111 Souls (Infinite Universe) Read online

  111 Souls

  by

  Justin Bohardt

  Book 1 of the Infinite Universe

  (Finite Ways to Make a Living)

  Series

  111 Souls

  Justin Bohardt

  Kindle Direct Publishing Edition

  Copyright 2014 Justin Bohardt

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Except where allowed by Amazon, this ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  When the writer pours hours of his life into the simple endeavor of telling a story, it is the writer’s fondest and perhaps most desperate hope that someone will take a few minutes to read and perhaps even enjoy the story he crafted. Sadly, I have found that this hope (expecting someone to read your story, that is) is often too great an expectation. My wife’s parents, however, have been kind enough to read my stories, even the ones that were truly horrible, and I will always be grateful to them for that.

  In addition, whether it is reminding me that I should not curse as much as I do in front of my child, debating with me over alternate ways the Civil War could have ended, providing me with homemade cards for holidays I was not familiar with, or discussing the latest Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction, my in-laws are always there to keep me on my toes.

  Mostly, I am just thankful that they are always there.

  As such, this book is dedicated to Bill and René. Thank you.

  Consideration

  I truly value your feedback, but especially the positive comments. If you enjoyed this novel, please make a note of it in the comments section from whatever ebook retailer you purchased this from. If you did not enjoy it, please remember that brevity is the soul of wit, and silence is the ultimate mark of wisdom. Cheers! Justin Bohardt- 2014.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  Other Titles By Justin Bohardt

  Chapter 1

  1

  A light flickered on overhead, and Captain Matthew Jennings heard the unmistakable electronic whirring of plasma weapons being charged. There were at least eight of them in the room, a small circular windowless steel trap. Correction, Jennings thought to himself quickly as he heard the delicate drawl of a woman clearing her throat. There were nine of them.

  Jennings turned his head slightly to size up the lady who was stepping from behind one of the leather-clad muscular behemoths who appeared to be in her employ. The woman was short and squat with matronly gray hair pulled back into a bun. She wore a bright red suit that screamed colonial housewife trying to pull off administrative assistant in the capital city of some back berth abortion of a Terran settlement. One glance into those cool, steely gray eyes though, and Jennings immediately changed his mind. Her eyes whispered that she was just as comfortable wading hip deep through blood as she was hosting tea at the governor’s mansion (Or viceroy’s, Jennings’ brain corrected, sidetracking his thoughts for a moment. Governor implied democracy.) Those cold irises even introduced the woman before she had spoken a word.

  “Anastasia Petrova, I presume,” Jennings announced while flashing a large grin.

  Her stride forward faltered for a moment, and Jennings allowed himself a brief moment of self-satisfied congratulations. Anastasia Petrova had been a bounty hunter for over a decade and had unofficially started before then by capturing T-Fed Army deserters during the Gael War. Her success had allowed her to take on partners and understudies until she had an entire army of hunters at her command. From what Jennings knew, she mostly sat back these days, growing rich off ten percent of her army’s bounties. It was pretty rare for her to actually pound the pavement anymore, or so the rumors said. Naturally, Jennings felt honored to have gathered her personal attention.

  “You seem quite pleased vith yourself,” Petrova spoke at last, her voice baring a hint of the old Earth Russian accent. “Especially considering the precariousness of your position. Nine guns against only one.”

  “Well, it just so happens that I carry four guns- two on my spine, one at my hip and another at my ankle. I also have a couple of knives that you may not have taken into consideration, so I am still willing to consider your surrender,” Jennings replied, which got a few chuckles from Petrova’s lackeys. He shrugged his shoulders and then added, “Besides, if I’m going to die, I might as well go contentedly.” He paused once more before allowing his eyes to travel to where his right hand grasped the shoulder of the man next to him. “There’s also the possibility that I just might take something you want with me,” he added.

  Jennings felt tension pulse through the neck of his prisoner and wondered for a moment what was going through Ciarin O’Sullivan’s mind. Here he was, a black bag over his head, arms bound behind him, and now two different sets of people were about ready to kill each other for the right to bring O’Sullivan to the authorities. Certainly, it could not have been young Ciarin’s best day ever.

  “You vill kill the bounty? I think not,” Petrova said. “Besides, a corpse can still be carried in.”

  “Wrong again, my dear,” Jennings said. “You really need to read the postings more carefully. This one’s wanted alive only. Dead, he isn’t worth two cents a kilo.”

  Again, Petrova’s pacing halted and she eyed Jennings. He could see her mind working, wondering if he would really kill his own mark just to spite her. Jennings had no intention of killing O’Sullivan- that was not the way he operated. Besides, it was just plain rude to shoot someone on the way to their own funeral, but he was hoping that Petrova did not know that.

  A smile formed in the corner of the Russian bounty hunter’s mouth, and Jennings immediately knew that his bluff was about to be called. “I have read your combat files, Lieutenant Jennings,” she began.

  “Captain Jennings,” he interrupted quickly.

