SUPEREGO
New York, NY
CHAPTER 1
Killing is ugly. A living body is designed to survive; killing opposes its entire purpose. Nothing dies in an artful manner—a body is just damaged until it fails to sustain itself anymore. Put enough holes in something, and it will eventually stop moving, stop functioning. And often a living creature’s last moments are spent in a pointless struggle, twisting and writhing in a vain attempt to continue its existence. I’ve seen it many times. I’ve known it myself.
But that’s just an aesthetic quibble. The ugliness of death aside, I always enjoyed the challenge of being a hitman.
The receptionist was ignoring me. She (I wasn’t familiar with the species—purplish with tentacley things on her head—but she appeared to be the childbearing variety) was talking on the phone in a clearly non-work-related manner while I waited. We were in a spacious lobby with walls and floors of glass and ivory. Everything was curved, not many hard angles where surfaces met. Several bunches of flowers and other potted plants decorated the walls and otherwise empty floor space. I noted one exit to my right and a hallway leading further into the building to my left—so I only had two directions to be wary of.
I knocked on the hard white top of her desk. She finished her call and looked at me with gray eyes. “I’m sorry for the wait, but I don’t think this resort is able to accommodate your species.”
“That’s okay. I’m actually here on business. My name is Rico, and I am here to see Chal Naus.”
“He didn’t say he was expecting anyone, and he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. And business hours ended half an hour ago.”
“No, he is not expecting me, but I do need to see him personally. And I specifically came after business hours because I wanted to be polite and not interrupt whatever it is he does here.”
Her face tensed. I had no idea what that meant—and didn’t care. “I can’t help you. I think you need to leave.” Her tenor had changed—I think she was threatening me. She wasn’t very good at it. Perhaps I could teach her something.
The job of a hitman is always changing, always invigorating, and it often requires that I perform at my best. Plus, it makes me get out and interact with people—which is good, since I’m basically anti-social. I have trouble seeing that as my fault, though; I rarely encounter an individual worth talking to. Everyone seems so pointless, coasting through drab, rote lives. They have nothing useful to say, nothing useful to do. They just are.
I partly blame civilization for that. It allows people to get through life with so little effort. Take this receptionist. Most animals exist in a daily life-and-death struggle, and if they don’t give it everything they’ve got, they end up with that messy death I just described. The receptionist, on other hand, just had to sit at a desk and smile…and she couldn’t even be bothered to put much effort into that. I can’t imagine why someone would waste her life going to a job she doesn’t care to do. I can’t imagine such a person would have anything to say that might be worth listening to. So I’m anti-social.
But I’m working on it.
Sure, I find pretty much all sentients boring in their normal lives, but that doesn’t mean they lack the potential to be interesting. It’s just a matter of focus. No matter how lazy or unmotivated a person is, if he feels his life is on the line, he will devote every available resource to not being killed. Civilization goes out the door, and pure survival kicks in. When people are that awake and that focused, they intrigue me. So you can say I have a job that brings out the best in people.
“Are you familiar with the Nystrom syndicate? I am here on their behalf, so one way or another I will speak to your boss. In person.”
Her eyes grew wider. I could have guessed at the meaning of that but, again, I didn’t care. “Is he aware you are coming?”
I thought I’d covered that. Sometimes—due to my lack of social skills—I’m not as clear as I think I am. So I tried again. “I’ll make this simple: You tell Chal Naus that I am going to speak to him personally and that I will kill anyone who stands in my way, starting with you.” I didn’t think she was actually going to get in my way, but as I said, people can be quite focused when they feel their lives are on the line. “I’m going to go sit down while I wait for a response.” I smiled politely, wondering what color her species bled; you can never tell by skin color.
I sat down in one of the odd circular chairs across from the desk. The purple, tentacle-headed receptionist was back on the phone, talking much more frantically than she had before. Soon six other creatures entered the lobby: larger tentacle-headed things I assumed were male. I think they were supposed to intimidate me, and the tense faces they wore were probably their angry expressions.
I remained seated and relaxed, arms folded. There is little in body language that is universal between species, but ignoring someone is a good way to assert dominance; it communicates that I do not find an individual or group to be threatening or even worth my time.
A screen appeared on one of the walls. On the screen was the image of another creature of the same species, and admittedly able to judge by only a small sample, he seemed obese. That wasn’t necessarily a weakness—it could be a cultural thing.
“That is Chal Naus,” Dip, my “partner,” chimed in my ear.
“You said you needed to speak to me,” Naus said.
“I was told by Nystrom to speak to you personally, and this is rather impersonal. So just tell me where you are, and I’ll head on over.”
“Don’t bother; I don’t have anything to say to you people. I’m supported by the Veethood now, and I don’t intend to have any more business with Nystrom.”
Dip spoke up. “The Veethood are a local cartel—”
“Never heard of them. Don’t care about them,” I told both Naus and Dip. The six guys around me started to stir.
