Wilde Wind

By Evo Hristov

William Walls is an ex-member of the disbanded Battle Arm, the freedom fighters movement, notorious across the galaxy for producing the deadliest clandestine warriors in the whole of human history. He has an easy and comfortable, although a bit boring life, on Safeer, a beautiful, laidback planet. The news that his baby sister has been brutally murdered puts an end to this peaceful existence.

It soon becomes clear to William that the police won’t bring the guilty to justice. He decides to take the matters in his own hands.

But the guilty turns out to be Sugar Zack, boss of the largest criminal organisation on Safeer.

Will all William’s knowledge, skills and resources be enough to prevail against the most powerful mobster and his army of thugs? Look inside!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evo Hristov
• Release date: Oct 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994451705

Book preview

ONE

BAD NEWS

William walked into his kitchen. An instinct to conceal his true appearance made him wear dark, loose fitting clothing and thick soled shoes. His well-muscled body was hidden. He looked rather skinny and much taller than his slightly over-average height.

Happy Birthday, William, a warm female voice greeted him. The voice of his Combined Kitchen Unit, the glorified name for a fridge, a stove and a teleport chamber put together. It was called Eleanor.

William smirked. Some glitch in the system made the machine say it every day and he found it amusing.

Thank you, Eleanor, so sweet of you to remember. What do we have in the fridge?

Half a loaf of François’s homemade bread, two tomatoes, a stick of celery and a lemon; also an almost-full carton of milk. I recommend you throw away the milk. Its use-by date expired twenty-seven days ago.

Let me see that milk.

Eleanor opened the fridge door. William unscrewed the lid and sniffed the milk. His nose wrinkled and he jerked his head back. Nothing wrong with the milk. He put it back on the shelf.

The CKU remained silent; it wasn’t programmed to argue with its owner.

Any ideas for breakfast? William asked.

Toast and tomato and celery salad, dressed with olive oil and lemon.

Eleanor, do I look fat to you? William smacked his rock-hard midsection. Do I need to lose a few kilos?

I can’t say. However, the new model of Arctic Circle units, the Health Guru can calculate all of your vital statistics and recommend the optimal diet for your needs. Since I am still under warranty you can exchange me for the new model at incredibly good terms.

Eleanor, I won’t swap you for any freaking guru. I care for you. He headed for the door. I’ll grab something on my way to work.

I can teleport a delicious meal from the kitchens of Arctic Circle, cooked by the most talented chefs using only the freshest ingredients.

Teleported food sucks. I’ll have a breakfast at Mama Lucia’s.

William arrived at Mama Lucia’s when the morning madness was over, now being the time between breakfast and lunch. Still a few people waited, forming three queues in front of the counters. William joined what seemed to be the fastest moving one.

His first visit here had been a bit disillusioning. He had expected to see an older, slightly overweight, motherly woman. Instead, the place was full of young girls, almost all of them skinny and a long way from looking close to motherly. They were fast and efficient girls of few words and many smiles, most of them students from the nearby university, working part-time. The food was really good, though.

William ordered his meal. In return, the girl behind the counter gave him a little gizmo in the shape of fried egg. It combined a timer and a beacon for the waitress to find his table.

He sat in a booth and put the gizmo on the table. With nothing better to do, he watched the countdown timer, situated in the yolk, ticking the seconds away. It had started at seven minutes. If his food didn’t arrive within that time, he would get a free meal on his next visit.

His mobile vibrated. An irritating tune followed the vibration. Every time William heard it, he vowed to change it and every time after the conversation was over, he would forget about it.

Annoyed by the interruption but curious as to who might be ringing him that early on Monday morning, he flipped the phone open. The 3D logo of the police force floated above the smaller Hab-wee station’s one. That can’t be good. He set the phone to private so the image and sound would only be clear and comprehensible to him and answered the call. A pale, scaled-down hologram of a young man in police uniform sitting behind a desk appeared, superimposed over the table. The policeman drummed his fingers.

Mr William Walls?

Yes.

I’m Lieutenant Groomov from the Hab-wee Police Station. Do you have a sister called Sylvia Walls?

Yes.

