Solar Storm (Galaxy Mavericks Book 5) Read online

  He stretched his arms and rolled his neck from side to side. Then he hunched over the recessed computer screen, reading intently.

  ZACHARY EMPIRE (1,053 matches)

  Growing empire in the neighboring Zachary Galaxy under monitoring for human rights abuses. Was initially an enemy of the Rah Galaxy until the recent GALPOL Accords, when it agreed to curb its expansion and pay reparations for past crimes.

  MILLER CLICKED on the past crimes, curious at what was there. Another long list appeared on the screen and he groaned.

  Of course he'd heard of the Zachary Galaxy. Everyone had.

  But he'd never thought of them as cyborg creators.

  HUMAN RIGHTS ABUSES include bombing of Traverse II, in which eighty-five percent of the planet’s population was killed. The Rah Galaxy declared war, but a ceasefire was reached due to the Zachary Galaxy’s assertion that the Rah Galaxy infringed upon its airspace and destroyed one of its ships. The deaths at Traverse II will forever be a black eye on the reputation of the Zachary Empire, which it has tried to change by opening its borders, announcing a moratorium for its opponents, starting charities, and paying reparations for the lives lost at Traverse II…

  MILLER SEARCHED FOR TRAVERSE II. A hologram of the maroon planet appeared, revolving slowly. White clouds floated across the face of the planet. The image gave Miller the chills.

  FORMERLY INHABITABLE PLANET on the edge of the Rah Galaxy. The planet was rendered uninhabitable when the Zachary Empire dropped nuclear bombs into the atmosphere. The Empire claims that it had no choice but to bomb the planet in response to an attack on one of its starships by the Rah Galaxy. Additionally, GALPOL intelligence believes that the true reason the planet was attacked was because it offered shelter to Benito Puente, a prominent opponent of the Empire. But Puente escaped from the planet days earlier, along with his supporters.

  MILLER RESTED his hands on his head.

  What a mess. He hated reading about this. Made him sad, angry, and depressed. How many times did he see the footage on TV, the mushroom clouds billowing over the sky, the flattened cities, the thousands dying, and dead heaped in mounds? He'd wanted to throw up when he saw that. He'd imagined all those people dying in a quick flash. But the reality was that they probably died long, agonizing deaths from smoke inhalation, radiation, fire, and suffocation from being buried alive.

  He clicked on a name.

  Key Player: Miloschenko, Tavin

  An image of a man in a gray suit appeared. He had shoulder-length hair and wore a gold chain.

  TAVIN MILOSCHENKO, Director of the Zachary Empire’s Scientific Advancement Department. Job responsibilities include overseeing the empire’s genetic research and bioengineering department. Also consults with the weapon division. Currently suspected of creating biological weapons. Fined two years ago for importing large amounts of Bacillus brazacis bacteria with the intent of stockpiling them for a potential attack. He is suspected to be the mastermind behind the attack on Traverse II. He has connections with Arguses and is believed to have supplied child labor for asteroid mining operations. Miloschenko operates in secrecy and very little is known about his behavior other than that he is extremely dangerous and vindictive. Do not investigate without director GALPOL director and Special Crimes Unit approval.

  SUDDENLY MILLER DIDN'T WANT to read anymore.

  Instead, he wanted to know why another GALPOL special agent had an interest in the Zachary Empire and its most powerful scientist.

  It wouldn't have been uncommon to have such an interest. The Zachary Empire was definitely a GALPOL target. Miller had heard of cases involving them. But they were under the control of the Special Crimes Unit.

  Anyone part of that unit had to log in under a special user name and password, not their personal details.

  Miller clicked and visited the company directory.

  He typed in the agent’s name.

  D. Sharma.

  A photo of an Indian woman appeared on the screen. Her hair was tied up into a bun, with several black strands hanging down her cheeks. She had sad, troubled brown eyes.

  Miller knew eyes like that. Like most GALPOL agents, it was the mark of someone who had seen something. Something horrible. Something that probably made her want to join the force.

