Z is for Zento Fixes a Wormhole Generator

(Note: This story will make a lot more sense if you've read all of my Zento stories, marked with the "Zento" label, than if you haven't.)

            The bright white helix of the Goran Wormhole blinked.  Zento scrunched his eyebrows together.  “Did the Hole just…?” he muttered.

            The rigid spirals of the Wormhole loosened and spread.  They unwound themselves in the space of a handful of Verion minutes.

            Zento swore in every language he remembered.  “This is the second time this cycle the Hole has gone out,” he said to his copilot, a young man jacketed in ancient Kevlar.

            “Which planet’s cycle?” his copilot asked.

            “Goran 3, sorry.”  Zento turned to face the man.  “What was your name again?”

            “Breed Cornigan.”

            Zento snapped his fingers into a gun.  “Cornigan; I remember.  You were with me when I maimed that Senator on Incubar.”  He looked up and grunted, then jerked his control sticks to the side.  The ship rattled as it skimmed against an asteroid.

            Breed’s eyes widened.  “Is the ship—”

            “It’ll be fine.”  Zento waved a hand at Breed.  “It’s just a scratch.”

            “Maybe you should land in the generator station and check it out.”

            Zento laughed.  “We’re going to have to, Cornigan.  The Hole is out.  And I plan on fixing it.”

*

            “Just one more spin,” said Zento, hefting a large wrench up to the central pin of the wormhole generator.

            “You really think this is going to work?” Breed said behind him.

            Zento completed his motion and took a massive breath, wiping his forehead with the back of one cramping hand.  “Look outside.”

            One of the generator station staff—a young Goran woman wearing a dull blue uniform that paled against her green skin—took a step toward the room’s single window.  “Sir, you fixed, it curls anew,” she said in accented Verion.

            “Nothing a top-notch mercenary can’t handle,” said Zento.

            Breed led Zento back to the emergency hangar at the opposite end of the ship.  “Where did you learn to do that?”

            Zento shrugged.  “You learn a few things after eight years of odd jobs for the biggest mercenary company for fifty parsecs.”

            Smoke battered Zento’s eyes as he opened the door to the hangar.

            “Can you repair a ship as easily as a wormhole generator?” Breed asked, coughing.

            “Sure.  It’s just a really big, slightly fiery scratch.”

            A dull clatter reverberated through the hangar.  “Sir, the left wing just fell off.  Perhaps we should call a mechanic.”

            Zento activated his communicator.  “Carmel-Eyes, we’re going to be a bit late for that hit on Karont.  My ship is on fire.”

Uniyabon

I entered my seventh story featuring Zento the Mercenary, "Uniyabon," in the Flash! Friday Vol. 2-3 contest.  (It did not win.)  You can read it here.

Zento Off-Duty

This is the sixth of my flash fiction pieces featuring Zento, a space opera mercenary.  There are a few recurring elements, so for full understanding you may want to read they others.  They're necessarily short.  You can find all of them through my new Zento label.

     Zento sat stock-still.  He steadied his loaded crossbow.  Took a breath.  Fired.  Swore.  Two brown figures darted out of view.  “Missed again,” he hissed through his teeth.  “How is it that I kill my political targets on the first shot nine times in ten, yet can’t hit a Goran stag for my life?”
     A patch of mossy undergrowth rustled in the corner of Zento’s eye at the peak of a nearby rise.  He twisted to get a better look.  The foliage stirred again.  This time a dot of yellow horn poked up.  He smiled.
     As several minutes drifted by, movement became more and more frequent.  Zento scanned the rest of the surrounding woodland, pausing with each pass on the spot.  He stopped a yawn at his lips.
     The wind picked up, sending a chill down his spine.  He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering.  A dark square rose above the moss hilltop.  He went for the trigger, but removed the finger when it sunk back down as fast as it came.  “Take your time,” he murmured.
     His communicator crackled.  He sneered down at it, slipped one hand from his crossbow to block out the buzzing.  The tip of his weapon dipped down from its aimed position in time for another appearance.  This time he fired.  The bolt struck what he had feared at the very last moment: the moss before the stag’s cloven hooves.  It looked up from the projectile in Zento’s direction.  He did a quick count of the points on its wide antlers.  Three dozen.  A beauty.
     Zento drew a hand back into his quiver and pulled out another bolt.  It slid clean into its slot on the yirthal crossbow, the string engaging.  He took a breath.  Let it out.  Took in a second breath.  Let it out.
     A voice shattered the silence.  “Zento, we need you to come in for a black market investigation on Incubar.  Are you there?”  Zento punched his communicator.
     The stag tore down the slope, its curled white tail flopping.  “So much for being off-duty,” he muttered.  “I’ll be there in a few, Carmel-Eyes.”