Earlier this morning we found the body of woman we believe to be your sister Sylvia. Would it be possible for you to come over to the station sometime today? As the only known relative we need you to confirm that this is her body.

I bet you are one hundred per cent positive it’s her body. William found he disliked the cop and not only because he brought bad news.

The waitress arrived with his breakfast. William thanked the girl with a smile. Her lips stretched in a return smile, her eyes not seeing him, concentrating on something else. She picked up the gizmo with a minute and seventeen seconds left on the timer.

You are right,’ Groomov continued. We are one hundred per cent positive that it is your sister’s body and I’m sorry you need to go through all this. But there are certain rules and regulations we have to observe. Groomov smiled apologetically and shrugged in an overdone gesture of helplessness.

I can be there about eleven o’clock, if that’s okay with you.

That’s fine. I’ll be expecting you.

William’s appetite was gone and only an uncomfortable emptiness in his stomach remained. He sat and watched the untouched breakfast before him getting cold. He felt numb, almost catatonic, unable to move. Sometime later, a small alarm went off in his head. He had to go if he wanted to make it on time.

He didn’t feel like flying himself and asked the autopilot to take him to the Hab-wee police station. During the flight, William gazed absentmindedly through the window. He tried to decide how the news of his sister’s death had affected him. There was no sadness or shock, just numbness and disbelief. He and Sylvia had never been close. He was twenty-three years older. They had grown up under completely different conditions and had never understood each other. They hadn’t kept in touch. The last time he remembered seeing her was at their father’s funeral five years ago.

The Hab-Wee local government building’s computer asks permission to take control of the vehicle to assist you in parking. Is permission granted? The autopilot startled him out of his reverie.

Sure, William grumbled.

Piloted by the building’s computer, his car made a beeline for an empty spot a long way from the entrance, in spite the fact there were others more conveniently located. William stepped onto the nearby travelator and was taken to a bay of elevators. He took the one leading to Reception.

The foyer was a vast, windowless octagon. The few organisations sharing the building had their reception desks scattered around the place, 3D logos floating above. Each had its own cluster of chairs with holo pits in front of them.

William made his way through the labyrinth of furniture to the Hab-wee police station’s front desk. There few men and women in uniform looked busy, talking on the phone, typing at their computers or both. A girl with unnatural beauty noticed him and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to come closer.

How can I help you? the beautiful creature asked with a smile so white it shone.

I am here to see Lieutenant Groomov, William said. He couldn’t resist staring at the young officer. Everything about her had been brought to near perfection by surgery. She was indeed beautiful – more than beautiful – but in a cold, alien way. William couldn’t see himself with somebody like her. She had lost her human sex appeal, warmth and sensuality. Fucking her and fucking Eleanor would feel about the same. They both are streamlined, cold and have lovely voices.

Just a second, please, the girl said. She looked down at her computer screen and pressed a few keys. The shining smile replaced concentration and she looked back at William. Are you Mr Walls?

Yes.

Right … Again she looked down, concentrated. The pressing of a few more keys seemed to make her happy and she looked up, smiling. I’ll assign you a guide. If you look at your feet, you will see it. That’s Red2 Green3. It will take you to the lieutenant’s office.

William looked down and smiled. A small robot, just a box on wheels with two red and three green lights on top, stood there, half a metre away. He took a step towards his guide. The tiny machine rolled away and led him to a lift. A short trip in it was followed by a walk down a corridor that led to another group of lifts. After a confusing tour that left William clueless as to where in the huge building he might be, robot and human arrived at Groomov’s office.

On the left side of the door was a doorbell with red and green sections underneath. The red section was lit and read DO NOT ENTER! William rang the bell and waited a couple of minutes for some response. Nothing happened. He tried the handle but the door was locked. He rang the bell again, stabbing the button a few times with his finger. A minute later the green section lit up and illuminated the sign ENTER, PLEASE! A voice called, Come in, please.

William saw Groomov sitting behind his desk, as if he hadn’t moved since they’d talked earlier. He didn’t bother to look up to see who had come in.

Just a second, please! he requested, his voice peremptory.

William sat down, uninvited. He took a deep breath and tried to relax his clenched jaw. He’s just an arsehole. Don’t worry about him.