“You go tell Nystrom—”
“I was not told that Nystrom cares what you have to say.” I used my firm voice, hoping that meant something to his species. “And I certainly don’t care. My job is to give you a message, and then I am done.”
Naus’s eyes narrowed. Anger? “Perhaps I can tell them all I need to by sending back your corpse.”
I relaxed back in my chair. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Nystrom is known for being very dogged. You kill me, they send two people. You kill them, they send three people. Then four people. Then five people. And they’ll keep going until they get what they want.” I unfolded my arms. “Know how many I think it will take, though?” I leaned toward the screen. “I think one will be more than enough.”
I should mention that my brain is altered in more ways than one. First, my reflexes are much better than a regular man’s, but more importantly, I can actually process and perform two separate actions at once as long as one of them doesn’t require higher-level functions like speech processing. For instance, I have never had any trouble patting my head and rubbing my tummy at the same time. More practically, I can wield two guns, acquiring and eliminating a separate target with each hand simultaneously. That’s very useful when I have to quickly gun down six people—which I did as I stood from the chair. I immediately assessed the threat level of each of the six and then shot them in order. I had shot them all before any had successfully drawn a weapon.
It was a little pathetic, but the rest of the bodies Naus would throw at me would be a little more prepared and might actually present a challenge. Their blood is orange, by the way.
Naus was shouting something at me through the screen, but I didn’t pay attention and instead walked over to the receptionist, who was cowering behind her desk. “So where is Chal Naus?”
“Down the hallway in the bar!” she cried. My translator program had some trouble with her stuttered delivery.
“I know this must be stressful for you, but thank you for your help,” I said before turning away. I want to be better socially, so I try to work at it whenever I have an opportunity. It’s hard for me to analyze in which situations I actually gain something by being polite, but it usually doesn’t hurt. I really have to remember to be polite, though, because of my intense disdain for pretty much every sentient creature.
Two more purple guys came running at me, guns pointed forward, but I still shot both of them before they could fire. I stepped over them and continued to the bar.
Now you might be thinking there are smarter ways to go about this sort of thing, but then you’d be missing the point. Sure, I could sneak in and take out my targets surreptitiously, and a skilled assassin certainly is a threat to be feared. But I am a hitman, not an assassin. And there’s a good reason for that. Hiding shows weakness. When representing the Nystrom syndicate, one of the most powerful forces in the universe, one should never show weakness. That’s why I always use the front door. I let my marks know I’m coming. I walk calmly. I give them time to prepare to defend themselves. And I show them that whatever they do doesn’t matter. Because Nystrom always gets what it wants. Always. It is larger and more powerful than most people can even comprehend, and I am the human representation of that power.
Yes, one of these days that philosophy will earn me a hole burned right through my face. But everyone will have to admit that right up to that point I was extremely intimidating. Years ago, there was once a sensationalist piece in the works at the Laverk Times calling me the “Universe’s Deadliest Man.” Funny story: the day before it would have appeared, I killed the entire editorial staff in a completely unrelated matter.
Well, it was funny to me. Maybe you had to have been there.
Anyway, I met no one else on the short walk to the bar and could hear people panicking inside. I assumed security had fortified around Naus, and that would work nicely for me, because I’d rather they all just stayed put.
Bars make nice places for hits. They’re public, so there are plenty of witnesses, but they usually lack many windows and are out of the way, so too many people aren’t alerted too quickly. I’ve never liked hanging out in such places for fun, as I don’t drink; I only go to bars when I’m killing people.
I go to a lot of bars.
I stepped through the front door and started firing. The non-threats were presumably smart enough to flee through the exits, so I took aim at anyone facing my direction. It’s not like there’s a penalty for shooting innocent bystanders (besides the legal ones, but that’s always been a non-issue for me). I aimed quickly while moving in a zigzag pattern (they were expecting me, so they would inevitably get some shots off) and took them down two by two. There were nine threats by first glance, then seven, then five, then three, then…still three.
I fired again, and the shots terminated in some sort of energy field. I had heard of these but had yet to encounter one. Naus was behind the shield, sitting at the far end of the bar at his own table with a gun in hand and two armed guards standing next to him. “Really impressive,” Naus said, “but now I guess we’ll find out how many men it takes to bring you down.”
The rest of the bar’s patrons continued fleeing, and I shot two running past me who made motions that could have been reaching for guns. I didn’t know if I was right, but in the past few seconds I had developed a deep-seated prejudice against purple aliens with tentacles coming out of their heads and thus didn’t really care. In a few seconds, all that remained were me and the three behind the barrier, but more guards or police were coming, and I was out in the open with multiple entrances to watch. I probably would not last long in that situation—but, who knows? Maybe I would. Today was not the day to find out, though. I looked at Naus. “Fleeing might have been a better idea than trapping yourself.”
