Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Ransom Due ❯ Call Me Red Chief ( Chapter 1 )

AN: I have been working on this for about a year and a half so the writing style probably changes somewhat throughout, and I'm not a revamp type person. This is my first attempt at anything over four chapters, and any fanfic at all in a long time.

Feedback appreciated.

 

Ransom Due: Chapter 1

Call Me Red Chief

 

On the far edge of the Eastern rift, Station 599 Xi spun on its axis just fast enough to provide minimal gravity to keep its inhabitants and staff from floating around uncontrollably. It was not enough for the tall man with the wild hair to be comfortable. Worse, artificial gravity that was facilitated in such a way always came with some coriolis forces. Because he was used to so much more gravity on a normal basis, it seemed he was more sensitive to the coriolis forces that resulted in his feeling somewhat light-headed on top of the distinct impression that he weighed next to nothing. He thought to himself that this had to be the stupidest thing he had done in all his years. He carried a sack over his shoulder that contained various and sundry projectile weapons, and a handful of mineral stones, all of which were considered contraband within the borders of Freiza space. Although this station was on the very edge of the borders of Freiza Sama's providence, he could still be executed for even being in possession of such contraband, let alone trying to trade it for more contraband. The low-grav environment made him edgy under normal circumstances, this little `mission' he'd set for himself was pushing the limits of his short patience and threshold for crowds of low-level scum aliens… and that was about all there was this far on the edge of Freiza space.

 

He scanned the merchants' corridor for his contact. It seemed that the flotsam of the universe had been deposited in the narrow curving venue. Life forms of every type were packed in tightly, the variety of shapes and forms too numerous to put names to all the races. There were several that he was totally unfamiliar with despite his years as a planet broker. Everywhere he looked some feeble looking thing stared back with baleful eyes, most looking to trade for rations of one kind or another. The outer reaches of Freiza space was not known for being a land of plenty, unless of course, you were ballsy enough to deal in contraband. He shifted the non-weight of the big sack and tried to push away thoughts of the consequences possible if he were caught. Two small green-skinned aliens buffeted him. They held up a couple of cred sticks. “Rations,” they pathetically begged, “fifty cred for rations?”

 

If he weren't so intent on both finding his contact and not drawing too much attention to himself, he would have punted them to the other end of the corridor. As it was, the teeming crowd swallowed them before he could spit a curse at them. The smell of the corridor, a mix of myriad body odors, offal and stale rations was enough to make his stomach flip-flop, despite his hardened constitution. The cacophony of cries for this or that either available or wanted was nearly deafening. To his right, a beefy looking male alien with pink skin and what seemed to be oozing boils pounded on a standard issue vend-bot and ranted about being shortchanged. On his left, a tightly packed together group of what he supposed were elderly female aliens haggled over an unidentifiable headless carcass that had a rank odor that temporarily overpowered the other stenches of the corridor as he passed.

 

Finally he spotted the man he sought, a short orange skinned humanoid male with a robotic telephoto lens where his right eye should have been. Its head was sparsely covered with a combed-over tuft of scraggly white hair, a feeble attempt at hiding the scaly flaking scalp beneath it. It leaned against the wall, an aloof expression on its face as the tall man pushed his way over. Its good eye didn't even alight on him, but it quietly murmured, “Mr. Raditzu, is it then? You're expected.”

 

The orange man tilted his chin up slightly, not enough to look Raditzu full in the face, just enough to take survey of the crowd surrounding them. The telephoto lens whirred as it focused, the orange man paused momentarily, seemingly concentrating on whatever the lens was showing him. “Well then,” he said shortly, “I think I shall let you step into my office for this particular transaction… you require discretion, no?”

 

“Just make it fast,” Raditzu grumbled. The fact that this peddler knew his name up front just added to his unease.

 

Orange man gestured behind him, pressed a panel on the wall of the corridor, and ducked into the hole that slid open. The tall Saiya-jin had to practically double over to follow Orange man into the conduit alley behind the corridor wall.

 

“Welcome to my office, sir, what have you to trade?”

