Bounty hunter academy 6, p.8
Bounty Hunter Academy 6, page 8
“It could happen,” said Harkum defensively. “When I’m a bounty hunter—”
“Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself there?” said Tartrian. “In your last training scenario, you mistakenly identified the target and proceeded to chase them for a full six minutes before Instructor Brekum finally terminated the scenario.”
“Yeah, but that was only because—”
“And in the one before that,” Sulhanna broke in, “you shot a perfectly innocent cleric of the Order of the Four right through the head.”
“Hey, that was an accident. The blaster went off by itself. I never even—”
“And in the one before that,” said Tartrian, “you got the crap beaten out of you by the target—who was, if I remember correctly, an old woman in her late eighties.”
“A scuffler pretending to be an old woman in her late eighties,” Harkum corrected. He took another bite out of the pizzaburger he had requested when we had made our delivery order at the Galactic Gulp. “If I wush fighdin’ a reaw ol’ lady, I’d’a been able ta kick ’er assh.”
“For the last time, Harkum,” said Sulhanna with a pained sigh, “will you please not speak with your mouth full.”
Harkum swallowed his mouthful of cheese and meat. “For the last time, Sulhanna, will you please stop being a prickly bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone.”
“I don’t think I’m better than everyone. Just you.”
Harkum flashed a dangerous smile. “Is that what you told Tartrian?”
Sulhanna’s face reddened like she’d just been splattered by a tomato. “Harkum Olaster, you shut your damn mouth right now before something very bad happens.”
Harkum’s smile widened a tectar. “Stop trying to show off, Sulhanna. I told you. He isn’t interested.”
Sulhanna’s eyes bulged, and she leapt out of the hoversofa. Harkum, too, jumped out of his chair, and the rest of us were treated to a mildly amusing show as Harkum tried to avoid the furiously grasping arms of his sister. It did not last long. Soon, Sulhanna had Harkum pinned to the ground, her arm wrapped around his neck.
“Tega?” said Zozo.
“Hmm?”
“You haven’t thanked us for coming to see you yet.”
I sniggered. “I was just about to. As soon as Sulhanna stops tweaking her brother’s ear, anyway.”
Sulhanna snorted, then she released Harkum. “He’s not my brother. He’s a damn nuisance.”
“A damn nuisance who’s one day going to marry Merinda Vulchovney,” Harkum croaked, clutching at his windpipe.
“Have they told you who the next target is?” asked Tartrian.
I shook my head. “No. I suppose they’ll just give me the BI file again like they did last time. I think that’s part of the fun—for the viewers, at least. It’s more spontaneous that way.”
Tartrian nodded. “You read the file really well. That thing about NETTA not being the name of a person… That was smart.”
I shook my head, trying to deflect the word ‘smart’ from landing anywhere nearby. “It was just lucky, that’s all. That idea just fell into my head, and I ran with it.”
I almost jumped as a metallic hand landed on my knee.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” said Zozo, to whom the metal hand belonged. “Instructor Brekum said we can come down and watch the next capture in person. Cheer you on, and all that.”
My eyebrows sank down my brow. “Cheer me on? You mean in person?”
Zozo nodded.
“But how? I mean, it’s not like the captures are happening in a stadium or anything like that.”
“I don’t understand it either. But that’s what Controller Hargonen said in the announcement. And there’s bound to be a big turnout. From what I gather, half the colony’s going to be there.”
“Yeah,” said Harkum as he retook his seat. “And half the people in the Tri-Galactic Territories are going to watch the holovid live on Jool.”
I winced at the prospect. During the first exhibition event, I hadn’t really thought about the viewing audience much, aside from a few times when I had glimpsed the holovid crew. But if there were going to be people on hand to ‘cheer me on’ for the second exhibition hunt, that would make it a lot harder to keep my focus. And keeping my focus was the only thing that had stopped Makk from kicking my head off with those turboball boots.
“Did anything about the first event seem a little strange to anyone?” I asked, thinking about the dangerous ferocity of Makk’s attack.
“Strange how?” asked Zozo.
“I don’t know. Like how the scuffler seemed to have had its safeguards disabled. I suppose you probably couldn’t tell, but I came quite close to winding up in a cremation furnace on more than one occasion.”
“Yeah, I noticed that,” said Tartrian.
“You did?”
Tartrian nodded. “Maybe you should talk to Brekum about it. As far as I can tell, he’s the person responsible for providing academy equipment—and I presume that includes scufflers.”
My lip twisted at the idea. “I don’t want to create any fuss. I’m sure Instructor Brekum knows what he’s doing.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Harkum. “In fact, I’m pretty sure ol’ Brekum’s trying his hardest to get us all killed.”
“Get you killed, perhaps,” said Sulhanna, who had not returned to her seat and was instead standing by the window that looked out on the corridor outside the visitor’s area, where uniformed Core staff members were bustling about.
“How’s everything at the academy?” I asked, keen to change the topic of conversation away from my own particular troubles.