A few minutes later Groomov finished his typing and looked up at his visitor, half-frowning. When he recognized William, he stood up and walked to him with an outstretched hand.

Sorry to keep you waiting. And I am truly sorry that we have to meet in such tragic circumstances. They shook hands. If you would follow me I’ll take you down to the morgue straight away.

William disliked Groomov in the flesh even more. The cop was like some crazy chameleon, changing his appearance with every new situation. From the busy, important and powerful man he’d impersonated earlier, he went briefly through the role of an overworked fellow, willing to help any way he could, and started to act the gracious host. His idea of doing that was to launch into meaningless chitchat. This he kept up, undisturbed by the lack of response.

Whenever the two of them met somebody in the corridors or the lifts, Groomov changed to the perfect colleague, the guy who had a smile and a good word for everyone. He treated them all like friends and equals, but William noticed a patronising air when the person was Groomov’s subordinate and just a little bit of butt licking to those higher in rank.

In front of the morgue doors the cop went silent. This was yet another Groomov, solemn and respectful to the place they were about to enter.

The cop pressed his palm against the scanner plate on the right side of the doors and they slid open. A rush of chilly air hit the two men. William followed Groomov shivering from more than just the cold.

The morgue was a bare, brightly illuminated, cheerless place. The floor was light grey, the walls and ceiling pale ivory. Everything looked scrubbed and spotless, yet the place had the feeling of being tainted. The air, despite being cold and fresh, felt tainted, too.

The cop remained silent for the short walk to the ward. William decided he liked the solemn, respectful Groomov’s avatar the best.

Apart from the little control desk just inside the door and a white, waist-high slab of plastcrete in front of it, the large semi-circular room was empty. The round part of the ward was made up of the cadaver chambers.

The cop typed something on the keyboard with the expression of a man doing something difficult and of enormous importance. One of the drawers slid out of the wall and floated to rest on the plastcrete slab. Groomov and William walked to the tray. The cop lifted the plastic sheet covering the body enough to reveal the face and stepped back to give William some privacy.

William looked down at the body and felt relief, almost joy. The cops had made a mistake; this wasn’t Sylvia. He was about to tell that to Groomov when he realised that it was his sister lying there. Her once-pretty face had been turned into an ugly mask, twisted in pain and horror and covered with cuts and bruises.

For a moment William was overwhelmed by strong feeling of doom, by sorrow and desperation. He had to close his eyes and prop himself against the slab. The next instant he recovered, and all he felt was anger. He was angry with the phoney cop for being so annoying without even trying, angry with his sister for getting herself killed – angry at the whole universe for allowing this to happen.

Are you okay? Groomov asked.

William took a deep breath and then another. I’m fine. He suppressed his feelings and sought cool clear thinking.

Is that your sister? Groomov asked.

Yes, that’s Sylvia, William said. What happened to her?

We are not quite sure yet. The autopsy shows that she was repeatedly beaten, raped, and sodomised. Apparently she died from shock, combined with exhaustion and dehydration. Groomov’s voice was even, but somehow left the impression he enjoyed describing the way Sylvia had died.

Is that the work of a serial killer or something?

We don’t know yet. Groomov pulled the sheet over the contorted face and walked back behind the console. There is a lot of investigative work to be done before we have any certain answers. In fact, I was hoping that you could help by giving me some information about your sister. Would you mind coming back to my office? I’d like to ask you a few questions; there are some documents to be signed as well.

On the way back to the office, Groomov kept talking to William, explaining in great detail some police procedures. His voice was monotonous and his face expressionless.

Once he sat behind his desk, another Groomov entered the stage – the tough cop. His eyes said: I’ve seen it at all. I won’t take any bullshit. There’s not a case I can’t crack.

Can you tell me anything about your sister that you believe will help this case? In fact just tell me everything, I mean: what she did for a living, who was her partner, who were her friends, everything. Groomov said, his eyes hard and unblinking.

I am afraid I won’t be much help in this. We didn’t keep in touch. The last time I saw her was more than five years ago.

I see, Groomov said. He continued to pierce William with his eyes as if waiting for a confession.