  She looked young, too. Mid to late twenties. Practically a baby by his definition.

  Baby special agent snooping around where she shouldn't have been. Trying to be a hero.

  Made sense.

  Back when he still had mostly color in his hair, when he was a green agent, he'd wanted to change the galaxy, too. And he learned too quickly that the didn't want to be changed, that all that was waiting for cops like him was a supernova hiding around the corner. So he drank himself stupid and filled his lungs with smoke every two hours. Worked for a while until the divorce. Then he got a new perspective. An old guy perspective.

  That's where this chick was headed. She had it written all over eyes.

  Miller felt sorry for her.

  He found a telephone number on her directory page and pulled out his phone.

  The line rang.

  Rang.

  Rang.

  Miller drummed his fingers on the desk as it rang and rang.

  “You've reached the voicemail of GALPOL Special Agent Devika Sharma…”

  That voice.

  He knew that voice. Where did he know that voice?

  Beep.

  Miller stuttered.

  Damn. He had to leave a message and he'd already lost seconds.

  “Hey, uh, Agent Sharma, this is Agent Ryan Miller from the Short Arm Crimes Unit. I need to talk to you about a few things, namely some Internet database searches. Call me back at this number.”

  Too curt. Too forward.

  By the time he hung up, he kicked himself.

  He hadn't said what he truly wanted to say.

  Listen, I get what you're doing. I don't blame ya. When you're new to the force, you want to come in and shake things up. But pretty soon you find out that the trees you're shaking have coconuts in them. And when on of them hits you on the head it's too late…

  But he couldn't say that. He needed her to call him back, not listen to a lecture.

  But hell, he'd wished someone would have told him this advice when he was new. Would have saved him so much trouble.

  And then he remembered the woman’s voice.

  He'd heard her on TV once. She was one of those orphan kids on the asteroids.

  Miller snapped his fingers.

  It was all coming together now.

  That's why she was so broken. Mining an asteroid as a kid would do that to you. No wonder she joined GALPOL.

  This kid was as easy to read as a book.

  He clicked away from her directory page and returned to Tavin Miloschenko’s profile page.

  Something jumped out him.

  Tavin Miloschenko.

  Zachary Empire.

  Miller looked at the lead sheet Dawn had given him.

  T.M.Z.E.

  Tavin Miloschenko, Zachary Empire.

  Miller scratched his head.

  If “Federation” kept popping up in Smoke’s head, then why was Miloschenko’s signature in his data?

  Unless the memories in Smoke’s head were altered.

  Miller grabbed his notebook and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He threw on his fedora and coat haphazardly.

  He had to find Agent Devika Sharma.

  And more importantly, he had to find Tavin Miloschenko.

  32

  The hot sun bore down on Smoke as he trudged through the sand. Several long, flatbed trucks followed behind him and the line of prisoners, throwing up clouds of dust.

  The strangers had given all the prisoners a drink of water and a pouch of cheese, bread, and a few cubes of chicken meat. The strangers watched in amusement as the men ate like pigs.

  Smoke himself ate quickly, aware of the eyes.

  Then, the strangers fired their handcoils and mar
ched the men through the city, down the streets filled with onlookers hanging out of windows and balconies watching them.

  The place looked utilitarian. The structures, while not elaborate, were functional.

  Soon the city disappeared and they were back in the desert, marching into nowhere.

  The prisoners marched quietly. The strangers walked quietly. And then the trucks drove out to meet them.

  Smoke wondered what the trucks were for. But it was a momentary thought; the chains chafed against his skin. A few more hours and there would be blisters. Once blisters started in this kind of weather, there'd be no healing them. The heat would just keep making them worse, like a bad disease that would never go away. If the elements got into his body—sand scraping against the metal alloy in his bones—he wouldn't last long at all. He'd die a slow death as the desert ate him from the inside out.

  A truck zoomed by him. The driver waved out the window and honked.

  Tara, who was walking beside Smoke, waved back and laughed.

  “Almost there, nimrods!”

