The Stardust Smugglers

By Beka Gremikova

Planet Kraken’s space port was one of the busiest in the galaxy—the perfect place for smugglers to sneak goods out right from under the government’s nose.

Leaning against my leg, Rigel whined, his ears pricked forward. I knelt beside him, rubbing his head. His coat looked a little shaggy; my best mate needed a trim soon.

Next to me, the Krakenian official Omo wrinkled her nose. Krakenians didn’t have much use for dogs—except for those trained to sniff out traces of stardust, the newest commodity on the drug market.

Kraken wasn’t the only planet that had hired me for such a job. As an independent investigator, I’d helped capture some of the worst smugglers this side of the galaxy. And I mean worst. These guys didn’t know the definition of subtlety. Rigel usually sniffed them out within minutes.

I straightened, picking a few strands of Rigel’s hair off my long black jacket. Its plentiful pockets were handy, but it had the gravitational pull of a black hole when it came to dog hair. “So, what’s the deal?”

Official Omo pinched the bridge of her beaklike nose. “The Starswept Syndicate’s been quite active lately. Our sources tell us that it’s headed by a runner named Drako.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. My sources said otherwise; Drako only wished he was in charge.

She continued, “Our sources state—”

“Your sources?” I asked lightly.

“From within the Syndicate itself,” she said crisply.

I resisted the urge to smile.

“They state that Drako will be landing here,” she finished, adjusting her comms headpiece. “When he does, we expect your dog will know whether he’s got the illegal substance on him or has been handling it recently.” Lips pursed, she pulled a packet from her pocket. Inside, silver dust sparkled.

My mouth watered at the sight, and I hastily coughed into my sleeve. “Quite the stash you’ve got there. From your sources again?”

She merely gave a disdainful sniff. Her comms buzzed, and she spoke sharply in Krakenian. Then she glanced at me. “He’s here.” She nodded toward a tall, ten-armed goon swaggering through the hub like he owned the damn place.

I gritted my teeth. Braggart upstart underling. As if he thought he’d get away with trying to overthrow the Syndicate by striking out on his own.

I took the packet from Omo and held it out to Rigel. He sniffed, his nose wriggling like a rabbit’s, and then he stiffened. “Okay, boy,” I muttered into his ear. “Just like I trained you.”

His dark brown fur bristled. He strained against his leash. I lurched to my feet and joined Omo in trailing Rigel across the port, swerving around planetary citizens who chatted over green coffee while waiting for flights.

As we neared Drako, Rigel’s lips curled back. His ruff rose, and he gave a piercing bark—the signal that he’d smelled stardust on Drako’s person.

Drako froze. His bright blue eyes bulged. He whirled as if to flee.

“Run, and I’ll sic him!” I shouted.

Guess what Drako did.

Oh, well. Rigel did need exercise at least twice a day.

I unclipped the leash.

Rigel’s large, lithe frame surged forward, all rippling muscle and snapping teeth. His deep barks echoed through the port. He reached Drako and pounced.

Drako screamed as he went down.

“I told you not to run!” I snapped, gasping for breath, as Omo and I reached them.

Rigel stopped barking to turn in a circle, whining.

When I’d caught my breath, I showed Omo the silver stardust residue under Drako’s nails. “Definitely your culprit.”

Omo made a face, but she bowed to the dog. “Thank you for your services, Sir Rigel. You’ve helped us get one disgusting thug off the streets.”

Rigel and I escorted Drako to Omo’s waiting ship, which was parked next to mine. Drako’s jaw dropped, and both he and the official stared in wonder at my shining rocket with its bright golden paint. “How in the worlds do you afford a model like that?” Omo asked.

“I’m an independent investigator.” I shrugged, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I can charge my own rates, and clients don’t have to worry about political interference. Pays well.”

“So you don’t do it for the good of the galaxy?”

I snorted. “Who does anything for the good of the galaxy?” My only concerns were for the good of my dog. Rigel deserved to live like a king—no, better than a king.

Omo looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. I led Rigel up the ramp of Rigel’s Rocket and sighed in relief as the hatch slid closed behind us. Dropping into my leather pilot chair, I tugged out the vial secreted in one of my hidden coat pockets. The shades were drawn, and I sat in a soothing gloom.

Rigel clambered into my lap, taking no notice of the silver dust I dumped into my palm. I smiled to myself, proud of my work. I not only fed governments information about the Syndicate’s traitors; I’d also trained Rigel to uncover the drug on everyone but myself.

After my dose, I took a nice long nap, woken only by my comms buzzing.

“Heard Drako got nabbed today, Boss.” Albik sounded freaked out.

“He got greedy, Albik.” Leaning back, I propped my boots on the dashboard. “Anyone who gets greedy gets Rigel’s teeth in their ass, got it?”

Silence. I could almost hear Albik gulp. While Drako had been a petty underling who didn’t know my face, Albik understood that if he crossed me, much worse than Rigel would come for him. I’d sacrificed Drako to a jail cell to get a hefty paycheck, and I’d just as happily blaze a hole through Albik’s gullet to keep Rigel fed and happy.

“Got it,” he muttered after a few moments.

“Good.” I rubbed Rigel’s ears, and he licked my face. “Now, Albik, call the groomer. Rigel needs a trim.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beka Gremikova writes folkloric fantasy from her little nook in the Ottawa Valley, Ontario, Canada. When she’s not travelling, playing video games, or dabbling in various art forms, she can be found curled up in a corner with a mystery novel. Her work is featured in Havok’s Bingeworthy, Sensational, and Prismatic anthologies as well as other collections. She’s currently plotting a plethora of dark fantasy fairy tales.

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