Alien Assassin (The Human Chronicles -- Book Two) Read online

  He drove to the residence, and was immediately impressed by the size of the home, as well as the massive stone wall surrounding it. It took De’ronin nearly half an hour to gain entry to the grounds, having to become more and more belligerent regarding his authority for entry.

  Finally, he was buzzed through.

  A youngish, burly Fredic Dess met him at the main entrance. There was no warmth in the greeting. Dess led him to a large room, had him sit, but did not offer any refreshments.

  “Why are you here?” Dess asked bluntly.

  De’ronin had devised a strategy for the interview during his trip to the residence. “I’m here regarding the salvage of a class-five starship which you registered nine months ago.”

  Dess did a good job of hiding his shock, but De’ronin still saw through it. “I have no recollection of such a salvage. I would remember a class-five.”

  “You did record the salvage. The Juireans know this. They had the records removed for everyone but themselves.”

  De’ronin saw Dess turn pale. His strategy appeared to be working. “Yes, I seem to vaguely recall the salvage. It came about the time of the attack on the facility. You may recall it?”

  Dess was right! De’ronin suddenly remembered when the Ministry had been viciously assaulted – and it was about nine months ago. The event had been so out of the ordinary, and so sudden, that it left most Nimorians completely in shock. No adequate explanation had ever been circulated, so the event still remained a mystery. Now De’ronin began to suspect that the salvage and the assault were related.

  De’ronin decided to get ruthless. He only had so much time to produce results for the Overlord, and dancing around the issue with Dess was not going to fit within his time constraints.

  “I see that you suddenly came into wealth right around that time,” he said to the nervous-looking Dess. “And this is a very nice home. I believe I have the authority to seize all your assets if I find they have been acquired from ill-gotten gains.”

  He watched as his fellow Nimorian began to visibly tremble. Fredic Dess was ready.

  “Of course, for the proper cooperation, I can also leave things as they are. The choice is yours, Fredic Dess.”

  “Yes, I did record the salvage,” Dess blurted out. “And I did reveal to the Fringe Pirates the location of the prisoners in the Ministry.”

  De’ronin was taken aback. He had no information regarding prisoners. But Dess was still rambling…

  “My cousin is one of the pirates. His name is Angar. I was paid for information regarding the Klin starship, but I did not assist in the attack.”

  Klin! What was he talking about? De’ronin tried his best to conceal his own shock. Could this be why the Juireans are so agitated and desperate for information? A Klin starship! By the gods, this was huge!

  “Who brought in the salvage? Do you remember?”

  “Yes. It was Kaylor and his co-pilot. He is a mule-driver, fairly well-known in this part of The Fringe. They were being held in the prison building, along with the Human.”

  De’ronin was completely at a loss. He was receiving information that he had no idea what to do with. He was tasked with simply tracking down the beings who had brought in the class-five salvage. He had no idea it would lead to the Klin, and to Ministry attacks, and to something called a ‘Human.’

  But now he did know the name of the salvager, and this would satisfy the Overlord. As far as De’ronin knowing that the derelict was a Klin starship, well this was knowledge he would probably take to the grave. After all, revealing to the Overlord that he had this knowledge might prove detrimental to his health…

  De’ronin departed the residence, leaving Fredic Dess a shattered mess of nerves. He didn’t care. Once in his transport, he quickly relayed the information to the Overlord. He wanted to be rid of this assignment as soon as possible. Then he turned towards his own residence, to begin his new life as a Nimorian turncoat.

  Chapter Eight

  Riyad Tarazi hated the planet Dimloe. It was hot and humid, and filled with natives who would just as soon eat you raw than give you the time of day. Most beings in The Fringe avoided the place like the plague, which made it a perfect location for the fallback base for his pirate fleet.

  Riyad had planned ahead in the eventuality that his base on K’ly would one day be attacked. He’d practiced this strategy countless times in his other life, with backup safehouses for backup safehouses. He never planned an action without having a fallback.