 

Raditzu grumbled and upended the sack, spilling the collection of small firearms and stones at Orange man's feet. He got some small satisfaction at forcing the alien to bend over to examine the merchandise. The lens whirred some more as the alien made quiet clucking noises over the booty. “Hmmm… Andelonian opals… I hear these will be becoming more of a rarity since the unfortunate… disappearance of the Andelonusians. Worth a lot… worth a lot… And more `retired' items… the Adelonusions were known for their fine workmanship in concussion blaster smithing.” Orange man appreciatively slid some of the mechanics back and fourth on the more ornate of the firearms. A low growl rumbled from the waiting Saiya-jin.

 

“Ah, yes, haste…” continued Orange man. He finally looked the tall Saiya full in the face. “This is plenty for what you're seeking, but you could get even more if you were willing to part with just a little of this.” Orange man dared to reach towards a stray lock of the wild hair spilling over the Saiya-jin's shoulder. “Very much a rarity in and of itsel…”

 

Orange man was roughly slammed into the conduit pipe behind him, the Saiya-jin's large hand encircling his insubstantial neck.

 

“Just give me what I came for or you may find yourself `retired',” the Saiya-jin barked.

 

Orange man reached beneath his filthy rust-colored tunic and produced a full hypo-gun. “Here… this here's the good stuff,” it choked. “But go easy… I figure you got bout ten doses in there for a man of your size…. Any more than that at once you'll fry your brain... become a vegetable.” Orange man managed to choke out a short laugh at his own unintended pun.

 

“Raditzu tossed the alien aside. It slid on its face across the corridor floor until an obstructing pipe stopped its momentum. By then the Saiya-jin had left the alley and was well on his way back to the docked ship.

 

He immediately went to his barracks to wash the stink of the merchant corridor off. It was some time before he made his way to the med unit. As he entered the gray-blue skinned technician snapped to attention. Raditzu waved his hand at her, indicating that she should stand down for the moment. “I brought what you said you needed… you owe me a lot for that little jaunt,” he snapped.

 

“I'm s-sorry , sir,” the tech stammered. “You're just too late. The slave has expired… I told you there was significant hemorrhaging and I'm totally unfamiliar with the mechanics of such a subject. If only the regen chambers had been an option for slaves…”

 

Raditzu grunted. “Well then tell Zarbon he has won his wager,” he said with no perceptible emotion, “unless you want to tell Dodoria that he has to pay up first.” He turned on his heel and left the med unit before the tech could finish her “as you wish, sir.”

 

At least it's an end to that assignment, he thought to himself as he went through the things he'd need for the Chikyuu mission. He'd left his scouter to go station-side so that there was no chance anyone would track him to the merchant corridors. He picked it up off the small desk he was afforded and grabbed a couple of flasks of water for the trip. Stasis always seemed to parch him. If Kakarott were indeed still living, he'd have some payback of his own to account to for having sent the slave to his brother. It had been more than the annoyance he'd expected. He picked up the brief report that was to be sent back to Freiza, accounts of the estimated value of Chickyuu, estimated viability of saving a few of the inhabitants as slaves (more trouble than it's worth, he noted) and his intentions of drafting Kakarott into the planet trade. Freiza Sama would be well within his rights to simply kill his brother if he chose to do so, but Raditzu was clear on the order that he was to bring Kakarott back alive if he proved to be an asset to the trade. He kept the hypo gun with him as well, he surely wasn't going to give it to the med tech now, but he really had no use for it himself. His experience with the Chickyuu slave had taught him that he really could only expect the unexpected on the mission. He reasoned it might come in handy for something. At the very least he would have to ditch the evidence of his illegal dealings earlier in the day.

 

He stalked off to the pod hangar in a foul mood. Already things had not gone smoothly. He really didn't care what Kakarott was up to, he'd already vowed to exterminate the planet's race in it's entirety for the ignominy the slave had caused him, not the least of which the sudden decision to ease it gently into death rather than let it suffer. He hadn't even known how the idea had weaseled its way into his mind. The thing deserved to suffer… he suddenly realized that he'd omitted the possibility that the race had some sort of psychic charming abilities in his report, then immediately thought the better of it. His honor had already been sullied enough by the slave as it was, no need to appear all the weaker by making excuses for his weakness.

