to stand up. Even though it was morning, Kemmer's Bar was still alive with noisy activity.
"Malcolm, take a look." Vaal pointed a few docking bays down. "It's a Wersillian ship; a Hauler, I think."
"It's powered off. I'd bet there's a ninety-one percent chance whoever piloted that is inside the bar."
The first thing Malcolm did upon entering Kemmer's Bar was skim. He gave quick glances in each major area of the bar. At the back, sitting at a table by himself, was a lycargan.
"There he is. I'll go speak with him. You talk with the bartenders and see if they know anything."
Malcolm and Vaal split up. When Malcolm sat down, the lycargan didn't notice him; his gaze was glued to the tapestry hanging on the wall over the table, looking lost in his own thoughts.
"How did you end up out here?" Malcolm interrupted the lycargan's thoughts.
"You're not here to kill me, are you?" His voiced rocked with fear.
"No. In fact I may be able to help you, depending on how helpful you are to me. I'm here looking for information."
"I can't help you. I'm only a low-ranking pilot. I don't know much about anything."
"I'm not looking for Wersillian state secrets, just how you got here."
"I-I was forced to pilot a ship here for one of yours."
"Do you know where that unit's headed?"
"They only mentioned going after someone named Landis. But that's it. I swear." He got defensive.
"That's all I need to know." Malcolm reached in one of his pockets and pulled out a few jemns. "I despise your species, but I'm a man of my word. This should help you start a life here. Word of advice: Sell that ship for additional jemns."
Malcolm got up from the table and caught up to Vaal as she was exiting the bar. "Report," Malcolm requested as they walked back to the ship.
"One of the bartenders saw a group of ARW soldiers leave with a mercenary named Erryn Wolph. He doesn't know where they were headed though, so I pulled up her file from the ARW database." Vaal showed Malcolm the file using her cyberwatch. "We don't have a lot on Erryn. She's expensive… and part of that cost assures her contractor that she won't turncoat."
"She has an honor code. That's too bad for us. What else?"
"She's also a runaway omelic wanted for a crime that isn't stated in her file. Although, she has a bounty of five hundred thousand jemns on her head. But she's only worth the jemns if she's captured alive and brought back to face omelic justice."
"There lies our advantage."
Malcolm was about to step onto his starship when he noticed three individuals marching up to them. Two were wearing mechanized suits - knock-off power armor. The three were from the fight club near the bar.
"What's good, homie?" the leader of the three asked with a smug grin.
"Don't call me homie," Malcolm barked as Brad stepped out of the ship.
"What's da problem, homie? Do I scare yah?" The leader lifted his shirt, showing Malcolm his sidearm.
Malcolm didn't flinch. He looked over the guy in the center. Decreasing the distance between the two, Malcolm reached for a coin-shaped pin attached to the man's jacket, engraved with a symbol. "Are we going to have a problem?"
"Only if yah don't give us dat fine-ass ship."
Malcolm pulled off the coin-shaped pin and flipped it. "Brad, handle these repulsive stereotypes."
Brad didn't hesitate or speak any words.
Five coin flips.
Malcolm turned his back on the fight. He stepped towards his ship. There was a quick swish of a blade and grasping of a jacket, then the sound of a blade digging into bare skin and the gurgling coughs of blood was crystal clear behind Malcolm. Another screamed for his life. The aroma of blood crept up Malcolm's nose; the smell of iron.
Ten coin flips.
Malcolm was another step closer to being inside his ship.
Bang!
A gunshot ricocheted off the surface of the docking bay lot, and another one rattled the fencing of the caged fighting arena. The only sound left was a thud of a body crashing to the ground, sending a force of wind against Malcolm's back. One left.
Fifteen coin flips.
"Please. Please! NO!" the last man begged. He was silenced by the slice of a blade. Malcolm was now on his ship.
Twenty coin flips.
"Pathetic." Brad walked back into the ship.
Malcolm looked back to see Vaal's horrified glare. "A self-defense instructor, hmm? No self-defense instructor I know is that ruthless." When Vaal first joined the 9 Hunters, Malcolm told her Brad was formerly a self-defense instructor. From Vaal's expression, Malcolm knew she no longer believed that.
Malcolm muttered, "Believe what you want."
Vaal sighed after she knew Malcolm wasn't going to tell her what she wanted. "So… what's the next step?" she asked.
"We have our confirmation as to the legionnaires' motives and the location they're headed to. If this Erryn is to live up to her file, she'll first gather all the information she can before ever setting foot on Delkeedo. Now we must gather the same information she's after and put to use the bounty she has against her. And I know a place where we can achieve both."
"Where?"
"The Galactic Hotel. It's the go-to place for all species to meet in peace. With a rep such as that, it attracts bounty hunters to lay low in a place where they won't be fair game to the others. And it's run and owned by a group of very wealthy and influential yuerr."
The yuerr, a species known for their greed, are responsible for the introduction of jemns and make sure that every major intergalactic market accepts the currency. Through their continued efforts, jemns are the galaxy's standard accepted currency. The yuerr still reap the rewards of that achievement to this day.
"Why can the bounty hunters lay low there? What stops the other bounty hunters from killing each other?"
"Simple. The Galactic Hotel is known for its infamous one rule: No life shall be taken by another on Galactic grounds. Should you break that rule, you'll die."