  His planning had paid off about nine months ago, when 16 Juirean light battlecruisers dropped out of deep gravity wells a couple of million kilometers off the planet. He’d only lost five ships that day; 23 others made it safely to his backup base on Dimloe.

  The base on Dimloe was small and crude, carved out of the side of a mountain and overlooking a vast field of sulfur-spewing geysers. There were other parts of the planet that were more hospitable, but they were also more densely populated. Until he could find a more permanent location for his pirates, he chose to keep a low-profile. The setting up of the new base, and the licking of their wounds, also provided his pirates with a diversion from their normal activities, which fit well into Riyad’s current state of mind.

  At the time, Riyad was only devoting about a quarter of his attention to running the pirate organization. The rest of his energies were spent trying to locate the Klin.

  He would be on-planet only for the day, meeting with his second, Belfor Angar, to settle a conflict between two of his captains. He spent the bulk of his time aboard his ship in orbit around the planet, more comfortable and secure in the gravity the ship provided. Besides interrupting his research into the Klin, dropping down to the planet was such a physical inconvenience.

  His captains were fighting over an equitable split of the booty from a merchant ship they’d recently attacked. It wasn’t a lot of credits, and these trivial tasks were beginning to really piss him off. Angar should have been able to settle this without his input. He had more important things to do.

  Ever since Angar had pulled his unconscious body from the Klin starship just moments before it exploded, Riyad had counted that fortunate incident as a sign from God that he was destined for greater things. Even though he had been only seconds away from learning the location of Earth, without Angar’s intervention, he would have died on the ship that day, taking the knowledge with him.

  But he did manage to get a clue. Ecliptic Plane Minus 4, Section 21. One-half of the coordinates needed. But with only half, he was still able to produce a graphic slice of the Far Arm, 4-degrees below the ecliptic and section 21 out of 92. It was something, but not much. He had effectively narrowed his search down to about a million stars.

  So he decided to take a different tack. Since Riyad firmly believed the Klin were building an army of Humans to confront their mortal enemies, the Juireans, they must be devoting all this time and energy because they saw something in the Human race that was unique and substantial, something that could counter the power of the Juireans. Having survived for almost seven years in this alien universe, Riyad believed he knew what that “something” was.

  It has to be our strength, he often chanted to himself. After all, he had used his superior strength – and coordination – to defeat numerous challengers in the past. He had even coined the phrase “Human-Supermen,” if only to himself – and with the only other Human he’d encountered, the now-late Adam Cain. Adam had died aboard the Klin ship, along with his two alien companions when the ship blew.

  Too bad, Riyad often thought. Together we could have made a formidable duo.

  So using logic to track the Klin, Riyad reasoned that for the Humans to maintain their strength superiority, they would have to be housed at a location with a substantial gravity, just as Riyad himself did by staying aboard his ship. He also reasoned that trying to train and maintain an army of Humans aboard gravity-controlled spaceships would have required a fleet too large to be hidden for very long.

  No, it
would have to be a planet, and if they were indeed hiding in The Fringe, that narrowed the possibilities considerably.

  In fact, his former pirate base of K’ly, along his current base of Dimloe, were the only two candidates out of the twelve habitable worlds in The Fringe that even came close to Earth-like gravity. Their high gravity was also the reason Riyad had chosen them as his base of operations – much to the consternation of his crews. The added gravity did, however, keep his crews itching for more action off-planet, just so they could escape the punishing affects of the higher-than-normal gravity.

  But even then, these two planets could only muster about eight-tenths of Earth’s gravity. That was not a lot of difference, but over time, the weakened gravity would take its toll on the muscle systems and bone density of his fellow Humans, and diminish their effectiveness as a fighting force.

  Of course, there were numerous other candidates to be found in the non-habitable worlds of The Fringe. Three of these actually had gravity right at Earth-norm, as best as Riyad could determine. Two of these were close-in rock worlds, scorching hot on half their surfaces, and frigid cold on the other. Still, technology allowed for vast underground colonies, so he wasn’t ruling them out completely.