  She ignored him and continued, “You can learn much about a soldier in his record: his actions, his motives, his heroism. Vould a decorated officer of the Gael War murder a mark in cold blood rather than hand him over to a fellow seeker of justice?”

  Jennings rolled his eyes and muttered something about, “Seeker of profit.”

  “No,” she continued. “Lieutenant Jennings is a good man.”

  “Captain Jennings,” he growled in reply. “And Captain Jennings is a bad man.”r />
  In one swift motion, he threw O’Sullivan down to the ground with his right hand, while reaching behind his back with his left. His left hand whipped back around and produced a plasma pistol with a rotating six charge cylinder. With astonishingly fast reflexes, Petrova had dived behind one of her men- the one who captured the first blast of red energy from the pistol and flew back into the steel wall. As the other shocked hunters tried to bring their rifles to bear, Jennings had drawn a second identical pistol off the right side of his spine and had opened up with both weapons. Red energy ripped through the air bringing down two more of Petrova’s goons before a well-aimed blast of green energy from the Russian’s own weapon struck Jennings in the chest and sent him sprawling, both weapons spilling from his hands as he fell.

  Desperately gasping for breath, Jennings barely heard Petrova order her men to pick up O’Sullivan and follow her to one of the room’s two egresses. One man remained behind and walked over toward Jennings’ body. He had a cocky half-grin on his face made all the more ridiculous by the stupid supernova tattoo he had done over his left eye. He leveled his rifle at Jennings’ face and did not even notice the little red dot appear on his forehead. There was a brief flash and Petrova’s man collapsed to the ground.

  “Mon Capitaine?” an anxious, whispered voice demanded.

  “Marquis?” Jennings tried to whisper back, but it came out as Mmmaaa.

  “Not exactly, cher,” came the Cajun drawl.

  Familiar hands grabbed hold of Jennings as a feeling of rapidly approaching unconsciousness set in. He felt himself being dragged across the steel floor as the world faded into darkness.

  2

  General Dominic Ounimbongo watched with mild interest from behind a two-way mirror as Anastasia Petrova handed custody of Ciarin O’Sullivan over to four men dressed in the black uniforms of the Terran Gael Force. The Terran Gael Force was the only standing military that Earth and her allies had any longer, and it was a complete farce.

  While Ounimbongo had emerged as the leader of the newly constructed puppet army after the crushing defeat the Terran Federation had suffered during the Gael War, everyone knew that the Gael actually pulled the strings. Ounimbongo himself had been an obscure major in the African 432nd regiment, but he had been left in charge of the Lunar Defense Base when the Gael made their last push toward Earth. With an order to defend his home planet no matter the cost, he had surrendered the Lunar Base without a shot fired and then had given the Gael the command codes to disable the defense net surrounding Earth. He had saved the countless human lives that would have been sacrificed in a last ditch defense of Earth (except for those in the center of the North American continent, of course. Even with the Terran defense grid down, the Gael had felt obligated to make a point about how powerful they were).

  Ounimbango rationalized this by telling himself that by refusing to send his men out to slaughter and giving the Gael what they demanded, Earth was preserved for the most part, and millions who would have died at the hands of a superior enemy were spared. Of course, it did not hurt that the Gael Occupation Force had offered him the position of general-in-chief of the Terran Gael Force, making him the commander of the only human military power that was allowed to remain after the unconditional surrender of the Terran Federation.

  “Tell me again why this O’Sullivan is so important to you?” the General demanded, throwing a curious eye toward the other man in the room.

  Man, of course, was an incorrect term even though the Gael were mostly humanoid looking. The Gael was almost seven feet tall and he wore long flowing robes. In general, the Gael were completely hairless and had larger craniums than humans. Their faces were generally similar, although their eyes were more narrowed and were completely black.

  The one with Ounimbongo was named Pahhal and he was the Overseer for the Terran sector. In essence, all decisions in regard to the Gael military, Terran Gael Force, and Terran Autonomous Region Ruling Council went through him. Very few people though had actually heard his name mentioned or were even aware of his existence. That was the way the Gael preferred- always working behind the scenes, letting the general public believe that humans were still running their tiny little corner of the galaxy.

  After a long moment of contemplative thought, Overseer Pahhal at last answered the general, “I don’t recall telling you a first time why we are interested in Mr. O’Sullivan, General. In point of fact, I don’t recall ever giving you a reason for any of my orders. I simply give them and you obey them, isn’t that correct?”

  “Of course, my friend,” Ounimbongo said quickly in his Oxford-educated East African accent, his hefty frame shifting nervously from foot to foot and his hands suddenly finding tiny imperfections in his olive green uniform that needed to be corrected.

  “One hundred and ten,” Pahhal whispered to himself. “Only one remains.” He then spoke to Ounimbongo. “There will be a transport ship arriving here at midnight for O’Sullivan. Make sure the prisoner transfer paperwork is in order.”

  “Of course, Overseer,” the general replied. “In regard to the last one, are you sure you wish to use this Matthew Jennings? Petrova just proved how capable she is by bringing us O’Sullivan.”