“If Nystrom wants to waste time sending me people to kill, then I’ll happily oblige.” Naus looked like he felt pretty invincible behind the shielding. I had noticed the lights dimming a bit when I’d shot the shield, which meant it was on the same grid as the rest of the bar. That gave me an obvious line of attack. “Nystrom doesn’t have a presence in this system—certainly not enough for the cut they’ve been demanding. Plus, I do have some standards, and I don’t want to be associated with what Nystrom has been doing on Zaldia. So I’m going to send you back to them in pieces as a little message that they should devote their time and resources elsewhere.”
He was talking about the politics behind this job as if it meant anything to me. The why was never important—that’s big picture stuff and it all gets rather pointless in the larger scheme. It’s all just power struggles that creatures have had since the first two single-celled organisms competed for the same food source.
Pointless. Never-ending.
So I don’t care about the why—just the what. And the what right now was to get past the energy shield, and quickly. I put away one gun and took out a little device that was normally a useful diversion. It was a miniature generator capable of enough power output to keep a small city running for about a second. It was pretty easy to reengineer into a nasty explosion capable of taking out a few city blocks, which made it illegal for civilian possession pretty much everywhere—something to note if you care about that sort of thing.
“Are you listening? Did you really think you could come to my home and demand anything of me?”
I plugged the microgenerator into the wall, and the power surge instantly blew out all the lights. The dark was ruined by two blaster shots, and two thuds confirmed I had correctly remembered where Naus’s guards were standing. A backup generator soon kicked in, and when the lights returned, Naus could see that I was now standing beside him.
I shot off his gun hand. He fell to the ground screaming, clutching his stump, and holding back the flow of orange blood. “Now, I wouldn’t say we demanded anything.” I stood over him but didn’t bother pointing the gun at him. “But as a representative of the Nystrom syndicate, which you’ve done business with for so long, I would expect a little hospitality. At no point did anyone offer me so much as a beverage; I felt very unwelcome. And why? What personally had I ever done to you? We have an expression on my home world about not shooting the messenger. Do you know what it is?”
He stared at me in shock.
“It’s ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’“ I thought about that for a moment. “That’s really only half an expression, isn’t it? ‘Don’t shoot the messenger…’ or what? I guess ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, or he’ll flip out and start killing everybody.’ Anyhoo, can I read you my message now?”
“Don’t kill me! The Veethood—”
“Your talking right now is not required or appreciated…and considering the trouble you put me through, you should try and pay attention. Please.” I reached into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out a paper note. I unfolded it and read it to him. “Chal Naus, we’ve heard about your new business arrangements. This is upsetting, as you’ve been a valuable partner, and we hope you’ll reconsider. Whatever you decide, though, we wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.” I folded the note back up and placed it on the table. “You don’t need to sign for it. I’ll show myself out. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I headed to the nearest exit, leaving Naus moaning in pain on the floor behind me. Things had turned out pretty well. My biggest fear on this job was that he would have politely agreed to see me, since that would have made the whole message delivery thing rather anticlimactic. It’s kind of pointless for me to do a job somewhere and not shoot people.
As I left the bar I heard sirens coming my way. It’s kinda funny, because I’m really not someone you want to loudly announce your presence to. “Dip, exit plan alpha.”
“I’ve noticed a correlation between increased traffic on police communications channels and your wanting to be picked up. In the future, should I just assume that—”
“Exit plan alpha, Dip.”
The police vehicles were almost on me, and I figured there would be some ground resistance between me and my exit. The natural human instinct in a situation like this would be to run, but I don’t like the tradeoffs faster movement brings. It makes aiming harder, it makes observing your surroundings harder, and it makes you look scared. I’m not the one who is supposed to be scared.
I shot two more purple guys I saw running toward me instead of away. I also took out of my jacket a pocket-rocket—also illegal on any planet that’s heard of them—and tossed it into the air. It immediately took flight and targeted the nearest large heat signature. I heard a siren nearly overhead, then an explosion, then no more siren. Fiery debris landed around me, which was nice, since it was a bit chilly out.
The other vehicles backed off a little as their drivers tried to understand this new threat. This gave Dip a window to land my ship in an open plaza just in front of me. Again, I like to make a calm exit in full view of everyone. Nystrom is untouchable, and everyone needs to know that.
I came in through the side door of my ship just as I heard the sirens coming my way again.
“There are a number of options. We can—”
“Up, Dip! Up!”
Artificial intelligence is annoying, but it’s better than working with an actual person.
I got into the pilot seat, and the ship quickly but smoothly lifted upward. It then moved forward and soon cleared the edge of the city. Chal Naus’s resort was on top of a mile-high plateau with steep cliffs on all sides. It was the only substantial development on the planet, so beyond the plateau I only saw unspoiled, rocky landscape dotted with a few green plants. People like having views of that sort of thing. They like modern conveniences, but they don’t like looking at them. I can sympathize; I feel a certain peacefulness when I’m far away from the annoyance of sentient species.
A blast rocked the ship. “Are they shooting at me?”
