How to avoid a bounty

Kepler made a fine living as an arms dealer. Old Azure connections gave him access to high grade weapons, secret shipping routes, and another bishop or two willing to look the other way for a piece of the action. Kepler always paid extra. A man of his profession lived less than a breath away from trouble and paying extra was a good way to avoid it. Most of the time.

Eight years ago, the Black Wolf sector waged a war dubbed “The War of the Five Crowns” where members of the Durbin and Epsilon royal houses learned Kepler was the major supplier to their forces. A wildfire of bad news spread, and it wasn’t long before he was a wanted man. With a bounty of fifteen million credits on his head, Kepler couldn’t avoid the sector with war or rebellion just around the corner. The money was too good.

We are born to die and pay taxes.

Water dredgers on Durbin, chieftains on Tulaneo, and criminals all feel the scythe of the taxman. Being wanted in the galaxy and not paying council taxes often meant a visit to the torture chambers of Tulaneo, the death pits of Epsilon, the grave, or worst yet Azure prison. Kepler came to Black Wolf to get rich, if only to stay alive for another year.

They were counting on him.

. . .

Kepler rubbed at the scar on his neck. Nausea punched him in the throat. Ten years of careful arms running only to get attacked by a pair of junkies in a cave in the desert. Rookie mistake. The vial of basilisk venom he drank the night before was the only thing that kept him alive; he shuddered at the memory of the blade grating against his hardened skin.

‘Hahaha! There’s the man of the hour,’ the voice rumbled into his ear while a massive arm landed on his shoulder, ‘how was your trip from Shamash, you scoundrel?’

Kepler turned to see his close friend, Garl, a seven-foot-tall Tulanese brick house of muscle towering over him. Kepler looked like a child in his friends’ arms.

‘They crammed me inside a crate full of oinkers for two weeks. I can still smell them in my hair.’

‘Come on Kep, you’re a soldier, you’re used to pigs.’ Garl replied.

‘I’m retired.’

‘Right,’ Garl said, ‘retired.’

Dishonourable discharge was the cost of his lucrative side gig. Back then the bounty on his head was only a million credits, a simpler time. In those days Hestria had a real moon, not the artificial one hanging in the sky, a glorified disco ball staring down at the Templa Hotel.

All things Hestrian received an elaborate facelift in terms of ownership and clientele after the war. The Templa was no exception. Visiting the hotel was always a sign of prosperity, only now the rich roaming the halls blended a thick sap of secrecy and deceit into their wealth.

‘I’ve been here for a week Garl, where have you been?’

‘We will talk inside.’

Before Kepler could dive into what that meant, ‘to talk inside,’ they were interrupted. The praise being heaped on Garl was equal parts welcomed and sarcastic. A higher bounty meant he could charge more for his services; there isn’t a smuggling operation in this sector or the next Garl didn’t have his hands in.

After all, his prices were fair, the quality of his work superb.

Thieves, drug dealers, and lawyers all promised to pay his tab for the night, their eyes lighting up with premonitions of future discounts leading to even more illicit riches. But a high bounty meant the Azure knew your face, your ship, your family. It took little for an Azure ship to show up blasting at your door or disappear a person without a trace. Too bad for the Azure, Garl’s wife and son were more dangerous than him.

‘Two hundred million.’ Garl said, knowing what Kepler was thinking.

A wild party raged on the dance floor of bar Templa. It was dark, shapes populated the arena of entertainment, clouds of Shamashi haze commandeered the space above the dance floor. A menagerie of robotic spotlights floated in the air.

There is a seating area to the left of the dance floor where two men Kepler recognized as Azure bishops sat taking in the sights. They turned their bishop badges upside down to signal they were here for pleasure, not business, a small bag hiding in between their seats. They were accepting payment. Kepler remembered when he was like them, just an underpaid soldier trying to earn a living.

. . .

A Shamashi man and a Durbinese merwoman made their way up to the platform in front of the bishops, each holding a dagger in one hand, an apple in their mouths. Kepler always enjoyed watching Riktak. The goal was to stab the opponent’s apple with your knife; skilled Riktak players made an art out of the dance while the unskilled left the arena of choice either bloodied or dead.

Kepler blinked twice before the game was over.

A bishop cursed at the blood-covered Shamashi and tossed a handful of credits at his partner before grabbing the bag and storming off; the Durbinese woman leaned over the stage to hand the winner her apple, along with a kiss. Kepler felt a tap on his shoulder.

‘We don’t have all night,’ Garl said, pointing to the soundproof booths at the far end of the bar, ‘let’s get to business.’

Kepler noticed eyes on him as he walked, he smiled as he felt the anguish of a missed opportunity.

A door sat beneath each light lining the corridor, at the end of which was his destination, the pinging dot on his holomap. Garl wanted Kepler for a job, a job the shadow council needed to vet Kepler for.

Garl told him to be quick, but Kepler’s curiosity often got the best of him.

He opened the first door and met a salvo of naked bodies. In a far corner, women flogged a Templa employee. In another, a man downed a vial of basilisk venom. In the centre of the room Kepler saw the loser of the Riktak wager taking part in the Durbin twist, the small bag at his feet. Kepler learned over the years the bag he was looking at contained either bombs or money. Kepler took a chance as a bomb, in his case, may be good news.

Fortune favors the bold.

Kepler made his way around the room, aching to join the madness but choosing not to. He wished to lose himself to the wonders of basilisk venom and beautiful women, disappear into pure bliss on the carousel of flesh, but life had other plans.

Kepler opened the bag to a ledger holding twenty-thousand credits, a universal time watch, and a small black notebook detailing bishop patrol routes in Black Wolf for the next six months. The money could buy him new plates for his ship on the Grey Market, plus a Digiport hacking key or two, not much in the grand scheme but things he needed. The watch was used for timing patrol routes.

. . .

The book was gold. It solved his money problems. He could sell each route to other smugglers or use them to take full hauls himself. Luck was on his side for once. Trouble would have to wait another day. If he couldn’t make enough to pay his taxes, he would at least be able to send money.

Don’t think, just keep moving, he thought. He didn’t choose to care about the little rascals at the Boustani orphanage, but as always, life had other plans.