 

The hangar crew was `milling about smartly' when he entered. He guessed they would have had his pod ready days ago as he had intended to disembark before the ship docked at Xi 599. He cursed himself for his stupidity in risking his position as sub-commander of this ship, not to mention the plain and simple waste of time. Chivkyuu had waited three and a half of it's own transitions around its sun for his arrival, for some reason several hours more hadn't seemed like it would be any major delay in the big scheme of things. Perhaps he had simply become bored with his life as one of Freiza's high-ranking officers, following orders and such. But what was he to have done? The commander of the ship, only one rank above himself, possessed a power level exponentially higher than his own. Freiza's power was unimaginably high. It would be pure folly and death not to fall into rank as Freiza decreed. Freiza had made clear to the Saiya-jin prince, Vegeta and the only other remaining Saiya-jin, Nappa, and within the audience of the majority of anyone who mattered within house Freiza: The Saiya-jin were a dead race, Vegeta now had nothing left to rule save two stragglers. Their culture was now that of House Freiza, in which not only strength, but loyalty, fealty and demonstration of it through performance dictated rank. Vegeta was a loose cannon; Nappa still blindly followed whatever Vegeta said. Raditzu considered following the orders given him to precision not only necessary to his survival, but to keeping his honor as a warrior intact. In truth, the very culture of planet Vegeta contributed more to this than anything else. He had done much the same in his life as no more than third class before the destruction of his home. Because of this, in terms of the hierarchal system, Raditzu's status had been twisted from that of a lowly soldier to that of sub-commander of his own galactic battle ship, ironically named Missionary. His commander and captain, Daax, was the only one who outranked him on Missionary. Yes, he was isolated from the only remaining members of his race, and his prince regarded him with disdain for having so many under his command, where a third class soldier clearly should not, in Saiyan terms. He was still a soldier, a warrior; he simply followed a different ruler now. He carried out his missions with unerring precision and efficiency and took his measure of pride in that fact. Vegetasei was gone, as was most of his race, he simply continued on in his role as strong arm for the planet trade, and fate had rewarded him. If this chagrinned his prince enough for him to kill Raditzu in a bout of strength, he would gladly welcome such an honored death. Vegeta had apparently not had the time or compunction to carry out such a sentence as of yet.

 

He was jolted out of his train of thought at the sight of the empty docking bay where his pod should have been. His ire rose yet again to the misfortune of the nearest member of his crew. Before the pale and gangly pod mechanic had a chance to realize that misfortune he found himself pinned to the wall of the empty pod bay by the throat, nose to nose with the angry sub commander.

 

“My pod. Where is it?” he growled.

 

The crewman actually had the audacity to smirk at him as he replied. “Gone, as is your slave.” The crewman had barely gotten the words out before the blow of the sub commander's fist shattered his face. Blood and gray matter sprayed the interior of the pod bay. As the husk of the crewman's body slid down the wall, something small hit the floor and rolled to a stop beside the remains. Raditzu glanced down and beheld the distinct sparkle of an Andolonian opal. He raised his furious gaze to the rest of the hangar crew, which was now backing towards the exit to the hangars in what seemed to be a close knot of quaking fear. He opened his palm to send enough ki energy to vaporize them all. At the gesture, one trembling crewman actually stepped forward from the mass of the rest.

 

It declared loudly in its last seconds of life, “Though we die this day, we die free!” The searing blast then connected with the crewman and the rest of the cowering mass, leaving nothing but some ash, as predicted, and somehow one standard issue grav-boot, which skidded off across the floor in the aftermath of the blast.

 

“Heh.” Somehow he managed to find humor in this despite the obvious fact that he was in the midst of a mutiny. The med tech had blatantly lied about the expiration of his slave, and she in turn had somehow managed to charm not only medical staff, but also hangar staff to make her escape. As if he wouldn't simply take the next pod available and kill the slave himself. She would wish that she had died from the injuries inflicted upon her to put her in the med unit.