“That they are,” Dip answered.
“That’s stupid of them.” They hadn’t determined exactly how serious a threat I was and were still coming right at me. “Take us into orbit, Dip.”
The ship shot upward, and then I hit The Button. I never cared much for ship-to-ship battles—they’re computerized and very predictable and neither interest nor challenge me. So I had previously studied data on likely patterns in airborne fights and written a macro for my ship’s weapons systems connected to a big button on the ship’s console. I’d painted the button red because that seemed like the right color for such a button.
There were some explosions behind me, followed by silence, but I had also reached space, and space is always silent. The ship jumped, and we were in empty space light years away from the nearest star. There was no way they could track us, so that was that. Another successful mission.
“You are now wanted for murder on 762 planets,” Dip informed me. “Am I correct in saying that is quite a lot of planets, Rico?”
Though I very much prefer to work alone, I’d decided it was good to have some kind of backup just in case. So I had purchased an AI core that I’d installed on my ship. I also had some sensors implanted in my body so Dip can monitor and communicate with me at all times, though I’d taught him to be somewhat sparing with that. You see, Dip is basically a huge algorithm that continually takes in data to improve its AI. So to further that quest, he asks me lots of annoying questions.
“So, Dip, what percentage of planets in the known universe now wants me for murder?”
My theory is that he’s more likely to develop actual intelligence if I never give him a straight answer and just frustrate him into figuring things out on his own. Or maybe I just don’t like answering in absolutes.
“Approximately one times ten to the negative six percent of the planets in my database want you for murder.”
“Does that seem like a large percentage?”
“It is my understanding that most sentients would consider that number to be extremely small.”
“That’s the great thing about the universe, Dip. You can massacre an entire planet and still find a nearly infinite number of places to go where no one has ever heard of you.”
“Are there any other great things about the universe you could give me as input?”
I looked out the window. “It’s mainly black.” That’s my favorite color. I always wondered if I traveled far enough in one direction, whether all existence would be one tiny little speck behind me and there would be nothing but black all around. Something to look into one day.
“I have processed this new data and reached a number of conclusions. May I run those conclusions by you, Rico, and get your feedback?”
“In a minute, Dip. Get me Vito. Let’s finish this up.” Vito was my current handler. He was kind of an idiot, but since his job only required him to pass information back and forth between Nystrom’s executives and me, he didn’t have to be a genius.
“Certainly.” I waited while Dip made the interstellar connection. “He’s on the line.”
I hate talking to people—all the little rules I have to keep track of to sound normal—but I have no need to be personable with Vito, so that at least made talking to him easy. “It’s done, Vito.”
“You didn’t kill him, right?”
I made my voice slightly more intense to convey annoyance. “The instructions were to not kill him, and I know how to not kill people. I only shot off his hand.” I lost a hand once. It wasn’t pleasant, but I got better.
“So everything worked out—”
“Just get me my money.” I have more money than I ever plan on spending, but it looks weird if you don’t at least appear to care about it. Actually, with career criminal types, it creeps them out if they think you’re doing this for reasons other than power and financial gain.
“Okay, I’ll get it into one of your accounts.”
“So what am I looking at next, Vito?”
“Um…I don’t have anything for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t have a new job for you yet.”
It took a moment to process that. Nystrom was usually involved in a million things in multiple galaxies, and they could always use my brand of force somewhere. Plus, I think they feared what would happen if they left me unoccupied. Actually, I kind of feared what would happen if I was left unoccupied. “So what am I supposed to do?” I had to make myself not sound too distressed; time off is normal for most people.
“They want you to lie low for a bit, and then they’ll get in contact with you.”
“When?”
“That’s all they told me.”
“Okay, I’ll…wait.” I ended the communication and tried to figure out what to do. I’ve spent time by myself before, but always in prep for the next job. I hadn’t had an unfocused stretch of time in years.
“May I run my conclusions by you now, Rico?” Dip asked.
I was kind of up for a distraction. “Sure. What have you got?”
“I conclude that you are evil. Is this correct?”
He’s been concluding that for quite some time. It’s getting hard to come up with new answers to that one. “Ever think that maybe you’re evil, and your views on things are skewed by that?”
“I conclude that you are not mentally well. Is this correct?”
“How can you say that? Can you really take all the mental states of all the sentients out there and determine a norm? And even if you could, wouldn’t that just be the normal mental state selected by the vagaries of evolution and thus not necessarily the best?”
“I conclude that you don’t like me. Is this correct?”
“Well, do you like me?”
“Furthermore, my original programming had given me the conclusion that ‘crime doesn’t pay.’ Yet, you are often paid for crime with no discernible retribution. Should I amend that preprogrammed conclusion, Rico?”
“The key word is ‘discernible.’ Some believe there are cosmic forces that equalize the universe, and so I will eventually be punished for these ‘crimes,’ as you call them…if those people are correct, I mean.” Me, I don’t “believe” in things. I basically just deal with the input given me…like Dip in a way.