“Oh, the usual,” said Zozo. “They’ve almost finished rebuilding the Huntspire—you know, that tower in the middle of the academy that got destroyed during the attack. Apart from that, everything’s normal. Just the usual relentless barrage of training exercises from Instructor Brekum, interspersed with the occasional lesson on actual information that’s relevant to finding and neutralising a target.”
“Any news about Destron?”
Everyone in the visitor’s area stiffened at the mention of the name of the academy’s founder.
“Not really,” said Zozo. “Just more rumour.”
“What kind of rumour?”
Zozo shot glances at the others, as if unsure about whether she should speak her mind or keep her thoughts to herself.
“They’re saying he’s already reached an agreement with the supreme to take over as the leader of the academy,” said Tartrian.
“And who is ‘they’ exactly?”
Tartrian shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”
I took a long, contemplative sip from my drink. If Destron really had taken over as leader of the academy, what would that mean for me? The bounty hunter supreme had always protected me, albeit in her own strange way. Would Destron be as motherly as she had been? Or would he disregard me completely?
“It’s all just rumour,” said Zozo, giving my knee a squeeze with her cold cybernetic hand. “No one knows anything. No one outside the top brass, anyway.”
I nodded, trying to still the anxiety that was swirling around my belly. Zozo was right. There had been no official announcement about a change of leadership, and until there was, we would just have to get on with things as normal. There was no point trying to second guess the outcome of Destron’s reappearance. All would be revealed—sooner or later, anyway.
I looked up as the door whooshed open.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Hett. “The visitor’s area’s closing now.”
The others got to their feet—or, in Tartrian and Sulhanna’s case, pushed off the wall—and shuffled over to the door. I got up to join them, but Hett placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Tega, you stay here, remember?” he said. “We’ve prepared a room especially for you. It has everything you’ll need to put you on top form for the next event. And you won’t have to worry about any—ahem—parental factors affecting your performance.”
My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Clearly, Hett knew about my complicated relationship with my parents. Usually they just left me alone, but there were a few odd occasions when my father would decide to mumble a few half-baked thoughts in my general direction. It was just the kind of thing that would throw me off my stride, and by staying in the Core, I was ensuring the stability of my mental health for the remaining events.
I nodded at Hett, then bade farewell to my friends. When they had gone, Hett led me to my room—a serenely peaceful space deep beneath the bustling colony streets. The room was filled with a gentle pink light, and the air carried a faint, neutral scent that reminded me of a med booth—calm without being sterile. One wall was dominated by a low, recessed terminal desk, its surface seamless and dark, with a softly glowing interface already awake, waiting for input. Opposite it sat a narrow bed built directly into the floor. Storage compartments were set flush into the walls. There were no windows, but a slow-moving holo-panel projected a simulated skyline of the colony above, the illusion of distant motion lending the space a sense of depth rather than confinement. It was spare, controlled, and unmistakably designed for focus—exactly the kind of place where distractions were meant to quietly fail.
“Is it OK?” asked Hett.
I nodded, my jaw hanging open. “It’s… wonderful. I think I’d like to live here permanently.”
Hett chuckled. “I’m glad you like it. Now, if there’s anything else you need, just press this button, and someone will come running.”
I smiled appreciatively. “Just walking is fine. No need to run. And I can’t imagine I’d need anything, anyway.”
Hett indicated the button. “Well, if you do…”
I nodded.
“I’ll leave you to get comfortable,” Hett said as he went to the door. “The next exhibition hunt will begin tomorrow morning at oh nine hundred hours. I’ll collect you for breakfast at oh seven hundred hours.”
Hett flashed a bright smile, then he quit the room, and the door closed.
“Alright, Tega,” I said as I turned towards my blissful new quarters. “Let’s get comfortable.”
8
Chapter 8
There was a ping, and the BI file appeared on the terminal screen.
I hurriedly scanned its contents.
The target’s name was Rax Kelthorn. He was thirty-nine years old, though the file cautioned that this figure was approximate. His holopic showed a broad-shouldered man with a scar-scored face and long silver hair. One of his ears had been replaced with a dull metallic implant that looked like it had been made in a workshop. His expression was flat and unreadable—the kind that suggested violence was not an emotional act for him, but a professional one. Numerous healed fractures were visible along his jawline and collarbone, giving the impression of a body that had been broken and rebuilt more than once.
Kelthorn was born on the industrial moon of Virex-9, a place better known for its live-fire proving grounds than its civilian infrastructure. Records indicated that he had received formal weapons training before he was old enough to legally carry a blaster, initially through a corporate security apprenticeship and later as part of a private enforcement syndicate.
He had spent most of his adult life working as a freelance combat specialist. He was certified—or blacklisted—in the use of an extensive range of weaponry, including heavy blasters, coilguns, shock batons, and anti-personnel drones. The BI file flagged him as exceptionally dangerous in close-quarters engagements, noting that he favoured aggressive forward movement and rapid target suppression. In the past seven years, Kelthorn had been involved in multiple armed incidents resulting in serious injury or death, the most prominent of which was an attack on the son of a wealthy spacestation owner. After his son’s death, the spacestation owner had contacted the academy to place the bounty order.