U is for Underlings

This is my fifth flash fic featuring Zento the Mercenary.  You can find the other four via here.

     Zento sighed far louder than he needed to.  “We were instructed to maim the Senator, not kill.  Pay attention to your objectives.”
     The fresh-faced man in old-fashioned Kevlar who Zento addressed frowned.  “Yes, sir.”
     “Now repeat our instructions back to me again.”  Zento paid close attention to his footing as he stalked through a downhill slope coated in foliage.  A manor appeared at the top of the next rise.
     “Wait in the Senator’s garden for him to come outside then maim him.”
     “Good enough.  We’re almost there.”  Zento inspected his crossbow one last time.  Everything was in order.  A pair of quarrels stuck out of the quiver on his back.
     Quintiffer flowers dotted the hillside.  Their yellow petals rose in their centers, forcing them into an odd cone-like shape that seemed to point upward at the pale blue sky.  A sweet aroma wafted all around.
     “Were you nervous on your first mission, sir?”  The younger man asked.
     Zento’s face went blank for a moment.  “My father was a Grand-General of the Verion Army.  Do you expect the son of such a hero to get nervous on his first mission as a mercenary?”
     The younger man blushed.  “No, I suppose not.”
     “Of course I was nervous,” Zento began.  “My father expected me to become a General in the Army, but I ran off and became a freelance.  If I failed my first mission, I would either be dead or dishonored so heavily that I wished I was.”
     They climbed past a buriba tree in silence.  The manor’s nearest wall was almost fully visible.
     “Can you take the first shot, please?”  The younger man swallowed hard.
     Zento sighed again.  “Underlings…”

O is for Ostrich Herding

This is my fourth space opera featuring the mercenary Zento.  The first two were linked to on the third.  You can find it here.

     Zento cut the engine to his hoverbike.  He waved a hand at a figure sitting on the porch of a strange house.  The dwelling was a huge cylinder, seemingly fashioned from some type of dark wood, almost black, and shingled with pale stone.  A narrow chimney jutted out of the roof.  The smoke that drifted through it looked closer to white than grey.  “High-tech filtration for a farmer,” Zento said, smiling.
     The figure revealed itself, stepping into the light to meet its visitor.  “Our Viceroy has great love for Goran 5.  He wants the air as clear as Goran 3’s before the decade is out.  I joy in playing a part.”  The words came from a green-skinned humanoid, his voice seeming to quiver with a thick Goranean accent.
     “I never stay on one planet long enough to worry about the ecology.  It’s nice to know that there are people who do, however.  Untriouf,” said Zento, his final word a botched attempt at Goranean “good day”.
     The Goranean crinkled his thick brow, then nodded.  “Good day to you too.  What brings you to the agricultural side of my humble home-world, man-of-Earth?”
     “Verion, actually,” Zento began.  “My grandparents emigrated from Earth.  I came because I heard of some ‘ostrich herding’ for pay.”  He made little quote marks with his fingers at the slang.
     “You speak the truth.  I offer four hundred in Goran currency for moving my ostrich to their winter staying.”
     Zento’s mouth twisted a little.  He blinked.  “You mean literal ostrich herding?”
     The Goranean frowned.  “What did you think I meant?”
     “Never mind.  For four hundred I’d herd ice salamanders.”

