The Yanthus Prime Job: A Pepper Melange Novella (Starship Grifters) Read online

  The Yanthus Prime Job

  A Pepper Mélange Novella

  By Robert Kroese

  ©2016 Robert Kroese

  Chapter 1

  Pepper Mélange knew the man was trouble as soon as he walked in the bar. His face was unshaven and his clothes were stained and threadbare. He glanced nervously about the room and then made his way toward her. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the place was nearly deserted. Only a few degenerate stragglers hung out in dark corners, awaiting the next off-planet shuttle. The man’s hair was greasy and his eyes were bloodshot. Several small insects buzzed about his head. Definitely a cop.

  He leaned over the bar toward her. “You got any P-drop?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “I don’t know what that is,” replied Pepper flatly, rubbing a towel around the inside of a glass.

  “You know,” said the man, glancing around. “The good stuff. Phee-fi.”

  “Are you talking about drugs?” asked Pepper loudly. Nobody in the place took any notice.

  “Shh!” the man hissed. “Pheelsophine. I’m jacking bad. You got any?”

  Pepper rolled her eyes. Why did the new recruits always pick her bar? At least once a month, without fail, one of these greenhorns would come in trying to score pheelsophine, Cyrinni java powder, or one of the hundreds of other narcotics officially forbidden by the neopuritanical laws of Yanthus Prime. The first few times she got mad and kicked them out. Then she started amusing herself at their expense, but that got old pretty fast too. These days she had a different way of handling them.

  “First of all,” she began. “you’re jonesing, not jacking. Second, no, you’re not.”

  “I am,” he insisted. “I’m jonesing. I’m jonesing, like, super-bad.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re not. If you were jonesing for pheelsophine, you’d have the shakes.”

  “I do,” he replied, holding out his hand. It shook uncontrollably.

  “Not just your hand. Your whole body.”

  His whole body began to shake. “Look at me,” he said. “I’m a desperate man.”

  “And your eyes would be crossed.”

  “Oh, jeez,” he said, his eyes crossing. “They’re doing it again. They’ve been doing that all day.”

  “And you’d wet yourself.”

  His eyes uncrossed and he stopped shaking. “OK, fine. I’m not a pheelsophine addict. How’d you know?”

  Pepper sighed. “You’ve got the standard two-day beard, and your clothes look like they came from Addicts ‘R’ Us. You’re straight out of central casting, buddy. Do they have some kind of checklist for the new narc officers with my bar on it?” One of the insects the cop had brought in had taken an interest in her, and she swatted futilely at it.

  “The training manual says the spaceport bars are ‘rife with illicit activity.’”

  “There are sixteen other bars near the spaceport. Why do you guys always come here?”

  He shrugged. “Your place looks the rifest. Can I have a drink?”

  “Sure. What do you want?”

  “Avatarian whiskey.”

  She poured the drink and handed it to him. He slid a five-credit coin across the bar to her and took a gulp of the whiskey. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” he said, “but you don’t look like much like a spaceport bartender.”

  “Yeah?” said Pepper. “And what’s a spaceport bartender supposed to look like?”

  The man gulped. “Well, most of them are…”

  “Male?”

  “Yeah, and…”

  “Old?”

  “Right, and…”

  “Fat?”

  “Yes, and…”

  “Ugly?”

  “I think that pretty much sums it up,” said the cop.

  “Are you hitting on me, Officer?”

  “What?” asked the man. “No! No, Ma’am. I’m working.”

  Pepper nodded. The guy was cute, in a dim-witted sort of way. And he didn’t seem put off by Pepper’s aggressive demeanor. With her long, jet black hair, svelte figure and piercing blue-green eyes, Pepper was used to getting a lot of attention from men. Most of them turned tail and ran as soon as she opened her mouth, though. This guy was either braver or dumber than most. She thought for a moment about taking him unstairs, but she decided against it. He seemed like the sort to fall in love easily, and that was one thing Pepper didn’t need.

  “So,” the cop said, “do you know where a guy would go to find some black market narcotics?”

  “Red market,” Pepper corrected.

  “Huh?”

  “What you’re looking for is red market drugs, not black market.”