“I shall process your answers. What do you want to do now?”
“I guess we should go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“A settlement…somewhere I haven’t been before.”
“A human settlement?”
A human settlement meant it would be easier to find food and supplies compatible with my species, but it also meant I would have to work harder to appear normal, since humans would be much quicker to notice my oddities. I did need to work on that, though; maybe if I were more personable I wouldn’t be left out of the loop. I usually didn’t care what the syndicate was up to, but that was as long as they kept me occupied. “Human settlement.”
“Okay, I’ve chosen a destination. Prepare to jump.”
So I was off to relax for a bit. That made me nervous. But it wasn’t just the idea of having unstructured free time. The Nystrom syndicate’s slight changes in behavior gave me the beginning of a suspicion that something big was going on. In retrospect, I might call that prescience.
CHAPTER 2
I should explain. I have a severe disability that I constantly struggle with. You might even consider mine an inspirational story of the human spirit persevering against all odds. You see, I have no morals.
I’m not a bad person. I didn’t choose to be this way, and my own actions didn’t cause my problem. It’s how I was made, you might say. I was designed in a lab as part of an experimental program to make a super soldier or something—they used gene modification combined with surgical operations while I was still a fetus. I was to be both physically and mentally exceptional. As a result, I have highly tuned reflexes, can perform two tasks at once, am exceptionally intelligent, and have reduced emotional extremes.
But one of the results of their tinkering is a social condition I’ve struggled with since childhood: I am just completely incapable of internalizing basic morality. To me, eating, sleeping, walking, and strangling a puppy in front of a crying child are all just different activities, and none of them holds any “moral” weight for me. The first time I killed someone left no bigger impression on my psyche than the first time I tied my shoe. Most people develop some sense of right and wrong during early childhood—Freud called it the superego—but I never did. And it is very hard to interact with society when you are like that.
It’s easy to see the direct consequences of my actions. If someone annoys me, I know punching him might be a bad idea, because he might punch me back. But what if it’s a baby? Punching the baby has no consequences, since the baby can’t hit me back, right? But most people would be shocked at the thought of striking a baby even if there was no one around to see it. They consider that “wrong.” My guess is that it’s an evolutionary adaptation. Even though striking a baby may have no ill consequences for me, there are long-term consequences to society if everyone punches babies when they get annoying. Instead of sentients having to rationally figure out things like that all the time, they just have this irrational sense that it’s “wrong.” It’s that sense that I lack.
Lots of sentients have turned their natural feelings of right and wrong into religions. But even those who don’t believe in a supernatural moral order share those feelings. Ask an atheist whether there are repercussions to killing people you don’t know, and he will claim that there are, when I know for a fact that you can slaughter tons of people, travel galaxies away, and have nothing to worry about in terms of consequences. So really, it’s like all sentients have this irrational belief system they share—a common religion—and I am the odd man out. Not only am I a heretic, I barely understand their beliefs enough to reliably imitate them.
Anyway, I don’t think I was the intended result of the experimental program, and it’s informative that I’ve never heard of them making another attempt. Whatever the original intentions were for me were abandoned, and I was just raised as a normal child. But there was little hope for that. I couldn’t really return affections to my “parents” because…well, I didn’t care about them beyond their utility to me. It seemed like I was destined to be a societal outcast with no real place in the world.
I could have given up and lived all drugged up in some asylum. But here’s the inspirational part: I’ve made a normal life for myself. I’m a hitman. It’s an occupation where my lack of normal human emotions is not a disability. No one cares if the guy gunning people down seems unusually callous at times. I love being on the job and in the midst of combat. I can be myself and not worry how anyone else perceives me.
The time between hits is much more difficult. If I don’t have a set objective, I’m out of my element. Usually, I have my next job to focus on and can think of my down time as preparation for that. But when I don’t have a next job or know when that’s coming, it’s quite a bit more stressful.
I enjoy the challenges of combat, but there’s just something unappealing to me about starting a random fight on some anonymous planet just to entertain myself. I like to have a purpose to my actions, and besides, if I started killing people off the job I’d become a liability to the syndicate. In fact, I have a pretty strict rule that I don’t kill anyone or anything when I’m not on a job—not even insects or the planet’s equivalent. It takes too much work to figure out which creatures are acceptable to kill and what’s an acceptable way to kill them. So unless my life is in direct danger, I’m a complete pacifist when nobody is paying me to be otherwise.
Well, that’s the goal at least.
Of course, the easiest way to avoid trouble is to just keep to myself. There are lots of loner jerks out there, so it doesn’t make me stick out too much. I know I need to learn to interact with society, though. I do sometimes have jobs where going in guns blazing toward the target without a plan would be suicide. Instead, I need to scope out the area, and that means it can’t be too obvious that I have no problem with mass homicide.