William waited with growing impatience for the cop to say or do something. It was a ridiculous situation created by a ridiculous man. What is he doing? Having a staring match with me? I’m not going to say anything. Right after that, he realised that would mean playing a stupid game with this arsehole.

He said, You mentioned some documents that need my signature.

Groomov jumped to his feet, grabbed a folder from the top of the desk, and handed it to William.

William browsed through the papers, signed them, and returned them to the cop. Is that all? he stood up.

That’s all for now. Thank you very much for coming here, Mr Walls. Groomov stood to walk William out of his office. At the door, he gave William his card. If you think of something that you want to tell me or if you have any questions, just ring me.

William took the card and stepped out a little faster than necessary. He was pleased to see that the small robot was there, lights flashing, ready to lead him out of this maze.

TWO

FRIDAY AFTER-WORK DRINK

William, it’s a quarter past five. Natalie, the manager of William’s furniture store, Superb Design, called from downstairs, her voice strong and clear, defying her age. I’m going home now. Are you planning to stay a bit longer?

No, William shouted back. He was appalled by Natalie’s suggestion. It’s time for me to go, too.

He stood up and surveyed the game of chess he had been playing one last time. He was losing and there was nothing he could to change that.

I hate you, ancient-looking dude, he softly growled at his opponent, a man with weathered face and strange-looking headgear, sitting on a pile of pillows.

William turned off the computer. The man, his pillows, the chessboard and the table it was placed on vanished, leaving only William’s chair behind. He pulled his jacket from the back of it and went down the mezzanine stairs to join Natalie.

We had a very good day today, she informed him as they walked out of the store. The small, frail woman spoke with the pride and satisfaction of someone accustomed to doing their job well. And the week wasn’t bad at all.

Hmm. William’s answer sounded apathetic. He had inherited the store after his father’s untimely death and, at the time, he’d felt obliged to keep it. But he could never develop any attachment to it or even show any interest in learning the ropes. Fortunately, Natalie had been there – she more or less came with the shop – to save the day. She knew every last thing about the business and ran it successfully. Sometimes she wanted to run William’s personal affairs as well, but he politely deflected her attempts. The only exception had been two months ago when he’d let her organise Sylvia’s funeral.

The new desk and chair Garry makes sell like hot cakes, we got none left. I’ve been asking him to give me more, but the old fool considers himself an artist and won’t let anyone rush him.

Why don’t you tell this to someone who cares? William thought with irritation. Then he felt a pang of guilt.

It hadn’t taken long for him to get over the notion that somehow he carried on his father’s legacy by keeping the shop. Yet he didn’t sell it because of Natalie. It was her life.

Sometimes William blamed the old woman for his being stuck in the furniture business and almost resented her. Most often though he could admit to himself that it wasn’t her fault and accept the situation, waiting for Natalie to retire or maybe just die of old age.

That’s great! William forced himself to say with just enough enthusiasm that he didn’t sound insincere. You’re doing miracles. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Would’ve been free. Would’ve sold the bloody store or even given it away.

Oh, come on, William. Don’t flatter me.

I’m simply telling the truth. They reached the elevator to the roof of the building where Natalie parked her car. Still feeling somewhat guilty for his unkind thoughts, William asked, Would you care for a drink?

No, William. Natalie giggled and touched her hair. Thanks, but no thanks. If I don’t get home on time, George becomes really inquisitive, and if I told him the boss had asked me out for a drink, he would hit the roof. Next thing you know he would come after you, looking for a fight. And you don’t want that, do you!

I don’t. William laughed. The thought of Natalie’s husband looking for a fight was hilarious. George was much older than his wife; he was shaky and needed a walking stick. In that case I’ll have one on my own.

William walked along the street, searching for some new place to have his Friday after-work drink. Over the years, he had developed a system to get lost in the maze of streets and alleys around his store. At random, he would turn left or right on the side streets until he found a place that tickled his fancy. It wasn’t difficult to do so in this part of town, with a bar, pub or bistro on every corner.

The Real Deal, a glazed yellow-brick tavern, stood alone in a large lawn dotted with clusters of cypresses and beds of flowers. Its copper roof and downpipes had turned green with time.