  “In training, they said ‘black market.’ What’s the red market?”

  She sighed again. “How can they not teach you guys this stuff? Red market drugs are covered by the Yanthus Prime Controlled Substance Act, but not distributed by the Ursa Minor Mafia. So you can arrest red market drug dealers without running afoul of the mob.”

  “I thought the mob were the bad guys.”

  “Are you kidding?” Pepper asked. “The mob is the only thing that keeps Heinous Vlaak and his Malarchian Marines from crushing the life out of Yanthus Prime. As long as the Ursa Minor Mafia has a significant presence in the Yanthus system, the Malarchy doesn’t dare to send in Marines to quell dissent.”

  “But if the police and the Malarchy teamed up, they could easily chase out the mob.”

  “Why would the police do that? So that they can become a puppet of the Malarchy? Use your head, man. If you’re going to try to make a dent in the burgeoning illegal narcotics trade on Yanthus Prime, you need to be aware of the delicate balance of power.”

  The man took another swallow of his drink and then stared at it intently for several seconds, his brow furrowed. Pepper had seen this look before. He was reassessing what he had learned in police training with the complex realities of Yanthus Prime. “So,” he said at last, “what drugs are considered ‘red market’?”

  Pepper thought for a moment. “Well, definitely not pheelsophine. The whole supply chain is controlled by the mob. And not Cyrinni java powder either. Uforium is still technically red market, but I hear the mob’s looking into taking it over, so I’d stay away from Uforium dealers too. Same for Chicolinian star-weed. You could try to score some of the new synthetics like Tranzzen or Solopsan, but the problem there is you risk pissing off the pharmaceutical cartels. You’re better off crossing the mob.”

  The man threw up his hands. “What does that leave? Fizzdust?”

  Pepper shook her head. “Fizzdust is green market.”

  “Green market! What the hell is that?”

  “Use or sale is prohibited by the laws of Yanthus Prime and distribution isn’t handled by the mob. It’s also on the Malarchy’s list of prohibited substances.”

  “Perfect!” cried the cop. “I’ll arrest every Fizzdust dealer within twenty klicks of the spaceport!”

  “No you won’t,” replied Pepper.

  “I won’t?”

  “No. Although the Malarchy officially frowns on Fizzdust, they unofficially encourage its use by citizens of subjugated planets. Keeps them docile. If you start arresting Fizzdust dealers, you risk getting ‘accidentally’ shot by a Malarchian peacekeeper.”

  The cop finished his drink and stared dejectedly at the empty glass. “Well, that’s it, then. There aren’t any illegal drugs left for me to crack down on.”

  “Sure there are,” said Pepper. “Sam Suharu’s Hair Regrowth Tonic, for one.”

  “Who the hell is Sam Suhar
u?”

  “Local businessman. Nice guy. Developed this stuff in his basement. Overnight cure for baldness.”

  “So he’s some kind of quack? A snake oil salesman?”

  “Oh, no. Probably the most honest guy you’ll ever meet. And the stuff really works. I know a guy who used it. Grew six inches of hair in one night.”

  “There must be side effects, then.”

  Pepper nodded. “Cleared his acne right up.”

  “If this stuff is so great, why is it illegal?”

  “He sells it for half the price of the leading baldness remedy, sold by Orion Pharmaceuticals. He refuses to cut a deal with the mob, and because he manufactures the stuff locally, the Malarchy doesn’t get a cut.”

  “What about the police? What do they have against him?”

  “Nothing, but they’ve got to arrest somebody or it looks like they aren’t doing their jobs. And as you’ve noted, they don’t have a lot of other options.”

  The cop frowned. “Well, I guess I have to start somewhere,” he said. “Do you know where the dealers of this hair tonic hang out?”

  “Dealers?” said Pepper. “There are no dealers. It’s just Sam. He comes in for a drink most afternoons, if you want to wait for him. He likes to sit right over there and read the newspaper.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “You can’t miss him. He’s a little guy, about sixty years old. He has a bad knee, so he uses a cane.”

  “Does he have bodyguards or anything?”

  Pepper laughed. “Sam? No. I don’t think anybody’s ever tried to hurt him. Why would they? He’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Reminds me of my grandpa.”

