Acheron

By Lawrence Caldwell

Acheron, keeping you, and your family, safe, by keeping them...where they belong! Support the United Systems Alliance penal system, for a safer tomorrow.

Great commercial. But that place is a total hellhole worse than death for many, and everybody knows it. The convicts are even having children. They’re supposed to be sterilized, but that costs too much, if the scandals are to be believed. Either way, Dan doesn’t care. He has a job to do—and that’s to get that lizard-ambassador out of there. How her ship crashed on that rock in the first place is an interesting mystery. Something big is at play here...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Caldwell
• Release date: Oct 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005592080

Lawrence Caldwell

Lawrence Caldwell is believed by some to be a wandering samurai, or a vagrant, or possibly a ninja—though perhaps in his infinite mystery, he’s none of these things. Whichever the case, he wanders home as Odysseus did after the great Trojan War in some realm unbeknownst to our world. And—by direct theft of a quote from a certain dwarf named Varric Tethras—he "occasionally writes books."

Book preview

Prologue—Anticipations

Blake Halls felt his stomach heave as he looked outside the station’s viewport where the prison world awaited him.

He shuffled, shoes scraping against the metal-grated flooring. It was a heavy metal—probably imported from the Veron system.

He realized his hands were trembling.

Shit, he thought, lacing his fingers over the metal table as the chains rattled with his handcuffs. He wouldn’t let Sandra see him like this. Scared.

From what Blake had heard from the other inmates, Acheron was a total hellhole. It looked like a hellhole. No water masses visible from orbit. No forests... Just deserts. Someone would need to have survival skills to make it out there.

Shit!

Maybe the Alliance brought water shipments for the inhabitants. No. That was probably too much to hope for.

He started shaking again when the door opened, revealing a burly guard, Sandra standing beside him. Sandra was tall for a woman, and thin. She had her blonde hair tied up in a tail. That’s how she looked for business. The guard left them alone together.

The intercom cracked when he stood up on his feet. Standing is not permitted, prisoner 0078! Sit down!

Blake sat back down on the hard metal chair. The table was bolted to the floor so he couldn’t tip it, or in the case of a stronger man, throw it at someone. He couldn’t reach his chair on account of being handcuffed to the table with an eight inch chain anyway.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, smiled. Thank the gods you’re here. Sandra, you have to get me out of here. They’re going to send me to the surface tomorrow!

His wife’s beautiful lips tightened. She only made that expression when she found something distasteful. Somehow Blake didn’t think it was because he was about to be sent to that world the Alliance called a prison. I’m not here about that, she said, sitting down across from him.

Blake frowned as she pushed a stylus toward him. What is this?

Sandra took a breath. She looked uncomfortable. Divorce papers.

Blake flinched. What? No! He pushed the stylus away. Where’s Dasen?

Sandra crossed her arms. He doesn’t want to see you, Blake.

Blake frowned, breathing in deeply. Why did you stop coming to the trial? Why haven’t you come to see me before now?

Sandra opened her mouth to speak, but Blake cut her off. It’s been two months and you come on the last day before I get sent to that hellhole? He pointed toward the viewport.

Sandra was breathing more heavily now, her chin jutting forward just slightly. Why do you think I stopped coming to the trial?

Blake shrugged. I don’t know.

That distasteful look again.

You’re a damn coward, Blake! She leaned forward. "You tried to save your own ass and you got an innocent man executed because you were too much of a chicken shit to testify about what really happened."

Blake glanced at his hands. The weapons smuggling—

Sandra scowled at him. I don’t care about the weapons smuggling charges. You already made me hate you when you never came home. All you ever did was work and party with your friends and hang out with your sluts when our son needed a father.

How many times do I have to tell you, he said, heat rising in his face as he jabbed a finger toward Sandra. "That pleasure cruise was business. I never slept with any of those sluts and what happened I had no part in—I wasn’t involved!"

She shook her head, blonde ponytail whipping from side to side. It doesn’t matter. You showed your true colors at the trial. You’re basically a murderer and you know it.

It was true.

He nodded. "Fine. I screwed up—I am a screw up—is that what you want to hear? But Sandra, you’ve got to get me out of here. Please! There’s got to be something you can do?"

She sniffed. "Like what, wave my magic wand? Do I look like a mage to you? Blake, it’s over."

He rubbed his temples, then slammed his fist on the metal table, "Shit!"

The intercom cracked to life again. No more outbursts, prisoner 0078. If it happens again, your visit will be terminated.

Blake nodded vigorously, smiling viciously at the camera.

Blake, Sandra said, nudging the stylus forward. Please sign it.