  Smoke spotted triangular mounds in the distance. They were oddly shaped.

  They looked like small buildings, but not quite.

  “Get your muscles ready!” Tara yelled. “Gonna be doing some lifting, nimrods!”

  As they came closer, Smoke saw that the mounds were not buildings.

  They were building materials.

  Mounds and mounds of wood, concrete bags, bricks, and tools. Shovels. Trowels. Ladders. The materials were covered in metal nets and had flags atop them.

  They had been dropped.

  From space.

  Large black pods were scattered across the sands. They must have housed the materials.

  One of the strangers ran quickly around the mounds, counting.

  “They're all here, Tara!” he said.

  Smoke glanced to Tara who motioned the prisoners to stop. One by one, she unlocked everyone’s handcuffs.

  When she reached Smoke, she looked him in the eye.

  “We heard about you,” she said. “Try any bullshit and you're mine, you hear me, cyborg?”

  With a click she unlocked his handcuffs.

  Smoke rubbed his wrists.

  Tara pointed to a mound of wood, then pointed to a flatbed truck parked next to it.

  “Load the truck,” she said. “And don't just throw everything on there. Load it right!”

  Smoke trudged toward the truck along with a group of other prisoners. With a huge jump, Smoke landed on top of the wood mound. The other prisoners gasped.

  Smoke took a pile of wood and heaved it ten feet onto the back of the truck.

  “You,” he said, pointing to a short Asian man, “Get up there and organize the wood after I throw it.”

  The man jumped onto the flatbed more out of fear than out of duty. He took the wood that lay haphazardly on the bed and stacked it neatly against the cab.

  Smoke heaved more wood. Two other men jumped onto the mound with him.

  One of the men was Stacks.

  “This is some real bullshit, isn't it?” Stacks said, taking one piece of wood at a time.

  Smoke glanced at the little man and his dainty work ethic. He picked up a two-by-four like a child afraid of getting a splinter.

  Smoke puffed.

  “You had a second chance to think about my offer?” Stacks asked.

  “You see what I did to the poor bastard who asked me that same question last time?” Smoke asked. “You must feel like flying today.”

  Smoke pointed to the sand below.

  “Look, I ain't got a death wish,” Stacks said. “But look at what they're doing to us. You want to be a slave for the rest of your life, buddy?”

  Smoke didn't want to be a slave, but the question wasn't worth answering.

  “From now on,” Stacks said, “I’m taking your silence as a yes answer.”

  “Take my silence as silence,” Smoke said.

  Stacks laughed.

  “You're gonna come around to me,” Stacks said. “Folks always do. Trust me. I can be pretty persuasive—”

  WHACK!

  Smoke slapped Stacks with a two-by-four, knocking him off the mound. Stacks landed on his back, winded.

  “Stay away from me,” Smoke said. “Or next time you might land on your head.”

  Stacks wiped sand from his face and spit.

  “Screw you!” he cried. He scurried across the sand toward another mound.

  A rock hit Smoke on the head. He grunted.

  It was Tara.

  “I told you I didn't want any crap from you, cyborg,” she shouted.

  Smoke glared at Stacks, who was helping another group of men load tools onto a flatbed.

  Then he focused on the backbreaking work, sweating profusely as the hot sun shone down on him.

  33

  Miller folded his arms as a wrecker ship deposited a giant piece of crumpled metal into the GALPOL station airlock. The metal arm of the red wrecker beeped as it guided the ship downward. The wrecker ship reminded Miller of an insect—multiple arms with a wide body.

  A police officer marshaled the arm into a giant black circle in the middle of the airlock.

  Miller scrunched up his nose.

  The ship stunk. Bad. Like rotten trash.

  And the stink of a dead body, one that had been decomposing for a few days. He knew that stink anywhere.

  The ship landed on the floor with a boom. Against the backdrop of space through the tall, canister windows, the ship looked like a deformed flower in the moonlight, ready to bloom.

  “What exactly am I looking at?” Miller asked.