C is for Carmel-Eyes

This is the third installment in my episodic Space Opera series featuring Zento the Mercenary.  You can read the first two here and here respectively.


         She gave a laugh, faint but sweet.  “What kind of a nickname is that?”
         “The best kind, for it puts on a pedestal your best feature,” said Zento.  He wore a broad grin.  A fresh burn on his right cheek crinkled.
         The woman faded back into a rigid stance.  “That last mission too tough for you?” she inquired, pointing at Zento’s cheek and raising one eyebrow.
         Zento laughed.  “You told me that cybervolcano was dormant.  I couldn’t believe it when burning saline starting streaming through the jungle of Goran 3.”
         “I can see it in my mind’s eye, the mighty Zento running in panic while a village of Goraneans simply moved to their shelter in the trees.  You should know that cybervolcanos don’t spew real lava.  They’re just enriching the soil with salt water.”
         “I know,” Zento said.  The rest of his face looked burnt now.  “I’m used to the super-volcanos on Verion.  Anyway, I got the intel.  Mission accomplished.”
         The woman nodded.  “That you did, IC108.”
         Zento reared, despite still holding a smile.  “Calling me by my independent contractor number?  Now that’s some kind of nickname.”
         “Just remember, 108,” the woman began, tilting her head to the side a little, “your father may have been a big-shot, but you’re only a mercenary here.”
         “Hurry up and give me my new assignments, Carmel-Eyes,” Zento said sticking out his tongue.  “I may be a freelance, but I’m the best your company has got.”

Espionage

Reminder: this piece is a sequel to last week's piece, Zento the Mercenary.

 

Zento strolled down a granite sidewalk.   Sparkling white skyscrapers loomed to one side.  Hovercrafts zoomed by on the other, their path made straight due to running magnets in the street.  Zento’s objectives overshadowed the sights.

He pulled a small piece of embroidered parchment from the inside pocket of his grey blazer.  It read: 427 32^nd Street.  Zento stalled to check the sign on the next building.  The wall shined brightly, undoubtedly coated in Lumin-Wax, a recent fad.  A large bronze plate was fused above the doorway.  The building was identified as “Medi-Core Corporate Headquarters”, with an address matching that on his slip.  Zento grinned.

The room he entered into was vast and, truthfully, somewhat intimidating.  Zento loved it.  He made his way to the end of a line of people, the front of which was a granite desk managed by a dark-haired woman in a black dress.  Zento ran his backstory through his head one last time.  His name was Geori Henderon.  He was the assistant to the CEO of the largest producer of medical machines on Karont, Medical Tech Inc.  Sent by Medi-Core’s strongest rival, Joen Haridy Medical, Zento was to get some key information by sitting in on a meeting scheduled for today.

The line diminished quickly, leaving Zento face-to-face with the receptionist.  “I’m here to attend a meeting on behalf of Medical Tech, Inc.,” he told her.

“I’ll need to scan some identification, sir,” she replied.

“Yes, of course.”  Zento reached into his back pocket and presented the forged I.D.  “My boss, the CEO, couldn’t attend.  I’m his assistant.”

The receptionist took the card from Zento and ran it in front of a scanner, wired to the computer to pull up the database of authorized personnel.  “Thank you, Mister Henderon,” she said, handing him the card.  “The meeting is in the Conference Room on the sixteenth floor.”

Zento found an empty elevator and entered.  He struck one of the lower panels on the back wall, stunning the security scanner that to him was common knowledge.  The elevator ascended slowly, picking up a few suited men on its way.  A computer voice came out of nowhere, and stated, “floor number sixteen.”

Zento stepped out onto smooth marble.  He scanned the room plaques on the lustrous white walls as the door shut behind him.  One of them, his destination engraved within, pointed down a hallway to his left.  Zento took it casually.