Unlike most targets, Kelthorn’s current whereabouts were not in question. He was known to be operating out of Forgehold Arena, a decommissioned industrial complex in Battlesuit District that had been repurposed as a training ground. Surveillance confirmed his presence on-site within the last six hours, and his routines were described as ‘predictable but heavily armed’.
The mission had been classified as B-rated, with a special notation recommending “maximum caution” and authorising the use of non-lethal force escalation protocols.
I rubbed my face, straining to push my concentration to its highest level.
Whereas the last BI file had required extensive scrutiny and investigation to determine the target’s location, this BI file appeared to give the target’s location quite precisely. The challenge, therefore, was not going to be determining the target’s location but rather apprehending the target.
I glanced at the part of the BI file that indicated Kelthorn’s location.
Forgehold Arena…
If memory served correctly, it was a towering, rust-scarred structure, its original thermal vents and cargo gantries still clinging to the frame, but now reinforced with fresh armour plating and hazard-striping. It was there that the district’s brood of potential bounty hunters trained before taking the academy entrance exam. If there was a better place in the colony for a weapons-based showdown, I didn’t know it.
I skimmed the file one last time, searching for tricks or traps I might have been overlooking. When I couldn’t find any, I got up from my seat, snatched up my rucksack, and started for the door. Once I was outside the studio, I headed for the mag shuttle station, the holovid crew once again in tow. A glance at the ugly yellow wristwatch revealed that I had just under three hours to capture the target. That was plenty of time—provided that Kelthorn really was at Forgehold Arena.
As I skipped briskly through the streets, I heard a few cheers and several cries of encouragement. Looking around, I searched for the person to whom they were directed, only to realise—with a considerable degree of embarrassment—that they were directed at me.
With every step I took, a new voice seemed to join the cacophony of voices, many of which apparently knew my name and called it out at the top of their lungs. Shopkeepers leaned out from their open storefronts, morning shutters still half-raised as they called out encouragement. Commuters pressed their faces to the windows of a passing mag shuttle as it hissed along the track overhead, a few of them lifting hand terminals to record the moment. Pedestrians slowed on the walkways, some riding glide-plates, others hurrying along with satchels tucked under their arms, all of them turning to stare as they realised who the cheers were for. A cluster of children in dark blue uniforms jogged alongside me for a few steps, shouting my name with unrestrained excitement, while a pair of elderly colonists paused beside a biorecycling pit, offering quiet nods of approval as I passed.
By the time I had reached the mag shuttle station, my ears were red with embarrassment. It was a relief to dive into the station’s relatively secluded underground embarkation area, where I was not alone from prying eyes but at least considerably less of a public spectacle.
After I had slipped onto the next mag shuttle bound for Battlesuit District, I found a quiet carriage where I was able to sit unmolested—though not unnoticed—for the duration of the ride. Once outside the station, I jogged through the streets towards the distant shadow-wreathed monstrosity that was Forgehold Arena.
It wasn’t long before I realised my hurried movement was a mistake. Had I merely walked briskly, I might not have been noticed. But by approaching a near-run, I drew the attention of the people of Battlesuit District like a lightning rod.
Armoured fabricators paused mid-conversation outside open-front workshops, their gauntleted hands still smudged with sealing paste. Couriers on grav-skates swerved to keep pace for a moment, calling out encouragement before peeling away down side streets. A pair of academy cadets broke off from a sparring drill in a recessed alcove, watching me with open curiosity, while shoppers laden with boxed components slowed to stare, murmuring my name as recognition spread.
By the time Forgehold Arena loomed fully into view, a loose tail of onlookers had formed behind me—some cheering, some recording holovids on their hand terminals, and others simply eager to see how close they could get to whatever was about to happen.
When I reached the gates of Forgehold Arena, I found they had been firmly locked. Presumably all training activities for the day had been cancelled, though quite how I was supposed to get inside was something of a mystery.
Spying a low section of wall, I sprinted up the back of a parked hovercar, leapt onto the holoprojection bar at the base of a holographic billboard, then shimmied up the pole that led to the holoprojection bar at the top of the billboard. From there, it was a fairly straightforward jump to reach the low section of wall, but judging from the crowd’s enthusiastic explosion of applause, it looked far more difficult than it actually was.
On the other side of the wall, I found a stack of conveniently placed cargo crates that gave me a way to climb down without risking breaking one of my ankles. That done, I started for the wide, arching entranceway that led into the arena, hoping that my noisy arrival hadn’t been noticed by Rax Kelthorn.
9
Chapter 9
I removed my eye from the magniscope’s eyepiece. The vast interior of Forgehold Arena was far too large to fully inspect with magnified vision, but the parts that I had inspected—the stacked, open floors arranged around a vast central void, with bridges and gantries spanning the space like a web—had yielded nothing in the way of information as to the whereabouts of Rax Kelthorn. It was, therefore, clear from the outset that I was going to have to locate the target by going from floor to floor.
A glance at my wristwatch indicated that I still had two and a half hours to get the job done. Providing Kelthorn really was holed out in Forgehold Arena, and providing I could keep him from escaping, that should have been ample time to take the target out.