  Pahhal let loose a derisive cough, the closest the Gael ever seemed to laughing. “Petrova is the epitome of the laziness that defines your species,” he corrected. “She is a vulture, taking from those who do legitimate work and making it her own. Jennings captured O’Sullivan, and I believe he is our best chance to capture this last piece of the puzzle.”

  “Understood, Overseer. I shall begin making the arrangements,” he replied.

  “No, general, I will set this deal myself,” Pahhal answered sternly. “There must be no mistakes.”

  Pahhal vanished into the shadows of the small room and Ounimbongo felt the weight of his presence vanish. He let out a large sigh of relief and his copious gut relaxed, spilling out over his belt. He turned his attention back to Petrova as the bounty hunter finished handing control of O’Sullivan over. He had better get that paperwork started for the transfer, he thought to himself. He had no idea where any of the previous one hundred and nine captives taken by the Gael had been transferred to and he truly did not care (save for a bit of morbid curiosity). The Gael could, and did, do whatever they wanted as far as he was concerned. His main focus now, as he left the small room and headed for an office that had been set aside for his use, was to make sure that number one hundred and eleven was captured without any problem.

  As he wended his way through the maze of offices, returning nods from black uniformed security officers, a rare moment of motivation seized him. He certainly did not trust Matthew Jennings to get the job done- he had never even heard of him until today. He would much rather have regular Terran Interplanetary Security or Terran Gael Force personnel bring in the mark, but the Gael did not want any kind of official presence from the government involved in these abductions. That was fine with him, but why did Pahhal trust Jennings when Petrova had a long history of successful work? Ounimbongo usually did not do anything to upset his Gael superiors, but his ambition every so often outweighed his caution. What if he were to take steps that ensured number one hundred and eleven were successfully brought in? His esteem in the eyes of the Overseer would certainly rise. That potential made it well worth the risk.

  Striding into his makeshift office in the government facility on the planet Mariador, ignoring the beautiful view of the skyline edifices adorning its capital Centuria and the flurry of personal transport craft that were swirling around, he sat at his desk and pulled up the Nucleus. Accessing the secure server of the government site, he input a series of at least a dozen passwords to activate the Classified-Your Eyes Only archive. Another few moments and he at last had the details for Operation Aurora pulled up as well as all the details of target one hundred and eleven.

  3

  “Where am I?” Jennings whispered, his voice scratchy and his throat feeling parched.

  “Th
e hell you think you are?” came the growled reply.

  “Fix?” he asked as he felt his eyes fluttering open.

  “It sure is nae your mother,” Fix replied, his Scottish accent coming out in his annoyance.

  Jennings’ eyes finally focused and he realized that he was in the small closet that served as his ship’s sickbay. Fix, the ship’s medic, was staring over top of him, his trademark scowl creasing his dark skin. Fix was tall, thin, and the fact that he was pushing fifty was evident by the gray hair at his temples and the crow’s feet and worry-lines on his forehead. The fact that he was a convicted felon was evidenced by the long string of tattoos running down his arms and peaking out above his shirt at the collar line. He was born Angus Ferguson, but he would be damned if he answered to it.

  “What happened?” Jennings whispered.

  Fix shrugged and replied, “Lafayette said something about your brilliant arse stopping a plasma pulse with your chest.”

  “Lucky for me, I wear body armor,” Jennings said, swinging his legs off the operating table.

  “Lucky for you Lafayette was watching your back, otherwise there’d be a smoldering hole where your face used to be,” the medic replied.

  “That would be a real shame considering how pretty I am,” Jennings said sarcastically, flashing a white-toothed grin.

  “Mother of God,” Fix muttered. “I’m guessing we did nae get paid today.” When Jennings shook his head, he asked, “Russian bitch?”

  “I think she was born on Monument actually,” Jennings replied, but got a cold stare from Fix in reply. “Russian bitch,” he acknowledged at last.

  “Shite,” Fix cursed. “We have no money.”

  “No money. No fuel. No spare parts. And I think we have a small can of sausages left for dinner,” the captain agreed. Fix swore again. “Look, give me a minute here and get everyone together in the Caf.”

  “Aye, captain,” Fix said and then disappeared through the hatch.

  Jennings hopped off the table and walked over to the small sink and mirror in the corner of the room. He was dressed only in his olive green cargo pants; Fix must have removed his shirt to make sure the plasma shot he had taken had not burned any of his skin. There was a massive bruise starting at his sternum and spreading across his muscular stomach. He would not be doing any sit-ups any time soon, he thought to himself. Turning on the sink, he then bent over and splashed some water in his face. Catching his reflection in the mirror for a moment, he saw a look of worry flash in his hazel eyes. Angry at himself for the instant of fear, he set his lips in a thin line of determination and pushed some more water back through his brown hair. Another moment’s study in the mirror revealed that he could use a shave and some more sleep, but otherwise the twenty-eight year old looked as he always did- flat broke.