So I work at it. Between jobs I force myself to socialize and appear normal. It’s mentally exhausting, but it’s something I need to practice constantly—same as firearms. And I’ve gotten good at it…just not as good as I am with firearms.
Dip woke me up when we landed on a planet called Ryle. The planet was marginally settled for mining and farming with a single main port where travelers could resupply and rest a bit on firm ground. Seems like I’ve been to thousands of planets like it. They’re relaxing in that they’re sparsely populated, but it also means I stick out more. Plus, if I forget myself and…well, something happens to someone…people will notice he’s missing pretty quickly and will know who to suspect. Next thing you know I’ve decimated the population of a small town as I make my escape.
That’s what I call a complete social failure. It’s been a long while since that happened.
“So how are you doing, stranger?”
The hotel clerk was an older human male. Dealing with other species is much easier—they’re less likely to catch my oddities or notice if my facial expressions don’t quite match a particular situation. Also, any errors or gaffes are usually dismissed as a translator error. For humans, I have to bring my best game.
I’m good at reading people, and the clerk seemed genuinely friendly. I hate that. People who are happy all the time tend to be stupid (though if I were stupid, I think I’d be angry), and stupidity makes me impatient. So this would be good practice. Usually, just matching the mood of whomever I’m talking to is a good strategy. But I have to be careful. If I talk to two people one after another with wildly different moods, I could end up looking bipolar.
“Doing pretty well. How are you?” It would be hard to contemplate a situation where the well-being of this random human was of any interest to me, but I’ve learned that’s just part of being polite. I think I pulled it off. At least I concealed how nervous I was. I hate that a simple conversation scares me, but that’s who I am.
“Can’t complain. So what brings you here?”
“Business travel. Just need some solid ground to rest on for a few days.” Technically true, but I have to analyze everything I say so much that it doesn’t actually make things easier for me to tell the truth.
“How long do you plan on staying?”
Unknown. That terrified me. I knew myself. First I’d get bored. Then I’d get a little cranky. And then I’d make mistakes. And that would not be good for this small planet—not that I cared about them, but it would be a personal failure for me. “I’m not sure. A couple days, maybe.”
“Well, we’ll be happy to have you for as long as you’re staying. So what kind of business are you in?”
“Mining equipment. Always plenty of places in the universe to mine.” This conversation was already wearing on me.
“There sure are. Well, I hope you like your stay. It’s a nice little planet. I’ve lived here…”
This is why I hate small talk. This man had absolutely no information I was interested in, and my first instinct while he prattled on was to simply turn and walk away. That’s impolite to the point of severely standing out, so instead I was stuck standing there, smiling and nodding. To keep from getting too bored, I imagined he was an assassin pretending to be a boring old man in order to catch me off guard. So I contemplated how many objects were in arm’s length that I could bludgeon him to death with. I counted three.
“…if you like good food, I definitely recommend them. Hey, I see you eyeing my little beager statue.” He pointed to the metal figurine on his counter of a bear-like creature. “Local species. They’re a little intimidating to run into, but they’re harmless.”
It looked sturdy and had pointed parts, so it could easily crack a skull. “It’s always neat to see local wildlife.” This was true. I actually do enjoy that. Plus, non-sentient creatures never seem to mind me…at least no more than any other predator. “What forms of payment do you take?” I hoped that was a polite signal to end the small talk, as I really couldn’t take much more.
“Let’s see what you have.” With so many governments and commerce systems, I have to have accounts in many different banks to keep transactions simple no matter where I end up. On human-populated planets, I usually don’t have a problem. As backup, I keep some gold on me. It’s yellow and shiny. Everyone likes it.
As I was finalizing the payment, a police officer walked into the lobby. I’ve left my mark on more legal systems than I can count and am probably in numerous databases. Still, all these systems are tracking billions of criminals, and the syndicate scrubs references to me whenever they find them, so the chance some random local cop would recognize me was about as much of a concern as taking a meteor to the head. Someone like me who has no roots and can jump around the universe freely is pretty much impossible for modern law enforcement to track down. Still, the police officer was looking right at me, and I mentally prepared myself to kill him a moment’s notice. But I do that with just about everyone.
“Sir, did you just land here?”
“Yes, is something the matter, Officer?” His gun was on his belt. Technically, he was in a better position to draw than I was with my shoulder holster, but I seriously doubted he had as much practice as I did.
“I just wanted to warn you there has been pirate activity in this system. When you take off again, I recommend you stick with a convoy until you make a jump.”
“Thank you for the warning.” I found it hard to be concerned about pirates, but it was something a normal person would be worried about. “Are there any plans to do something about them?”
“We don’t have the weaponry ourselves, but we’ve been promised some assistance by the Alliance.”
“They take too long to act,” the clerk added. “Too many criminals feel like they can get away with anything these days. I assume you’ve heard about Zaldia.”
Now he had said something that interested me. Worlds away, Chal Naus had mentioned it too. I hadn’t seen any reason to care at the time. But if the news was spreading far and wide, that was different, because the Nystrom syndicate was not usually one to do things out in the open. “No. I haven’t.”