He looked down at the stylus. He felt so tired as he hiked up the sleeves of his orange prison garb to rub at the chafe marks the handcuffs had made. Sandra was right. Who was he kidding? It would take nothing short of a miracle to get him out of this.

Finally he bent over, took up the pen. The only thing I ever wanted was to make you and Dasen happy. I wanted you to have a comfortable life.

You failed, Blake.

He continued. Will you tell Dasen that I’m sorry?

She nodded. I will.

Blake scribbled his name onto the digital paper before pushing the stylus back to Sandra. He didn’t look at her. Instead he watched Acheron through the viewport.

She got up, buzzed for the guard. Before she left, Sandra wiped a tear from her cheek. I’m sorry, Blake.

Yeah, he said sarcastically, then looked up at her.

She smiled slightly. Good luck. She left and the guard closed the door, leaving him in complete silence.

At least Sandra and Dasen would have his money. They would have a good life—without him. They didn’t need him.

He suppressed the urge to cry. He chuckled when he looked out the viewport again. Hell awaited him. He deserved it. Blake Halls probably wouldn’t last two days on that fucked up planet!

When the guard came back for him, Blake started sobbing.

Chapter One—Transmission

Jon Silverman, ambassador of the Alliance government, paced back and forth inside his personal VIP quarters. Retu’alae, the capital world of the Retuailian Hegemony, was a hot and human place. Thankfully Jon’s rooms were conditioned to suit his needs. His security retinue had swept the room for bugs, just in case.

Why won’t he answer my calls? He wondered. That Acheron born inbred was probably doing this just to spite Jon.

He continued to pace the room, occasionally glancing out the window at the alien landscape. Jon hated jungle environments. He hated the heat—and the bugs. At least the Retuailians were a civilized race. Very civilized, though their form of government was shit. It only allowed the highborn to rule. For all intents and purposes, the Retuailian Hegemony was an oligarchy.

Jon stroked his upper lip. He didn’t have facial hair. He didn’t think he was the kind of man to have a nervous tick either, but the first obstacle to his plans had already presented itself. Jon couldn’t have refused the High Diplomat’s request to return to the capital without him.

Was the High Diplomat uninterested in this proposed treaty? Jon found it hard to believe the alien was truly regretful about not being able to go. He said he had an emergency to attend to, but that his daughter was fully qualified to make an assessment in his stead.

For what Jon needed, that was good enough. The only problem was that he was stuck on the very same shuttle that was bound for that backwater dust ball.

That brute Rork would love to hear how Jon managed this, but he wouldn’t have to know. Jon already revised what would be his official story. This was perhaps even better.

Frustration rose and Jon felt his face get hot. He tried to banish the emotion. If the man who was to be his partner didn’t answer the call, he would be in extreme danger. Not to mention this whole operation would probably go bad. Rork had orders to kill everyone on the shuttle except the High Diplomat.

He glanced at the encrypted interstellar communications device. He was allowed to have one even on Retu’alae because he was an Alliance ambassador. Trusted.

The machine was programmed to make that call to Rork every few minutes. He would leave it that way until the man answered.

Jon jerked when the local console chimed. He turned and crossed the room to check the device. It seemed the High Diplomat’s daughter was calling. He received the call and the screen on the wall flicked on, displaying Tau’ane Kolivar’s face. She wore a white hood and a necklace with green stones.

Ambassador...

Jon put on his best smile. Ah, hello, Miss Kolivar. A pleasure.

Of course, she said. "My father Sei’endol of Retu’alae has just informed me that I will be traveling with you to oversee negotiations on this treaty. You have been informed of this, yes?"

Jon knew the Sei’endol was the Retuailian word for High Diplomat. They never said the title in basic human. These aliens were very formal.

Jon clasped his hands together. Of course, Miss Kolivar. I look forward to traveling with you. Just then the IC chimed. Rork was obviously on screen, but Jon forced himself not to turn around.

I am also excited about our journey, Ambassador. I very much want to see this capital of yours.

Diplomat Kolivar didn’t look excited. The best word Jon could think of was predatory. It was hard to read an alien, though.

He felt impatient as he smiled, saying nothing.

Good day, Ambassador.

Jon nodded patiently. And to you. The screen flicked off and Jon lurched to the other side of the room, anger rising. Why haven’t you answered my calls?

Jon frowned when he realized Rork was not sitting in front of his IC unit.

A moment later the screen on Rork’s end shook and rose from the floor. It panned over to where the warlord was sitting, obviously held up by one of this lackeys. In his right hand was a pruner.

Jon suppressed the urge to roll