Solar Storm (Galaxy Mavericks Book 5) Page 11

  “Of course not,” Miller said. “The Zachary Empire can do no wrong. Bunch of baloney. Wish the big-wigs up top could see that instead of signing meaningless accords all day long. Do we have a murder weapon?”

  “We do, believe it or not.”

  Danforth held up a plastic bag with a blood-stained, brown knife inside.

  “What kind of knife is that?” Miller asked. “That's the kind of knife you use to disembowel a giant animal. God.”

  “Still waiting on the prints,” Danforth said. “Should be any moment now.”

  Miller zipped up Miloschenko’s body bag. Then he followed Danforth into the busted ship. They stepped delicately through the dripping darkness. Danforth pulled out a flashlight and shone it across the walls.

  “Weird thing is,” Danforth said, “We found fingerprints all over the place.”

  “How is that weird? Wouldn’t a spaceship normally have fingerprints from regular use?” Miller asked.

  “Yeah,” Danforth said. “But all the fingerprints are the same.”

  “Same person?”

  Danforth nodded.

  “It takes at least a dozen people to fly a ship like this,” Miller said. “You’re telling me you found the fingerprints of only one person?”

  “Hell if I can explain it.”

  “And you checked all the surfaces?” Miller asked.

  “All of ‘em.”

  They entered the Specimen Room. The human-size test tubes were broken and the walls were streaked with blood.

  “Get blood samples if you can,” Miller said. “Guarantee you we’ll see some diversity there.”

  Danforth spoke into a walker-talkie.

  Miller folded his arms.

  “Now, if I was going to incubate a cyborg, here might be the place to do it.”

  “I guess,” Danforth said.

  “So here’s my theory,” Miller said. “Poke holes in it, will you? Tavin Miloschenko is involved in some sort of illegal deal. Got recruited to create a cyborg for a nice sum of cash. Cyborg goes crazy, wrecks the place, kills his creator, and then goes on a killing spree down on Coppice.”

  “Doesn’t make sense to me,” Danforth said. “Cyborg didn’t have clear prints. The prints on this ship are clearly human.”

  “Maybe someone set the cyborg free,” Miller said.

  “We don’t have any proof that there ever was a cyborg on this ship,” Danforth said. “That Smoke guy had weird prints, but these ain't his.”

  “I’m stumped,” Miller said. “Completely stumped. For now.”

  Danforth’s tablet beeped.

  “Miller, you gotta see this,” Danforth said. His voice was incredulous.

  Miller looked around, finished taking a mental note of the Specimen Room. Then he looked at Miller’s tablet. The words FINGERPRINT MATCH appeared on the screen in green letters.

  “We got a match,” Danforth said, “and you’re not gonna believe who it is.”

  Miller cocked his head.

  “Can’t be,” he said, scratching his temple.

  “Positive match, my friend,” Danforth said.

  “No,” Miller said, shaking his head. “This is bullshit.”

  “If it is, then we’re aliens.”

  Miller hit Danforth on shoulder softly. “Any idea what kind of media shit storm this is going to cause? Oh God, please don't do this to me, Danny boy. Not again.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” Danforth said. “My girls in forensics don't make mistakes.”

  “Jesus,” Miller said. “Let’s get a warrant, then.”

  Miller stroked his chin and formulated a game plan.

  Devika Sharma’s photo stared back at him.

  35

  Smoke rode on top of a wood mound as the flatbed drove back into town. Again, the men, women and children were there, watching the new prisoners as if a television show had come to town.

  Smoke rode in silence, staring up at the brown sky, which was starting to streak with black. The temperature was dropping, and it was getting cold. Fast.

  The flatbed rumbled into a job site that stretched for several acres. The land was flattened and ready for development, with square plots staked out in the sand, with stakes and ropes to mark locations.

  Smoke glanced back at the small city. The gray, austere buildings were made from the same materials that the prisoners had loaded onto the flatbeds.

  The strangers were using the prisoners to add on to their city.

  Smoke could think of worse ways to spend his time as an inmate.

  But something else wasn’t right. The way that strangers looked at them. The fact that there were women and children here, that the police just ejected the prisoners off the jail ship without any warning.

  Smoke couldn’t figure it out, but something about this planet rubbed him the wrong way.

  As the truck came to a stop, Tara jumped out and barked for everyone to start unloading.

  Smoke sprung up and started throwing the wood down from the bed. Soon, his section was unloaded, and all around the acreage, the materials were strewn haphazardly across the sand.

  “Nice work for today!” Tara said, gesturing for all the men to line up. At the entrance to the job site, two men were cooking at a barbecue grill. Smoke smelled the burning meat and was instantly hungry.

  “The first night’s on us,” Tara said. “After this, you’ll be cooking your own damned meals.”

  Smoke joined the line of hungry prisoners as the strangers served barbecued chicken.

  AS MOONLIGHT FELL on the sands, Smoke ate quietly. He’d learned to eat with handcuffs on, something he never thought would be a natural affair.

