Galaxy's End: Book One LeRoy Clary (dark books to read TXT) 📖

Of course, the known sphere of “civilization” only encompassed an estimated thousand stars boasting planets with intelligent life. Since one in five had life, and one in three of those held intelligent life, there were about two hundred known intelligent space-faring species—until the aggressive humans spread out further.

A scenario from long ago kept playing out in her mind as she strolled the streets of Roma in search of her prey. In it, she remembered a time shortly after her father had died when she was on a backwater world selling her entire load aboard the ship to a greedy fat man. They were close to an agreement but still dickering over details. Without warning, he had suddenly stood and violently rejected her deal before storming away in anger. The cargo was perishable; an expensive, exotic fruit not able to grow on that planet. Her expected buyer had stiffed her over a minor difference in price and an implied insult that angered him. She later learned it was because she had haggled too much in his opinion.

There were no other buyers. The cargo rotted in the hold of her ship. Fortunately, another buyer finally appeared. One that made expensive wines from over-ripe fruit. She sold the fruit for a third of the value a few days earlier, along with a promise of a few cases of wine if she ever returned. The wine deal saved her ship from the bankers she owed. Barely.

The credits for the fruit had been enough to pay the landing and fueling fees. She even consigned a hundred cases of other wine for delivery to a luxury planet and earned a few extra credits. It took her almost a year to fully recover from the loss.

What bothered her was how close she had come to losing her ship and everything over a few credits and a token misunderstanding. If she had an empath on her crew who could tip the deal in her favor at the beginning, she would have earned a nice profit and not missed several nights of sleep. She might prevent the same thing from happening in the future.

After that incident, she’d met with her crew and offered a new deal to them. The deal she offered her crew was for long-term profits instead of daily wages. Stability. A path to a comfortable retirement, and possibly riches. Most of her old crew had left for other ships at the next port, unwilling to accept her proposal, but four remained. She recruited two more on the next planet where they sold tractor parts and consigned a load of oats to sell at a barren mining planet that grew no food but had excess cash and rare minerals.

The idea she had proposed to her crew was the idea that nobody on the crew would be paid again until the ship held fat bank accounts on several worlds, each large enough to operate the ship for a few months. They were safety nets. After that was achieved, her crew would earn shares of profits, not salaries.

No profit, no pay. That was the sticking point with many. Those who had departed wanted salaries plus a share. That wouldn’t happen.

Those few who had remained with her back then were still aboard. Good times or bad, the ship had the resources to continue. Her present crew had foregone paychecks for almost a year. They now earned several times the annual amount of the wages they would have collected. Compared to the crews of other traders, hers were now relatively wealthy, and solidly loyal.

There was also her ship, the Guardia. It was far larger than the ships operated by other traders, it had room for her crew to use their credits to buy independently on one planet and sell on another without paying freight costs. Each had a personal mass and cargo allocation. It was part of her deal with them.

“Looking for a good time, Miss?” asked a barker with a mustache that drooped on either side of his mouth to nearly his chest. He stood outside a gaudy tavern that advertised real homemade hard cider. She doubted that it was real, homemade, or even cider, but it would be hard liquor and therefore acceptable to those inside. After a few drinks in there, she’d wake in the morning with a legendary hangover and find she had transferred her entire bank account to someone she didn’t know.

Her eyes went to the building he stood before as she shook her head and ignored him. They were not the imitation Roman style near the Colosseum and tourists walking the street were not wearing togas and drinking as hard as if they were at a street party. These were working people as you’d find in the industrial part of any city.

She saw a welder with tiny scars burned into his skin, a man wearing a leather apron at a forge that had two streaks down its sides from where he’d wiped his hands on his thighs so many times. Another wore a toolbelt holding primitive hammers and pliers, neither of which had changed much in thousands of years.

A human woman leaned seductively against the wall of a building and eyed passersby. Instead of her desired come-hither expression, she simply looked tired. Next to her stood a female Octi of some kind, four arms, four legs, and prettier than the human woman beside her, by far. Most of the Octi races laid eggs, but that didn’t stop them from pleasing men of several races—for a steep price.

Not to be outdone, a red-haired Trager sat in a wooden chair and balanced on two legs as he leaned back and rocked, his expression seductive, his eyes greedy. His cape was scarlet inside and shimmered in the light. Outside, it was soft gold. Several local women gave him the eye as they strode past.