  The cop nodded dumbly. Pepper saw the conflict in his eyes.

  “You want another drink?” she asked.

  He nodded and she poured him another. As he raised it to his lips, the door to the bar opened. A small, slightly slumped figure was silhouetted against the sunlight.

  “Sam!” yelled Pepper cheerily. “Speak of the devil. You want the usual?”

  Sam entered the bar, slowly moving his cane forward with his left hand, his feet shuffling after. He raised his hand toward Pepper in a perfunctory greeting, mumbled something, and gradually made his way to the table Pepper had indicated earlier. The cop watched him coldly, his right hand patting something under his jacket. Sam lowered himself into a chair, pulled a newspaper from under his arm, and began to read.

  “Here, I’ll introduce you,” said Pepper. She had poured a drink and began walking toward Sam.

  The cop downed his drink, took a deep breath and stood up. He followed Pepper toward the old man.

  “Here you go, Sam,” said Pepper, setting the drink on the table. Sam looked up at the man next to her. “Sam, this is…” Pepper began. “Actually, I don’t know your name.”

  “Blaine,” said the cop, whose nervousness had returned, but it no longer seemed to be an act. “Blaine Caswell.”

  “New bartender?” asked Sam, looking over Blaine skeptically.

  “Blaine’s a customer,” said Pepper. “He wants to buy some of your hair tonic.”

  Sam grunted, gave a small nod, and reached into his jacket.

  Blaine’s hand shot inside his jacket. A split-second later he had a lazegun trained on Sam. His hand shook and he was blinking away the sweat pouring down his brow.

  “Relax, sonny,” said Sam irritably, pulling a small rectangular box from inside his jacket. “It’s just a sample case.” He set the box down on the table in front of him.

  Blaine sighed in relief and slid his gun back in its holster.

  Sam opened the case and pulled out a snub-nosed stungun. “Here’s your free sample,” he said, and shot Blaine in the chest. The cop gave a startled squeak and slumped to the ground, unconscious. None of the other patrons looked up.

  Sam put the gun back in its case and slipped it inside his jacket. “Hair tonic?” he asked Pepper.

  She shrugged. “I had to get your attention somehow. How much can I get for him?”

  He regarded the unconscious cop dubiously. “He’s barely out of the academy. Not much good to us.”

  “Never hurts to have another cop on the payroll. Do your standard number on him, strip him to his skivvies and take a few photos of him surrounded by hookers snorting fizzdust…”

  Sam chuckled. “My hookers have better things to do with their time than entertain greenhorn cops. And I did most of the work. I’ll give you twenty credits for him.”

  “Twenty credits!” cried Pepper in disbelief. “Come on, Sam. Work with me here. The way you guys are squeezing me, you could at least compensate me fairly when I hand a narco to you. By the way, you should have heard all the nice things I said about you. I said you reminded me of my grandpa.”

  Sam smiled and shook his head. “You’re charming, Pepper, but flattery will only get you so far. I’ll give you forty credits for the rookie, if you help me carry him to my car. But you’re still four hundred credits short this month.” Blaine Caswell groaned, and his head lolled from left to right. “Better hurry.”

  Pepper nodded and removed the rookie’s lazegun, setting it down on the table in front of Sam, and then grabbed the young man under his arms. Sam took his feet, and together they carried him to Sam’s vehicle, a shiny red Scaramouche 8000 hovercar. Sam popped the trunk and they dumped the limp rookie inside. Sam slammed the trunk shut and wiped his damp brow with a handkerchief. “I should be charging you for making me work so hard,” Sam muttered.

  “You are charging me, Sam. A thousand credits a month, in case it slipped your mind. And while I appreciate the ‘protection’ your organization provides, I have to wonder—”

  A dull thumping sounded from inside the trunk.

  “Shut up!” Sam yelled, pounding the hovercar with his fist. “Don’t make me stun you again.”

  The thumping stopped.