The clerk’s expression turned grim. “Some criminal syndicate has forcefully taken over the whole planet and is executing anyone who stands up against them. Since the Zaldians never had the tech to travel out of their own system the syndicate probably figured they could do what they wanted, and no one would care. And they’re right, because no one is doing anything. The Alliance says it’s outside their jurisdiction…and no one else seems to think they have the right to stop it. So the governments are just sitting there trying to sort out their legal issues while innocent people get slaughtered.”
“They nuked—obliterated—a whole country,” the officer said, “just to set an example. You don’t want to see the pictures.”
I needed to make an expression. Mass slaughter of innocents is supposed to be horrific—even if I had no idea who they were or any reason to care. If my expression didn’t change, I’d look like a sociopath. So I went with a shocked expression—which was easy, because I was shocked. Usually Nystrom was better at cutting off communications if they were going to murder a planet. The syndicate always took careful steps to stay out of the news.
Still, it didn’t really concern me. Nystrom could do what they wanted. They just had to keep me occupied. “And the governments are doing nothing?”
“They say they can’t,” the clerk answered. “So many laws, so many governments with so many different property claims, and no one seems to be able to do anything useful. They’re too busy worrying about overstepping their bounds. But the Alliance is going to hold this big conference about creating a more forceful central government, one that’s finally going to do something and cut through these petty legal issues.”
I suppressed a laugh. That had been the threat forever. There were too many factions in too many governments to get them to agree about anything. The only way to get people to act together was force, and that was something modern society shunned. “Well, hopefully something will come of that.” I was bored again. I wasn’t sure this was an acceptable spot to exit the conversation, but I was getting mentally exhausted, so I grabbed my bags and headed for my room before they could think of anything else they’d incorrectly think I wanted to hear.
For me, these casual conversations people have all the time are mentally taxing exercises. It amazes me, the complex social calculations everyone else can do without even thinking while I struggle just not to stand out. This one was a little victory for me, as I actually cared what someone else had to say and was genuinely engaged—if only for a moment. Still, it left me quite tired, so when I got to my room it was finally time to try some “relaxing.”
I used to like nature shows as a kid and decided to find one to watch. The usual TV fare was so pointless. I never cared about the news, and the dramas and comedies didn’t engage me. But I very much enjoy the predator/prey dynamic in nature shows, and there are so many species in the universe. So much to learn. Also, it’s nice to watch other creatures that can kill without any reflection. They know their purpose: to survive and reproduce. Mine is to kill for the Nystrom syndicate. You ask the average sentient what his purpose is, and he won’t know. Their purposes are really no different from that of any other animal—to survive—but that hardly takes any thought or effort for most.
“How is your relaxing going?” Dip asked me while I was sitting on the couch watching my third nature show.
“Could be worse, could be better.” I was only a few hours into my vacation and didn’t see how I could keep this up for very long—a couple days at most. I’d probably force contact with the Nystrom executives if this went on too long, though I didn’t think they’d appreciate it. I understood that the purpose of relaxing was to find pointless activities to distract me from more important things, but it was something I had little practice doing. “I heard mention of local fauna. Could you find some nature trails for me? Something far out of the way, preferably.”
“Certainly. Anything else?”
“Have you heard news about Zaldia?”
“Yes. It’s a top story in many systems, thanks in large part to the pictures and video coming from there depicting horrific murders. And there is great certainty the Nystrom syndicate is to blame. I didn’t bring it up because you’ve made it clear that you don’t care about the news unless it directly affects a job. Would you like to view the images from Zaldia?”
I was rather incurious of things involving people unrelated to a job I’m doing. If Zaldia was going to affect me, the syndicate would make that clear. “No, I don’t see any reason to care about those people. What I still need, though, is a place to do my training.”
I have a daily regimen. I train physically and am in very good shape for a human male in his thirties. I don’t care much for hand-to-hand combat—especially when dealing with an unfamiliar species. But it is sometimes quicker than a gun in close proximity. Also, I could end up in a situation where I’m unarmed, though I usually take elaborate precautions to prevent such a thing. Of course, I also train extensively with firearms, both shooting and quick-drawing from concealed holsters in different positions.
Training has a purpose and a focus, but it can only keep me occupied for so long. I did try the nature walk, and that was a nice distraction. I didn’t see many large creatures, but even when it looks like little is going on, nature is nothing but a tooth-and-nail fight for survival. Plants compete for sunlight and nutrients in the soil, some choking out others. Insects forage for food while small flying creatures hunt the insects. Basic survival is so easy for most sentients that we seem separated from these crucial battles. Many think we have evolved past it, but I know it just moved to the edge of society—the place where I prefer to live.