  The barbecue chicken was okay. Better than the tasteless meatloaf they served on the jail ship. He crumpled his styrofoam plate and threw it to the ground. He stole a glance around the site; the prisoners were gathered in clumps, eating and talking quietly. The strangers were overseeing the meal, walking around with coil rifles, watching for any sign of trouble.

  Several yards away, Tara paced across the sands. Something was on her mind, and she was talking to herself.

  Smoke studied her, tried to figure her out.

  He couldn’t.

  Her pacing took her past a flatbed truck at the outskirts of the group.

  Smoke crept across the sands and hid behind the other side of the truck. When she passed, he reached out and grabbed her, covering her mouth. His handcuffs jangled.

  “I have some questions,” he said, retreating into the shadows.

  Tara bit his hands, but he didn’t recoil.

  “Kill me if you want,” Smoke said. “But you’re still going to answer my questions.”

  Tara relaxed and Smoke dragged her further away from the lights of the group, hiding by the front of the truck so no one could see them.

  “Who are you?” Smoke asked.

  Tara struggled against his hand, but he hushed her.

  “I have no qualms about either of us dying right now,” Smoke said. “I’ve been in worse situations. This one is looking pretty good so far.”

  He uncovered her mouth and she gasped for air.

  “We’re just like you,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Smoke asked.

  “You think the police threw you on this planet to be our slaves?” she asked.

  Smoke said nothing.

  “Who do you think we are?” she asked. “Like I said, we’re just like you.”

  “If you’re just like me, then why am I in handcuffs?”

  Tara held out her hands. In the moonlight, he saw scars on her wrists; they were chafed, too, like they had seen the mark of handcuffs.

  “I’m four years into a life sentence,” she said. “Piracy. Got caught transporting fake currency across galaxy lines.”

  “You’re a convict?” Smoke asked.

  “All of us are.”

  Smoke hesitated. “So who’s the warden?”

  Tara laughed. “Everyone’s a warden in their own right. We�
��re down here on our own. No cops. No rules. Every man and woman for himself.”

  “But what about the kids?” Smoke asked. “There are kids here.”

  “Holy consummation,” Tara said. “What else do you think happens when they dump men and women on a planet together?”

  “How do we get off this rock?” Smoke asked.

  “There’s no getting off,” Tara said. “Only surviving. All newbies say the same thing. But trust me, you’re stuck here just like the rest of us.”

  “Stuck being your slave.”

  “No,” Tara said. “We make the new guys build their own shelters. Get them used to the rules. Then we cut you loose and you’re citizens like the rest of us, scrounging for food and trying to locate the drops. Damned wardens drop food every couple of days, but the hard part is finding it.”

  “When were you going to tell us this?” Smoke asked, pulling her tightly.

  “I was rehearsing my speech just now, you bastard,” she said. “You know, before you took me hostage.”

  Smoke let her go, and she kicked him in the stomach before jumping away.

  The impact hit Smoke hard, and he doubled over.

  Tara panted.

  “The sooner you get used to the rules here, the easier you'll adapt. As hard as it is for a newbie like you to accept it, you're stuck here just like the rest of us, buddy.”

  Tara left him behind the truck, with the moonlight on his face.

  And then the reality set in.

  He wasn't going anywhere.

  He was stuck on this rock of a planet and he might as well get used to it.

  Modern justice…

  Survival of the fittest.

  Every man for himself.

  He could deal with it. But he would need help.

  He would need a gang.

  But he wasn't about to join one.

  He beat his knuckles together and started running through a mental roster of all the inmates, thinking of who he could trust.

  That was going to be the hardest part.

  Smoke sighed, walked toward the camp of prisoners, his mind calculating new odds.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Another book, another drink.

  Seriously.

  I always have a drink after I write an author’s note, because that signifies the end of the whole process for me. That’s worth celebrating! (A Scotch and Seven sounds VERY good right now!)

  This is my ritual every time I finish a novel:

  I have a drink, usually around 9PM that night.

  I play Queen’s “We Are the Champions” once.

  I have a whiteboard next to my desk that has my lifetime word count on it. I update the word count.

  I figure out how long the next novel will take me.

  Then I sit down and write it.

  So I don’t celebrate for very long.

  But you have to have fun in this business. If you don’t, you won’t last very long!

  Smoke’s Inspiration

  I had two character images in my head when I wrote Smoke.

  Soldier: 76 from Overwatch.

  Grobyc from Chrono Cross.

  Two weird characters but badass in their own right.

  So I Have this Little Marketing Idea

  As I write this, I am currently five books into the Galaxy Mavericks series.

  I haven’t released any of them yet.

  It’s almost unheard of. But I’m doing it for a reason.

  As a reader, I would hate, hate, HATE it when my favorite author didn’t finish a series. Or if they took too long to finish one. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve loved the first book in a series, only to find out that an author abandoned it for something more shiny.

  I don’t want to be a victim of that same crime.

  So I want to make a commitment to my readers.

  Books 1-3 available on release day, with the each remaining book to follow two weeks to one month apart until the series is complete.

  I have a little theory.

  If you’re a reader (which you have to be because you’re reading this—ha ha) you probably are more willing to buy a series that’s already written than one that is not written yet.

