The First Nova I See Tonight by Jason Kilgore (the false prince .txt) 📕

"The Feds have their own people for shit like that." Dirken put his blaster on the table — the universal signal that the conversation was over. But Weed didn't relent.

"All I know is," Weed said, "they sent me to find you and give you the offer. It's a shitload of money, too. They need to keep it off the books, so it has to be an outside job. I don't know anything more about it."

Yiorgos gave a subtle nod to Dirken that said, Give him a chance. It wouldn't have been the first time they've done dirty work for a planetary government, but never for Earth. Earth governments were notorious for political backstabbing and poor ability to keep anything secret for long. Dirken kept his blaster on the table, his hand on the handle.

"Yeah? Exactly how much is a shitload?" Dirken asked.

"Enough to buy a ship and still get a blowjob every day of your life." He leaned forward and whispered, "Seven hundred thousand."

Warning bells were going off in Dirken's mind. That was indeed a "shitload." It would be the best-paying gig they ever had for the least amount of work. There was a hint of desperation in that oily middleman's eyes, like his own life was maybe on the line if he didn't succeed in hiring them.

"Bullshit," Dirken said. "It's too good to be true."

Weed tensed. "Look, fuckface, I'm just the messenger. But I can tell you it's for real. You know these government types. They rob everyone blind with taxes, then they turn around and waste it on, well, this."

Dirken gestured toward the bar. "Give us some space. I'll talk with my partner and decide if it's worth it. Frankly, I think you're full of shit."

"Whatever," Weed mumbled, "but I'll sweeten the deal. A thousand UW chits if you just show up, even if you don't accept the mission." Then he went over to the bar, shooting the pair one last look before he signaled the bartender for a liquor globe.

Dirken and Yiorgos leaned toward each other. "Well?" Dirken said. "A thousand just for showing up. Sounds good to me. I say we take the gig."

Yiorgos scowled. "You were the one who said he's full of shit."

Dirken cocked a smile. "And you were the one who seemed willing to give him a chance. I think he's sincere. I think he's afraid we'll say no. The stakes are high, and so is the pot, but we hardly have to do anything." When Yiorgos shrugged, Dirken gave a playful punch against his partner's arm. "Come on, if anyone's got smuggling in his blood it's you!" Yiorgos smiled back. Feeling encouraged, Dirken continued, "You had ancient relatives trafficking contraband from the free nations to the Concubists!"

"Communists," Yiorgos corrected. "During the Cold War era, in Europe — at least that's the family legend. And then there was my great-great-great grandfather, who got rich stealing satellites from Earth and selling them to the early Mars colonies."

"And your father, running ice through blockades during the Fringe Worlds siege."

Yiorgos huffed. "And he eventually died from his injuries." The cyborg looked Dirken his eyes. "What's your gut tell you?"

Dirken grew serious a moment. "That there's more than Weed's telling us. That it's more dangerous than he's letting on. But… if we come out alive, we'll finally be able to get a ship of our own again."

Yiorgos nodded. "Okay. Then let's go with it." He raised a finger at Dirken, "But promise me, this time I won't have to bail you out of jail for screwing someone's wife… again!"

Dirken raised his hands. "Oh come on! That was one time!" Then he added, "And besides, the Commandant of Lanus Station had sixteen wives! Who knew he'd even miss one for a few hours?"

Yiorgos just shook his head and waved to Weed to come back over.

"Fine," Dirken said to Weed. "My partner talked me into it. We'll take the job, but only if you give us five hundred chits right now. We have to pay for transportation to Earth, after all."

Weed growled and handed them five hundred-chit notes. "Here are your instructions." Weed then slipped them a piece of paper with instructions on when and where to meet, then he disappeared into the crowd, relief washing over his face.

The instructions were to meet at a landing pad in an industrial area in New Miami, North America (over three hundred kilometers north of Old Miami, now a cluster of crumbling skyscrapers poking out of the ocean) at noon, local time. It took a few hours to arrange an interplanetary transport, then a few hours more to fly there.

When Dirken and Yiorgos showed up in New Miami, government security whisked them away in a luxury hovcar to a nondescript warehouse near the spaceport. Standing amid rusting hulks of industrial machinery and the smell of grease so strong that Dirken had checked the soles of his leather boots to see if he'd stepped in it, they were surrounded by more security officers, all conspicuously armed. Thinking again that this was a trap, Dirken was about to pull his blaster when in walked one of those "top government officials" Weed had mentioned. In fact, it didn't get much more "top" than the Governor of the Americas himself.

Governor Juarez was a tall man with a bushy black beard peppered with gray. His dark eyes flashed with conviviality, crow's feet showing as he smiled. Dressed in a dark blue, formal business suit, he was every bit the suave Latino businessman when he spoke. But with every pause in the brief dialog there was a hint of conspiracy. Dirken expected no less. He had seen this in the eyes of so many of their clients over the years.

"Gentlemen," Juarez said, "no doubt you recognize me. No need to seem so surprised. I felt I should come here myself for such an important task."

Dirken blinked. He hadn't ever talked with such a powerful politician before, much less under secretive