The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure) Read Online Free

enjoying the sweet, warming taste as though it were a cough mixture, then bang, you’re tripping balls, not knowing how to work your limbs and having the time of your life for it.  
    After so many hard missions, Mach needed to cut loose.  
    “Drink up,” Mach said to Beringer. The latter hadn’t touched his Whisper. He sat there, back straight, his hands in his lap, like a kid at church.  
    “I’d rather we just conclude my proposition,” Beringer said. He glanced a nervous eye across the bar: exactly what Mach had told him not to do. He was so out of place that if he accidentally made eye contact with the wrong person, he’d not be able to walk out of the place of his own volition.
    “Dude,” Mach said, slamming his glass down on the table and waving a hand in the air to summon one of the many semi-naked bartenders who slithered between the tables like greased snakes. “Drink your damned drink and stop staring around the place. You’re gonna get us both messed up. Besides, relax! We’ve got good booze, great entertainment, and Adira’s fighting in the main event. What a privilege you’re getting.”
    The gray-haired archeologist slumped forward to the table, resting his elbows on the edge. It was better, but he still looked so out of place, which was part of Mach’s plan—to an extent. Risky, but it would pay off if Beringer didn’t get stabbed in the kidneys before he had a chance to put the bet on.  
    “Okay,” Mach said, leaning forward. “Tell me more about your job.”
    A leather-clad human barwoman approached and placed two more glasses of Whisper in front of the two men. She smiled. Her metal-tipped fangs reflected the neon light of the dingy bar.  
    Damn, Mach thought, they looked great—expensive too.  
    It was a good sign. Despite the dark, underworld atmosphere, there was an epic weight of loot swimming about.  
    The woman ran a hand over Mach’s head, the sharp, poisoned-tipped nails gently scratching his scalp—a little reminder to tip well.  
    “No fear, my sweetheart,” Mach said to the woman. “By the end of the night, you’ll get the biggest tip you’ve ever seen.”
    “Why thank you kindly, Bleach,” she drawled with a southern Fides Prime accent. “That would be a wise decision on your part.”
    She spun on her stiletto heel and slithered between more tables, catching the glances of everyone as she went, including the kingpin of the establishment and one of the biggest criminal enterprises in the whole of the Sphere: Gracious Sinju.  
    It would be generous to call him a man: the beast had two extra prosthetic arms under his original pair, powered by a vestan exoskeleton. Both of his eyes had been swapped out for IR units, and he had a murder rap sheet that would put the military of a small empire to shame. His head was completely bald and capped with a plate made from Summanun jet: one of the hardest substances known in the Sphere and more expensive than most precious metals.  
    Gracious, however, he was not. The grizzled old bastard seemed to enjoy the irony of being anything but. He caught Mach’s gaze and inclined his head a few millimeters. One would be mistaken to think this was a greeting or recognition of respect. It was no such gesture; it was Gracious saying: “I see you, motherfucker.”
    Mach just grinned and saluted him with two fingers before turning back to his table.  
    Beringer’s hand shook as he picked up his glass of Whisper. He sipped at it, like a nervous bird.  
    “That’s him, isn’t it?” Beringer said, keeping his eyes down.  
    “Yup.”
    “I can’t believe we’re going to do this.”
    “We? You’re the one who wants the money for your little expedition.”
    “Only because you’re demanding so damned much.”
    Behind them, another two fighters were going hell for leather inside the cage. They were fighting a bare-knuckle fight to the death, and the two human men took that quite seriously. The crowd bayed and roared with