  But one planet in particular held the most promise. It was just outside the habitable zone in the New Regian system, and was called Zylim-4. It was cold, with barely an atmosphere, but it supported a flourishing uranium mining industry that was sequestered well below the surface.

  And so it was decided, that once he dispensed with his most immediate chores as head of the Fringe Pirates, Riyad planned to pay a visit to Zylim-4…

  Captain Belfor Angar meet Riyad’s shuttle at landing bay five. The trek from his quarters to the bay was only about half a kilometer, but already he was exhausted. The blasted gravity on this stinking excuse for a planet was beginning to take its toll, both on him, and on his fellow pirates. When one is constantly tired and out of breath, one tends to become very irritable, and fights among the renegades were becoming more frequent as the weeks went by. Angar knew the reason why General Riyad had picked Dimloe as his alternative base of operations. It was great for Riyad – even though he still spent very little time on-planet – but it was torture for his pirates.

  The General wore a permanent scowl these days, accented by the crimson scare that cut across his forehead and split half his right eyebrow. He had acquired the mark in the battle aboard the Klin starship, just moments before Angar had pulled him to safety. Seeming more and more distracted as the months went by, Angar knew Riyad was troubled by something. He was delegating more of the responsibilities of running the pirate organization to him, and unfortunately, the results were not in Angar’s favor.

  Five years ago, when Riyad had first assumed the reins of the organization, there had been a marked improvement in attack strategies and their resulting profits. Everyone was making money, and the every-growing ranks of pirates would do anything for their beloved leader.

  Not so anymore. Since the Juirean raid on K’ly, Riyad had changed. It seemed as though running the Fringe Pirates was more of a nuisance to him, and he spent most of his time aboard his ship, engrossed in research.

  “How long is this going to take, Captain?”

  Angar hid his frustration with Riyad; he knew that at any moment, Riyad could literally rip his head off. “Not long. There is a piece of gold ornamentation that is worth most of the bounty. Mnnlee insists he should get it all since he initiated the attack. Jolaa disagrees.”

  As they walked to the meeting hall, Riyad appeared to be even more upset than normal. “How have you proposed settling this?” he growled at Angar.

  “I suggested a trade,” Angar answered between gasps for breath, as he struggled to keep pace with his fast-walking leader. “Mnnlee to give up some of his take so he could keep the entire ornament.”

  “And?”

  “Captain Mnnlee says he should have it all to begin with, so giving up anything is unacceptable to him.”

  Riyad stopped in his tracks and stared at Angar. “Unacceptable? To him?” Angar shivered in the presence of the stare. Then Riyad resumed his stride.

  In the hall, the two captains sat at a large wooden table surrounded by a couple of dozen or so of their crews. It was an amazing menagerie of creatures, many not from The Fringe, but drawn to the frontier sector of The Expansion in search of wealth and freedom. Like pirates everywhere, they each carried a rebellious gene within their make-up that made it virtually impossible for them to exist in normal society.

  Riyad Tarazi was one of them, even if he had never actually been a pirate back home on Earth. He had, however, gravitated to the more radical of views, more-than-likely the product of his Muslim upbringing in the slums of the Gholeiry municipality in southern Beirut. Not as fervent a believer as some, Riyad found more satisfaction in the leading of men and the formulation of strategies, rather than religious devotion. Even in the games they would play as children in the streets surrounding the ruins of the Camille Chamoun Stadium, he was seen as a natural leader and a master tactician. The willingness of the simple-minded made his fellow street urchins easy converts to his own brand of fanaticism. Whatever it took so others would follow…

  At the not-so-tender age of 15, Riyad had been recruited into the fledgling Al Qaeda organization, and sent to Pakistan for training. In the intervening years, except for brief meetings near the Beirut airport and his attendance at a soccer match in the rebuilt Stadium, Riyad never returned to conduct operations in his native Lebanon.