  Sergeant James Danforth read from a tablet.

  “Pioneer ship found drifting afloat in space…”

  “I see that,” Miller said. “But what does it have to do with my investigation?”

  Danforth was an old friend. They'd patrolled together in their early days, back when GALPOL had a real headquarters and agents had pensions, dental insurance that you could get excited about, and a buddy system. The two of them busted a lot of space pirates back in the day. After a life-threatening experience during a sting, Danforth opted for a cushy office job with occasional field work. Records.

  He had a wife and kid. Miller couldn't blame him, but he was one hell of a drinking buddy back in the day. Irish and old boy as they come.

  “You called me at just the right time,” Danforth said.

  “And here I was thinking you wanted to reminisce about the good old days,” Miller said.

  Danforth chuckled. “All that drinking? Hell no. If I had a drink now, I'd be on the floor.”

  “Wouldn't we all,” Miller said. “Gave it up long ago, myself. And hell, I don't even have a little one.”

  “Shit, my boy’s in college now.”

  “Get outta here. You kiddin’ me?” Miller asked.

  “A hundred thousand dollars in loans later, you bet I ain't kiddin’. Going to the academy.”

  “I'll be damned,” Miller said. “I'll send him a gift. How about a strip club gift card and a bottle of scotch? Get him started on the necessary vices early.”

  Danforth hit him on the chest playfully.

  “If you're buyin’, how about you give it to me instead?” Danforth asked.

  After a moment of silence, they stared down at the broken ship. The police offer paid the wrecker driver, a man in a flannel shirt. The wrecker driver climbed into his ship and blasted out of the airlock, his red ship gleaming in the starlight.

  “We found this ship on Refugio,” Danforth said. “Chief Ted Vargas called me about it a few hours ago.”

  “What's the story?” Miller asked.

  “According to Chief Vargas, a garbage man found it on his regular route. Reported it to the cops. Found a dead body inside.”

  “That I can smell,” Miller said.

  “Vargas didn't write much in his narrative. Pretty much handed it over to us since it's going to be our case.”

  Mi
ller studied the ship.

  “Just one body?” he asked.

  “Far as we can tell,” Danforth said.

  “That's a little weird,” Miller said. “A pioneer ship like this one would take at least a dozen people to run it, wouldn't you think?”

  “I'd say so.”

  “What else did Vargas say?” Miller asked.

  “Not much. He's a weird one. Awfully weasley if you ask me. We tried to ask some follow-up questions, but we can't get through. Must be a power outage on Refugio or something. Haven't been able to get through for a few hours.”

  Miller clucked his tongue and his eyes went back to the ship.

  “Mind if I take a look?” he asked.

  “The Refugio Police Department preserved as much evidence as they could. Body’s in a bag that was transported separately, so you won't mess anything up.”

  Miller paused.

  “Did they identify the body?” he asked.

  Danforth flicked between screens on the tablet.

  “Looks like it belonged to a Mr. Tavin Miloschenko.”

  Miller cursed.

  “What's wrong?” Danforth asked.

  “That was my lead.”

  Danforth’s eyes widened.

  “Mind getting me a coffee?” Miller asked, jogging down the stairs. “Strongest espresso they got. Something tells me I'm lookin’ at another all-nighter.”

  34

  Miller lifted the body bag and peeked at Tavin Miloschenko’s body.

  Not pretty.

  He recognized the man’s face from the database dossier, and his long, black hair. And the golden chain and gray suit.

  “Died from an intestinal wound,” Danforth said. “Guy got stabbed something awful.”

  “A man like Miloschenko must have had a lot of enemies,” Miller said. He leaned in and inspected the bowel wound; there was a large hole in Miloschenko’s midsection, with tearing at the edges. Whoever stabbed him had twisted the knife and pulled out the knife almost immediately, creating a bigger hole upon exit.

  “He was wanted for murder, human trafficking, human rights abuses, piracy, and biological warfare, for starters,” Danforth said, “but they were all allegations. No one could ever prove anything.”