 

He turned to move on to the next bay, only to be knocked off of his feet by a recognizably powerful explosion. Andolonian concussion charges. He watched in near disbelief as the rest of the pod bays exploded in succession and he found himself being dragged across the floor towards the compromised airlock left in the wake of the destruction. He powered up and fought the suction of empty space and propelled himself towards the door to the main part of the ship. He was buffeted by debris as he forced his body against the current of rushing air. Just as he was able to push past the secondary airlock to the docks, he was smacked in the face by something. He regarded the solitary grav-boot containing its severed foot spinning out into the darkness of space with malice as he cranked the passage airlock shut. He was now forced to take additional time to not only replace the destroyed pods, but the tainted crew before he could follow the slave and exact his revenge. He felt his ki rise again with his anger. The entire population of her planet would pay for this. They were all already dead as far as he was concerned. Suddenly more concussive blasts filled the ship. Damn! How many of those things had she managed to smuggle on board without his knowledge? Now he could just as well consider himself dead for allowing such a mutiny to take place. He took in the view out of the nearest porthole. Pieces of the Missionary were breaking off of its main bulkhead and floating off into the void. Without a pod, he was trapped on what was for all intents and purposes a sinking ship, and even if it managed to hold together long enough for anything to survive, he was trapped on the ship with a powerful and surely more than irate captain. If he survived the Missionary's destruction, his fate would be similar to the crew he'd just dispatched. He was staring at his own death in the spinning dance of the Missionary's shrapnel as it floated away from the rest of the ship. As his mind raced with curses and shock at the sudden turn of events, the realization surfaced that there was in fact one pod remaining on board the Missionary. Kakkarott's damaged pod, the very one the slave had arrived in was still in storage in the Missionary's cargo hold. He reached up and clicked the scouter on, open to all transmission frequency bands. News of the mutiny was already flooding the airwaves. Superimposed over it all was Daax's bellowing for “that stupid sub-monkey-man's head.” Raditzu used the built up anger fueling his ki to make it to the cargo bay before Daax's approach from the central bridge of the ship overtook him. He noted that he could almost feel the pall of rage from that direction growing faintly stronger with every second. Finally the passage opened up to the cavernous cargo bay. He spotted the damaged pod immediately, noticing a solitary figure punching hurriedly at the keypad that would open the small hatch.

 

“And just how are you going to get that thing through the hull of this ship?” He regarded the familiar med tech with disdain. She held up an Andelonian remote detonator, along with the third digit of her hand in reply without even stopping her poking at the keypad to regard him. In an instant he was upon her. Her shocked expression as he seemed to appear out of nowhere behind her teased a pause and a smug grin from him. Because blasting her with ki energy would have destroyed the pod as well, she would have to suffer physical blows from his fists, a far more enjoyable method of dispatching her as far as he was concerned. The now forgotten hypo gun shifted in the inside pouch of his armor's chest plate, and some whim prompted him to use it after a couple of well placed jabs to her ribs. The look of shock never left her face as he pierced her neck with the needle end of the hypo gun and emptied its contents into her bloodstream. Her body suddenly shook with convulsions. She would witness the destruction of the Missionary as it happened even as her brain deteriorated into useless sludge. He grinned at her again as he punched the code to open the pod's hatch on the keypad effortlessly, and then paused to charge enough ki to blast a hole through the bulkhead of the cargo hold. The last thing he saw of the Missionary before it collapsed into myriad pieces was the infuriated visage of Captain Daax entering the cargo hold, and his futile attempt to reach the escaping pod with a ki blast he didn't have time to aim properly before the rupture in the bulkhead sucked him out and pressure imploded his fat pink body in to no more than a splatter backlit by starlight.

 

As the pod raced out into the darkness of space towards Chickyuu, he cut the transmission of his scouter to all but one other comm port. The one on his own pod.

 

He was amazed at how composed, almost smoothly the words spilled out as he addressed the slave.

 

“Congratulations, Lunch. You shall now have the distinct honor of watching me exterminate everything sentient on your planet. This pod is somewhat damaged and slower than what you have stolen from me, but you know I'm right behind you. Be assured that I will pile the bodies at your feet before I burn or consume them, and when I find those you hold most dear I will save the most intense suffering for them.”

 

Another channel crackled as it opened, interrupting him.

 

“I told you I didn't hit that whelp hard enough. So here you are, a fool on yet another fools errand,” Vegeta's voice hissed at him in the scouter's earpiece. He could hear Nappa chuckling in the background. “Ah, yes,” Vegeta went on, “as the ranking surviving officer of your glorified freight ship, seems you are responsible for its destruction. Now you rest assured, Raditz…” Raditzu bristled at the blatant disrespect intended by the use of the shortened form of his name. “I have already petitioned Freiza Sama to take care of the embarrassing little problem you represent, and I intend to make good on that, with or without Freiza's blessing.”