  Sam put the handkerchief in his pocket and went back inside the bar. Pepper followed, taking a moment to regard the neon sign above the entry that marked the establishment’s name. The sign read The Wobbly Monolith, and next to the letters was an ominous black slab outlined in red. The red rectangle flickered between nearly vertical and a twenty degree slant in a way that suggested—at least to the very imaginative and very drunk—a slab of stone that was about to fall over. Pepper noted that two of the letters on the sign had now gone dark, so that the establishment’s name appeared to be The W_bbly Mon_lith. Pepper sighed, making a mental note to call the sign repairman as soon as she had paid the rent and her monthly dues to Sam. She followed Sam back into the bar.

  Sam had returned to his seat and picked up the newspaper. Pepper walked to the table, trying to get up the courage to broach the subject of the monthly dues with Sam again. As she stood there, considering the best approach to take, she noticed a headline on the back page of the newspaper that read:

  Emerald of Sobalt Prime to Be Displayed at City Museum

  Pepper let out an involuntary whistle. The Emerald of Sobalt Prime was the most famous gem in the galaxy. It was officially considered “priceless,” but Pepper figured the black market value was somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred million credits. She found herself wondering why the owners—an interstellar jewelry consortium—risked putting it on display in a shady place like Yanthus Prime City. She shook her head and forced her thoughts back to her present circumstances.

  “As I was saying, Sam,” Pepper said, “while I appreciate the services the Ursa Minor Mafia provides…”

  “Good!” snapped Sam. “You appreciate it, you pay for it. Glad we understand each other, Pepper.”

  “Come on, Sam. Help me out here.”

  “I’ve suggested ways to supplement your income in the past, Pepper. You always turn up your nose.” His eyes scanned Pepper’s figure.

  Pepper glared at Sam. “You’re not seriously suggesting I go to work at one of your cathouses.”

  “Space, no,” said Sam. “You’re a smart girl, with a lo
t of talents. I could find a legitimate place for you in my organization. Although, since you mention it, a pretty girl like you—”

  “No, Sam. I’m not a hooker, and I’m a lousy employee. I like being in charge of my own life.”

  Sam shrugged and went back to his newspaper. “In that case, get me a drink.”

  Pepper gritted her teeth and walked back to the bar. She swatted at another of the buzzing insects. The whole spaceport area was plagued by these damn bugs. No matter what Pepper did, they managed to get inside. They annoyed the customers and hurt business. Lately she’d been spending nearly as much on exterminators as she’d been paying to Sam, to similar effect.

  She fixed Sam his usual, a Scotch and soda, and returned to his table, setting the glass down without a word. She began to walk away.

  “Oh, come now, Pepper,” said Sam. “Don’t be that way. You know it’s just business. I thought we were friends. Didn’t you just say I reminded you of your grandfather?”

  Pepper sighed, staring out the bar’s window at the people on the streets of Yanthus Prime City rushing past. I tried, she thought. I really tried. But it was starting to seem like “going straight” on a planet like Yanthus Prime was a fool’s gambit. There were no legitimate businesspeople on Yanthus Prime. There were, in fact, only two types of people: criminals and suckers. Pepper was getting very tired of being among the latter. Sam Suharu wasn’t a bad guy; he was just a businessman who had adapted to the legally and ethically ambiguous culture of Yanthus Prime. Sam’s employer, the Ursa Minor Mafia, was no more or less corrupt than any other major player on this planet. Every bar in the city had to pay protection money. It was just business.

  “Hey, Pepper,” said Sam quietly, putting down his paper. “You’re a million miles away. What are you thinking about?”

  “Hm?” said Pepper, her ruminations cut short. She turned to face Sam. “I was just thinking about what a Glark turd my grandfather was.”

  Chapter 2

  After she locked the doors of the bar, Pepper spent a few hours going over her finances. No matter how she massaged the numbers, there was no escaping the bottom line: she wasn’t going to be able to pay her suppliers, her landlord, and the Ursa Minor Mafia this month—and that meant closing the Wobbly Monolith. But shutting down the bar would cut off her only income stream, eliminating the possibility of ever paying off her creditors. She could dodge the suppliers and the collection agencies, but the Ursa Minor Mafia would find her. Going bankrupt was no excuse for missing a payment, and not all the Mafia’s agents were as easygoing as Sam Suharu.