The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission by Raymond Klein (ebook reader 7 inch txt) 📕

There were about ten workers in all, two of whom stood with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. Bollar was always amazed at how Moffit could amass an army of followers no matter where he went. Or whatever planet he was on.

One of Moffit’s lackeys came over to him. Bollar could never remember this man's name, only that he reminded him of a beady-eyed rodent from his home planet. “Good morning, Mr. Bollar. Mr. Moffit is expecting you. This way.”

Bollar knew the way, but let the Rodent lead. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and then crossed a small catwalk that overlooked the warehouse floor. When they reached Moffit's office door, the Rodent knocked and swung the door open for Bollar to enter.

“Good morning, Bollar,” Prodor said. He was standing behind his desk with his back to them. “and Taylor?”

“Yes, Mr. Moffit?” the Rodent said.

“I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Of course, Mr. Moffit.” And with that, the Rodent closed the door behind him and scurried back downstairs.

Bollar watched the Rodent as he left. “You know the humans would call him a brown noser.”

“Yes, I know. But with a certain amount of payment you get a certain amount of loyalty.” Prodor looked over his shoulder at Bollar. “So, how have you been, Bollar?”

“I’ve been well. Nice little operation you have downstairs.” Bollar was thinking that he, too, could have something like this if Moffit allowed the rest of them to produce the amount of currency he had the replicator produce for himself. “It’s gotten bigger.”

“Yes, it has,” Prodor said as he turned to face Bollar. He had two glasses of scotch in his hands and handed one to him. Bollar took it with a thank you, but really hated this swill. It reminded him of the puddles that the beady-eyed rodents back home would leave behind. He followed Prodor to the large office window that overlooked the warehouse floor.

“I have been producing a little drug that has become quite popular with the locals. It’s something I used back home during surgeries. I just added a few more ingredients to increase its potency. Which also makes it much more addictive. It’s selling like wildfire, the locals can’t get enough of it.” He took a sip. “I have several,” he paused, searching for the right word, “entrepreneurs, helping me with the distribution aspects of the product. It’s become very lucrative.”

Bollar looked down at the far side of the warehouse where an assembly line of Prodor’s men were packing frozen fish in wooden crates of ice. The boxes traveled down a metal-roller conveyor belt to another group. One man would select a fish from the many in the crate, cut one fin off, then hand it off to the man standing next to him. That man stuffed a small white bag deep into the body of the fish through the slit in its belly where it had been gutted. He then put the fish back into the crate and covered it with ice and sent the crate down the conveyor belt to a third man who stopped it and nailed a top on it. That man then made a small mark on the crate's right top corner with a sharpie pen, then pushed it and sent it down the conveyor belt to the two men who would load it into the panel truck. And then the men would repeat the routine.

“I never thought,” Prodor said, “when I purchased this warehouse that it would yield such a profit. Funny how things work.”

Bollar thought of the offer that Moffit gave the previous owner. Most likely it was a PK30A pointed to the head and when all the paperwork was signed a PK30A round sealed the deal.

Prodor stared down at the warehouse floor. “So, I take it your little problem has been resolved?” He took another sip of his scotch.

“Apparently,” Bollar responded. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Colus Valda in some time now.” He took a sip of his drink and grimaced. “Could've died by eating something that didn’t agree with him. But most likely got arrested either by the local police or the IPF agent. Or killed by one or the other.”

“Well, he was not arrested by the local police. But, no great loss either way. If the IPF has him, he knows nothing.” Prodor tipped his glass back and finished his scotch. “I was thinking of shooting Valda in the head while on the transfer ship during the firefight with the guards, but didn’t see him anywhere.”

“Well, that’s because he was cowering behind a desk! I think he wet himself.”

Moffit made a low sound of agreement as he turned away from the window. “I allowed him to come along with us, thinking that he could be of some use to me.” Prodor was introspective for a moment. “Well, it seems that he’s of no concern to us any longer.” He walked over and sat behind his desk and motioned with his hand for Bollar to take a seat in the chair facing the desk. Bollar obliged.

“So, my friend,” Prodor asked, “my dear old friend, what do you have planned for the upcoming weeks?”

Bollar wasn’t one hundred percent sure why he was asking so he replied, “Oh, I have a few plans for the next couple of weeks or so. I’m running a little low on currency, need to start thinking of replenishing my coffers.”

Moffit looked into his glass and swirled the ice. “Like what?”

Bollar never liked to reveal his plans to anyone, not even Prodor Moffit, but knew it was in his best interest to answer. “I’m going to hit this antique store in about three of four days.” He nervously glanced around the room. “It’s a very busy establishment, many people in and out. A lot of currency and expensive items, should be an nice take.” He looked at Moffit with an uneasy  and asked, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no particular reason.” Moffit then looked up from his glass at