Several doors down was the room he seeked.  Inside sat eight men in similar garb to himself.  They smiled up at him.  “Samile Totoro,” one said before shaking Zento’s hand.  “I’m guessing that you’re sitting in for Mister Brirri of Medical Tech?”

“Nice to meet you, sir, and yes, I’m the assistant CEO, Geori Henderon.”

The men in the room nodded simultaneously.  One of them stood up with a small metal device in his hand.  With the push of a button the machine expanded to the size of his chest.  “Medi-Core third-quarter planning,” he said into a hole at the top of the expanded screen.  A bulleted list laden with statistics popped up. 

Zento’s mind blurred at all of the percentage signs.  He pulled out a notebook and scrawled as the man spoke.  The numbers didn’t matter much to him, but he didn’t want to lose an employer with a bad report, they were hard to come by.

After the list was taken care of and several slideshows run, the man shrunk his computer down and asked for questions.  “Sir,” Zento said, “can you please repeat that part about raising the price of scans for newer hospitals?”

“Certainly.  Our data has shown that eighty-seven percent of new hospitals are built in areas where one or more already exist within ten square kilometers.  The average insurance coverage in hospitals less than one year old is twenty percent better than in older hospitals.  Also, Medi-Core has recently upgraded their…” the man cut short.

Zento looked up from his pad and cursed.

“I thought you looked too young to be Geori Henderon.  We need security!” bellowed Samile.

Zento bolted to the door as a zooming erupted outside.  Two hovering robots flew in from his left and two more straight ahead.  He reached up his blazer and pulled out a palm-sized laser pointer.  At least it looked like a laser pointer.  Zento drew back a switch on its top, coinciding with a buzz.  The security bots closed in as the buzz morphed into a roar.  White light blasted out in a narrow stream knocking Zento back and slicing through the bots in front of him with a flip of his wrist.  He pivoted on the floor, blackening both a section of the wall and the mid-sections of the other two robots.

Zento whipped his head in both directions and disabled his laser.  A glass wall reflected light in a pool several meters from his feet.  He ran into the light while turning on the hidden bug behind his ear.  “I need my transport moved up against the glass, stat.”  A few seconds was the full duration of his pause before leaping into a free fall.

Zento the Mercenary

I was lacking motivation to write a new flash fiction piece today, but I'm still posting something.  Below is a flash fiction piece I wrote several months ago and had on Facebook.  Next week I will post the sequel that I started a while ago (which will probably run long, making up for this one being shorter).

The lights flickered on and off.  The feeling of electricity filled the air, prickling Zento’s skin.  He kept his head low, and crossbow at his side.  The quiver on his back was filled with specially made bolts.  The broadheads were soaked in fire oil, a solution that caused anything struck to instantly combust.  Zento veered to the right as footsteps became more evident to his left.

A sizzling sound could be heard, but the cause could not be seen.  Zento lay prone with his crossbow in hand and waited.  He knew that something was in here, the small lump of platinum in the inside pocket of his steel-aramid vest was proof of that.  New security drones had made his line of work far less common, but Zento did his job for the thrill and not for the money.  He inherited a large sum of money from his father, who had died fighting as a Grand-General in the Verion Army.  The crossbow was also part of his father’s Will, constructed by the Muriis several parsecs to the east and virtually unbreakable.  It was made of a native material called yirthal, a metalloid thirteen times stronger than steel made of elements previously unrecorded.  Yirthal was a hot commodity on Earth.  Only the most prestigious and wealthy possessed anything with even a trace.

The sound deepened to a piercing whistle.  The atmosphere turned hot and the taste of static filled Zento’s mouth as he took a deep breath and steadied himself.  Sparking brass cords could be seen several feet ahead dragging along the ground flanking two legs made of greyish metal.  Zento lifted his crossbow to his right shoulder, loaded a bolt with the automatic mechanism, and fired.  The rogue android burst into white flames, searing off Zento’s eyebrows.

Zento stood and peered down at the lump of steel on the tile floor in front of him.  His mission was accomplished.  It was time to cash in.