That definitely is it. William stepped onto the white-pebbled walk that led to the front door. A throat dried by the half-hour brisk walk in the warm spring evening assured him it was a good move.

The common room of The Real Deal had crude wooden benches for tables and thick stumps instead of chairs. Several lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls gave out a soft yellowish light, pleasant and just adequate. The walls and the ceiling had been whitewashed long ago. The few fireplaces scattered around had smoked up the ceiling. The wooden bar and the shelves behind it glowed, polished to perfection.

William chose to sit at the bar. The stools there looked more comfortable than the stumps.

The bartender, a morose-looking fellow, was leaning on the jamb of the kitchen door, talking to somebody in there. He noticed the new customer, took time to consider the situation, then slowly approached.

As he stood in front of William his big, meaty hands grabbed his tight T-shirt. His name, Collin, was embroidered on the left breast and The Real Deal on the right, with half the D missing and a thread hanging down from the remaining half. He pulled the T-shirt down in a futile attempt to cover his large, hairy stomach. A lifting of the brow announced he was ready to take the order.

I’ll have a Zagorca, William said. The beer was advertised as exclusive to the establishment, brewed on the premises, following a unique, centuries-old formula.

Collin filled a huge beer mug the size of a small household bucket, and slammed it onto the bar.

Wow, that’s what I call a big glass. William attempted to start a conversation.

Three-fifty.

William gave him a five-dollar note. Keep the change.

The barman grunted something, supposedly a thank you, and walked away.

William drank his fill and put his glass down, sighing with satisfaction. The level of the amber liquid had hardly dropped below the rim. With his thirst quenched, he decided there was no reason to stay any longer at The Real Deal. The place was pleasant enough but too quiet and sleepy. He wanted a bit more action on a Friday night. After a few more sips for the road, he placed his hands on the bar to swivel his stool around, and froze.

A woman had come in. She was the absolute materialisation of William’s teenage ideal of female beauty and sex appeal. An elegant charcoal jumpsuit with a décolletage that reached an intricate silver belt clung to her body, accentuating her sensual curves. A diadem matching her belt kept her thick, dark-blonde hair gathered into a loose bun and revealed a beautiful, regal face, somewhat cold and haughty.

William eased himself back onto his stool, never taking his eyes from the beauty’s reflection in the mirror.

The blonde sat at the bar a few seats away from William. Collin appeared in a flash.

I need to say something to her. Something smart. But all William had at the moment as a conversation opener was either Hi, or Can I buy you a drink? Neither was original and the latter had been made redundant by her getting her own drink. He needed a jolt of inspiration, something to help him think.

He motioned to Collin, who was trying to get back to his doorjamb, and ordered double vodka. He emptied the glass in two gulps, the impact of the alcohol making him shiver, and asked for another. Another big sip and half the glass was gone. The warmth from his stomach started to spread all over his body. It didn’t give him any great pick-up lines but it gave him an abundance of confidence and a disregard for the common laws of etiquette.

Before the vodka William had tried not to come across as an absolute perv; after the vodka, he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He not only stared at her reflection but also occasionally turned around to ogle her curvaceous figure.

The blonde beauty noticed his interest and gave him a slight smile, almost a frown. William grinned back at her. The woman finished her drink and got up.

Well done, you idiot. You scared her.

But instead of heading for the door, the woman came and sat next to him.

William racked his brain for something witty to say but the blonde didn’t give him the time. She spoke first.

You were looking at me. Her words were half-question, half-statement.

Yeah, he said. The fragrance of her perfume wafted to his nose, and he took a deep breath in, to savour it.

You like me.

Like you? I worship you. Yeah.

I’m going on a pub crawl. Do you want to come with me?

Pub crawl? That sounds too wild. It’s not me. I shouldn’t do it. Sure.

Drink up and let’s go.

Leana, that was her name, asserted herself as the leader. She also did most of the talking. She entertained William with bits and pieces of her past. All her stories started in a similar way: Once Jim and I went to … or Once Mary, Min and I went to … She didn’t bother to explain who all these people were and how were they related to her, as if William knew them all. For a while, William tried to figure out what was interesting about the stories and find some moral in them, but he soon gave