Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel by George Ellis (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📕

it Oregon,” Desmond said, as if he didn’t know the exact origin of the ale, right down to the name of the person who brewed it. Those were the kinds of details a man like Desmond always knew. His whole empire – and whatever he claimed his fleet was, it was an empire – was based on possessing all the information. Where ships are. What they’re carrying. How they’re protecting it.

“Now you have a taste of what it’s like to be me,” he said. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s amazing,” I replied, referring to the beer, knowing full well he was talking about my status as an outlaw wanted by the federation. I had a 1000-credit Binding Federation Warrant hanging over my head.

“Back when I worried about such matters, I think the most extravagant BFW they had out on me was only 500 credits,” he said, either feigning admiration or actually feeling some.

“Thought it was a kill warrant,” I noted. I had also done my research.

“True. It was a kill,” he said, in apparent admiration of himself. “Yet here I am.”

I’d had enough of the small talk, so I figured it was time to rip the bandaid off to see just how screwed I really was.

“Look Des, I like you,” I confessed, for some reason poking the bear by calling him by a nickname. “I like your beer. I like your ship. I even like the way you smell. Seriously, I need that soap. But why am I here this time, especially when I clearly screwed you over last time?”

“You are here, Denver, because I need you to kill 18 people for me,” he said, as if he was telling me he needed me to discard my empty can in the trash.

I looked Desmond directly in his steely blue eyes. “That’s exactly 18 more people than I would ever say yes to. I’m not a killer. I’m just a wrecker, trying to get by in this damn verse.”

“What if I told you these 18 people were the crew of the Rox?” he asked.

“That ship doesn’t exist.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” He tapped a few buttons on his handheld and a monitor on the wall came to life, projecting the image of a long, cylindrical ship with multiple rail guns and a stout nose. “This is the Rox about six months ago somewhere between Mars and Jupiter.”

The Rox was short for the Roxelle Baker, the rumored sniper-ship. It was rumored because nobody had ever actually seen the vessel. Or at least nobody had lived to tell about it. Anytime a ship went missing or was blasted to atoms, talk of the Rox would kick up. To hear some pilots tell it, the Rox was the manmade equivalent of a black hole, swallowing all other ships that were unlucky enough to cross its path. Depending who you got the story from, the Rox was either a rogue federation vessel, a totally independent group of sadists, a sniper-ship affiliated with the Tracers, or available for hire to the highest bidder. Those were a lot of options. And in my experience, that many conflicting rumors usually amounted to squat. I guessed I was about to hear Desmond’s theory.

And I guessed wrong.

He touched a remote on his handheld and the door slid open. A moment later, the Mountain Man lumbered into the room, ducking his head to clear the doorway. He stewed at the sight of me, but seemed slightly less inclined to tear my head off in Desmond’s presence. Emphasis on the slightly part.

“Denver, this is Edgar,” Desmond gestured, introducing us properly. I waved. Edgar didn’t.

“Why don’t you educate our guest here on your former ship?” Desmond asked Edgar, before turning to me. “Another drink?”

“I think I might need it,” I managed.

Edgar spent the next five minutes explaining that before he was a weapons tech on the Golden Bear, he had crewed five years in the same position on the Rox. It turned out a few of the rumors weren’t true. The Rox had no affiliation with the Tracers or the federation. It was an independent, offering its services to the highest bidder. He went on to explain that about six months ago, he had a falling out with the captain of the Rox. Unfortunately for Edgar, working on the Rox wasn’t a casual endeavor. Once you signed on, your only way out was floating lifeless in space or being shipped to a “retirement” colony on a remote space station. Being on the wrong side of the captain almost always sentenced you to the first option.

“So how’d you escape?” I interrupted.

“None of your concern,” Edgar growled.

I put my hands wide, palms up. “We’re talking about the most mysterious ship in the verse. I’m just supposed to take it at face value that you were the only genius clever enough to escape it and live to tell the tale? You?”

Edgar stepped toward me, murder in his eyes and his clenched fists. His giant knuckles were stark white, and the oaf wanted nothing more than to smash my skull with them. Desmond calmed him with a raised hand.

“I’m going to ask you to take my word for it, Denver,” Desmond interjected. “Edgar speaks the truth. How he got here, as he said, is not your concern.”

I shrugged. “Let’s say all of this is true. Fine. I go back to a question I’ve asked you a few times now: why me?”

When they didn’t answer, I stood up. “Thanks for the beer and the story, but I think I’ve heard enough…”

Suddenly, I was airborne. Like two feet off the ground. And I had a sharp pain in my neck and shoulders. Tired of my attitude, Edgar had simply grabbed my shoulders from behind and picked me up off my feet. I was like a helpless toddler, swinging my feet in vain.

“Edgar, please,” Desmond gently scolded. “Put our young friend down.”

Next thing I knew I was slammed to the ground on my side. “He said put me down, not pile