  Genius…

  No, not really.

  If you love Stephen King, of course you’re going to buy everything he writes. He could string a series along for fifty years and people would still salivate over each book on day one.

  But I’m not Stephen King.

  I’m just some random black guy in Iowa that writes science fiction and fantasy novels, so I’ve got a be a little bit more creative in how I market my books, right?

  I would rather make my dressers wait a little longer between series than give them novels on a slow drip with no guarantee that I'll finish the series.

  A lot of authors today abandon series after one or two books if they don't sell. That's extremely short-sighted in my opinion and a big slap in the face to readers. So doing it my way helps also ensure that I write the stories I want to write, how I want to write them, with no outside interference. My theory is that you'll enjoy my books better when I do it that way.

  As of this writing, I have NO idea if my marketing strategy will even work. Basically, I’m launching a ten book series with the whole thing complete on day one. Will it work? No idea. But it has been fun so far!

  Something Different This Time

  My goal is to make each of the first seven books in this series look and feel different while still taking place in the same universe.

  Grayson is a hero type and his book is adventurous. His story is the classic hero-learning-how-to-be-a-hero-while-becoming-wiser story.

  Keltie is level-headed and smart, and her book is scrappy. Her story is about discovering herself against the face of death.

  Devi is somewhat of an enigma with a troubled past, and her book is action-packed.

  Eddie is a family man, and his book is more emotional. He's not a hero at all. He's a husband, father and son who gets dragged into a deadly conflict.

  Michiko (you'll meet her in the next book) is happy-go-lucky, and her book is fun but daring and adventurous.

  Which brings me to Smoke…

  Smoke is the black sheep of the group. Hell, his very name should give that away. This book is the black sheep of the bunch. Backward narrative, false memories where names and details are slightly confused…

  Smoke is a trickster and his book is mental roller coaster ride.

  And Florian, the villain, well, don't get me started on his book yet (but you'll love it).

  It's fun exploring the characters and making them all converge, especially when I don't always know what's going to happen.

  I Wrote This Book While Traveling

  Ask any author how they feel about writing when they travel.

  Most of us have an image in our heads of sitting on a beach, sipping a drink, feet in the sand, gulls wheeling overhead, palm trees swaying in the breeze, a book on the table and a laptop open so we can write our next novel facing the open, clear-blue sea.

  Yeah, that rarely happens.

  In fact, until now, when I travel the writing usually gets put on hold.

  Obvious reasons: traveling is a hassle and it's not easy. You're often tired, dehydrated, in a hurry, and thinking of a million other things. Especially if you're traveling for business.

  I have to travel for my current job regularly, and I decided that I was going to figure out how to be productive while traveling on business.

  Would it surprise you to know that I write most of novels on my phone these days?

  Yep, just about all the words you're reading were written with my thumbs.

  No laptop, typewriter, pen or paper needed (thanks, Scrivener for iOS!)

  Don't worry—all my books still get edited by professionals.

  But mobile writing makes this job a hell of a lot easier. It's easy to sit down in a hotel room and write five hundred words even when
you're tired at the end of the day. Even easier when you're on a plane for four hours. Sure, you might look a little funny, but who cares?

  I don't know too many people who do this, but it's definitely fun and interesting. And it is one of the secrets behind why I produce so many books each year. All those little sessions add up in a big way.

  Music References

  Smoke’s real name, Gino Mariano, comes from two of my favorite musicians: Gino Vannelli and Cesar Camargo Mariano.

  Gino Vannelli is a Canadian musician who rose to fame in the 1970s with his jazz/pop/fusion. So many of his songs have a fierce bravado, a lonely lover living life like a storm. Extremely masculine, but not in a chauvinistic way like some artists. I remember finding his Storm at Sunup album in my dad’s vinyl crates in my basement in college, and it changed my life. Never knew jazz could sound like this and be so bold and aggressive and fun. I tried to channel his lyrics in Smoke’s human character. Gino is one of my go-to artists when I need inspiration. Any song on the Storm at Sunup album rocks, but I love the Brother to Brother album, and the songs “Stay With Me” and “Living Inside Myself.”

  Cesar Camargo Mariano is a Brazilian jazz songwriter and musician who is criminally underrated. He's got a style like no one else. It's playful jazz (sounds like an oxymoron—jazz is usually so serious, like a stern uncle).

  First off, I love Brazilian jazz. In my opinion it's the best there is. So much music in Brazil is unknown to outsiders, but if you spend time musically there like I have, and if you like good chords and are willing to dig past the contemporary musicians that every knows, it will continue to surprise you. Brazil is constantly renewable energy when it comes to music.

  Anyhoo, Cesar Camargo Mariano is one hell of a pianist. His Mitos album is a chord extravaganza. He's the kind artist that draws in people with temperaments like mine. I get the way he thinks. If you do too, then you'll love him.

  As for other references, Josie is named after Steely Dan’s song of the same name (a very good song, at that).

  Thanks Again

  As always, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. Five books into the series, I can't say much that I haven't said already except THANK YOU.

  Who is the next Maverick?