  Instead, Riyad was sent to America for schooling, spending time as a Gator at the University of Florida in Gainesville. His major was chemical engineering, a field that came in handy when instructing young, radical recruits on how to construct roadside IED’s in Iraq and Afghanistan. He rose quickly in the ranks, although he never once set a single bomb himself. He was, however, responsible for five confirmed kills of traitors-to-the-cause from within their own ranks.

  After the killing of Abu Musab Al-Zwari in June of 2006, Riyad was sent to Pakistan to help coordinate the rising resistance movement in Afghanistan. The Americans had placed most of their emphasis on Iraq by that time, leaving Afghanistan ripe for a resurgence of the Taliban. It was just a matter of time before they would regain power. Time was on the side of the resistance – and of Riyad Tarazi as well.

  Or so he thought.

  Riyad remembered walking with the guide through the cold and desolate mountain passage high in the Hindu Kush. The landscape was a consistent and stark gray, and nothing grew this high in the mountains. It was nearing dusk and they would camp in a small cave not too far up the trail and meet the driver the next morning for the trip down into Kabul.

  But it never worked out like that. He clearly remembered the flash of hot white light – and the next moment he was waking up in a cold metal cell, covered in hay. His first vision had been that of an Indian man named Patel. The next was of an alien creature wearing a black leather vest and covered head-to-toe in a thick, black fur. At first he thought it was a small bear in costume, but when it spoke and struck him with a whip, he knew this was something else.

  After a couple of weeks in hellish conditions aboard the slaver’s ship – during which two of his three other Human companions died – he was sold to a gang of pirates, who apparently then marked up his price and tried to make a quick profit on the spread at another slave auction.

  By then, Riyad had gained a feel for his surroundings, and managed to rip the binding cords from his feet and hands and crush the necks of two of his pirate-capturers, before being subdued by an electric bolt of some kind. It hurt like hell, but he found out later, the shot was meant to kill.

  A gruff alien with two droopy appendages just below each ear, then approached him and asked if he could control his anger long enough to listen to him. The fact that Riyad could understand anything he said was a shock, until the alien explained about the translation device that had been embedded behind his
ear while he was unconscious on the slaver’s ship.

  The alien – Hawcwin was his name – explained that he was part of an informal privateer organization called The Fringe Pirates, and that they were always looking for new recruits and strong fighters. The fact that Riyad had survived a level-two bolt meant that he was something special. Having someone like Riyad in his crew would greatly enhance Hawcwin’s reputation – and power – among his peers.

  Riyad had little choice but to accept the invitation to join the crew, and nine months later shot Hawcwin dead in a challenge for his captainship. Then a few months after that, Riyad fought the supreme leader of the Fringe Pirates for his position. In a spectacle designed to elicit maximum shock and cement his authority, Riyad made easy work of the lizard-like Rigorian, in hand-to-hand combat, and to the death.

  Riyad’s position and reputation were secure, and he immediately set about transforming the rag-tag gang of renegades into an efficient and feared fighting force.

  Riyad Tarazi had fulfilled his childhood ambition of leading a band of warriors, yet he had done so with a force of over 500 aliens, rather than Muslim freedom fighters.

  Fate acted in mysterious ways…

  The captains rose from their seats when Riyad approached. “Greetings, my General,” Captain Mnnlee said, beating his counterpart to the punch. Captain Jolaa just nodded and squared his jaw, while shooting Mnnlee a deadly glare. They both went to claim their seats again—

  “No! Remain standing,” Riyad stated firmly. Both of the alien captains stumbled slightly, breaking their drop into their seats. “This won’t take long.”

  On the table lay the offending gold ornamentation, a meter-long crest of some kind depicting a rider on a thick steed and holding a lance. The shimmering gold looked new, but that was the lure of the precious metal, no matter what civilization one belonged to. The object could have been a year old, or a thousand; only an expert could tell the difference. Yet to the pirates, all they saw was a weighty piece of precious metal that could be melted down and sold in the markets of Silea. Of course, Riyad would get his cut, equal to ten-percent of the selling price. The rest would be split between the crews. An object of this size could bring as much as 8,000 Juirean credits.