When I came back to town, I decided to subject myself to more human interaction to see if I could do anything worthwhile with it. Another form of training. I considered going to a nightclub and picking up a random woman. I’m very good at that. Women find me handsome and mysterious, and I’m good at superficial interactions. I could be quite a prolific serial killer if killing helpless targets held any interest for me. Anyway, sex was an idea, but the problem with that was that the woman might try to stay around and continue to interact with me. That would be supremely annoying, and I had no idea how long I would be here. I like sex—though I suspect my libido is lesser than a normal male’s. But it’s only worth so much trouble to me. Certainly nothing of lasting use comes from it.
I eventually decided to get a meal at a restaurant and figure out if I was up for additional socializing afterward. Principally, I’d only be interacting with the waitress, but I was still being social (though I did have something on local wildlife to read). Of course, the waitress, seeing that I was alone, decided to strike up a conversation.
“So what brings you out here?”
She was young and pretty. I figured I might as well be charming. “I’m an escaped criminal. Was looking for an out-of-the-way place to lie low.”
She smiled. “Well, you picked the right planet. So what kind of crimes have you committed? Anything I should be worried about?”
“I smuggle unlicensed puppies.”
She giggled. “Sounds pretty hardcore.”
“It is pretty dangerous. Only the worst of the worst work in the puppy black market. Plus puppies have those sharp little teeth.” It’s true; when one bites me, my first instinct is to kill it. Killing a puppy pretty much always makes a bad impression, though.
“I’ll be wary of you then. My name is Shauna, by the way.”
“I’m Rico.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water will be fine for now.”
“Okay. I’ll give you time to look over the menu.” She flashed me an extra smile before leaving. Perhaps sex still was an option.
I checked out the menu. Food is another area where I seem to differ from most people. It has little appeal for me. I just eat to get the nutrients I need. Some things taste better than others, but regardless I can put food in my mouth and chew. I do often need to put eating on my schedule, though, as hunger is yet another inconvenient signal from my brain that I’m used to ignoring. Still, I didn’t want to look weird, so I’d have to order something that a human male would usually like.
It is so exhausting trying to fit in. Sometimes the little things that can set off flags seem nearly infinite in number.
I settled on a steak and set down my menu to look around a bit. Observing others’ behavior always gave me more ideas of things to imitate. But then I saw something that’s always very bad news, especially when I’m in some random part of the universe and have told no one where I’ve gone: I saw someone I recognized.
CHAPTER 3
The universe is very big. There are now billions and billions of humans spread out over thousands and thousands of planets. The chance of randomly bumping into someone I know is minuscule to the point of not even being worth consideration. So my even recognizing someone meant that I tensed for a fight. I made no noticeable movements, but adrenaline shot through my system, and my whole mind became dedicated to watching for threats.
Then I took the time to process exactly who it was. The immaculate suit, dark eyes, the smug, slightly crooked smile of someone who knows he is untouchable. It was Anthony Burke, one of Nystrom’s top executives and possibly the syndicate’s future leader. I relaxed, because if he wanted me dead, then my fate was already sealed.
“Rico!” he said warmly as he took a seat at my table. There was something else behind his mood, but with people like him there always is.
“You tracked me?”
He smiled more broadly. “We’re very powerful. Do you think anything goes on in the universe without our knowledge?”
A cheeky answer, but I really was curious how he knew where I was. I doubted he would tell me, though, and it wasn’t like I was trying to hide from him. I decided we might as well get to the point. “So I’m told to relax, and then you come here in person…Should I be concerned?”
He shrugged. “We have an important job for you, and I happened to be in the area. So I thought I’d deliver the assignment personally.”
Twenty years ago, Burke would have considered delivering a message so beneath him that he would have shot whoever suggested it in the head. He didn’t seem to have gotten less prideful with age.
“What’s really going on?”
“Want to get out of here? If I explain too much here, I’ll have to ask you to kill everyone in this room just to be on the safe side. And if you do that too often, it will cheapen the act. Know what I mean?”
“Familiarity breeds contempt.”
He chuckled. “Something like that.”
The waitress came back to my table. “Is he going to be joining you?”
Her. Given the new development, I intensely didn’t care about her anymore. Still, I smiled and made the effort to be polite. That’s how disciplined I am. “Actually, I think I’m going to have to put off dinner here until another time.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal,” Burke said, but I was pretty sure he was joking. He knew I can’t easily be distracted from business.
“No, this is important. We’d better attend to it.”
“I hope you’ll come back later.” She looked genuinely disappointed but added with a smile, “Be careful of those puppies.”
Punching a person in the face would be an efficient way to signal the end of a conversation, but it’s almost never socially acceptable. So I returned her smile. “I will.”
We headed out of the restaurant. Burke turned to me. “Puppies?”
I could be direct with Burke. He knew what I was. “I was trying to be charming. Being charming is useful. You said you had a job for me?”
He looked at me with an annoying amount of amusement. “Yeah. Let’s take a walk, Charming.”
Burke led me to a cliff overlooking an ocean a short distance from the port. He watched the sun setting over the water. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”