"I have no need of wealth or currency." He leaned against the counter and watched me work. I sliced bread and placed it under the broiler. Toast sounded just as good as anything else for breakfast. Food was running out—I would have to restock the kitchen.
"What do you need?" I looked up at him.
"Something that keeps my interest," he was smiling again.
"Ah. I'm the new toy."
"Toy?"
"Something to play with."
"That sounds as if you believe I might lose interest, or use you for frivolous reasons."
"Yeah. I guess that's right," I sighed, pulling my toast out of the oven.
"Little one, I do not believe that will happen. I came to tell you that a position opened up on Tulgalan in a new restaurant. They are searching for an Eight-Day cook. This might be a good position to hold while you search for the ones who fled Bardelus."
He could be right—an Eight-Day cook was the cook who worked one day per Tulgalanian week, so the others could have the day off. At times, Eight-Day cooks had specific specialties they served for the midday and evening meals—Tulgalani loved to take their families out to eat on Eight-Day. With seven days left to hunt the filth feeding off children, it could be an ideal situation. "It pays well," Nefrigar added.
"It'll have to—I'll be forced to rent something to stay there."
"You will do fine," Nefrigar waited until I finished my meager breakfast before folding me to Targis.
Using one of my credit chips, I rented a cube. The cube was actually a rectangle—most of them were, but the slang term was used all the time. My apartment was only one room, with a tiny kitchen on one end, a bed on the other, with a microscopic sitting area in between.
Clothing was also a necessity—fall was approaching quickly and Targis was cold from the beginning of the ninth month, running through the end of the year and into the fourth month of the next. I used up even more of my credit chip for that, and all this before I even interviewed for the position. It didn't matter, I could support myself for a short while if necessary off my hoarded credit chips. It would mean I could hunt Ra'Ak scum indiscriminately.
"Yes, we're still interviewing." I spoke via comp-vid with the restaurant manager. It surprised me that it was called Dee's—that's what Teeg had called his assistant. It didn't matter—Teeg and his assistant were on Campiaa, if they weren't hunting the Strands. I'd done some research when I reached Targis—the Strands were still on the loose. "I have time this afternoon if you'd like to come in," the voice continued.
"I'll be there," I agreed. I'd never gone through a formal interview before—people had tasted my cooking and that was that.
"It won't bother you to be an Eight-Day cook?" The man identified himself as Wroth, the business manager for the restaurant. Owned by a corporation, he'd said. I didn't ask him to explain.
"No, that leaves me time to pursue other interests," I said. "My last job was nearly round the clock, the demand was so great. This will allow me to do other things. Hobbies and such. I'll do research. Perhaps write a little." I didn't say it would be information on my investigation; he didn't need to know that.
"Will you cook something now? I was too busy to have lunch earlier." Wroth wanted evidence of my skills, since most of the experience I'd listed was on non-Alliance worlds.
"Do you have yaris fish?" I asked. I was hungry, too, and hadn't seen yaris fish in months. Wroth smiled.
"You're hired," Wroth mumbled around his second bite. I was using one of my simpler aliases from my ASD tenure. Reah Silver was the name and ID I'd given. I was hoping that Lendill didn't have tendrils out, searching for hits on any of the false IDs he'd given me through the years.
"Good. Do you have a preset menu or will it be left to me?" I asked.
"Both—some items will be served every time, but you can offer up to three specials every Eight-Day. Send the information to me via comp-vid if you can't come in—I'll let you know if we can't get the meats or vegetables ahead of time. We have a very good buyer. Feel free to go out with her anytime, if you have something specific you want."
"What's her name?"
"Teira. Here's her code." Wroth handed a card with a number over.
"All right. I'll contact her—I'm particular about the fish and beef," I said.
"You'll be paid every second Eight-Day, and records and receipts are due at the same time. Silmor, the head cook, has a list of duties," Wroth handed over a comp-vid. "This is yours to keep your records on—make sure you communicate with Silmor on any issues that crop up or if repairs need to be made. He'll let you know if there are any problems with your work or your crew. You'll have two assistant cooks and six helpers, in addition to the waitstaff."
"All right," I nodded, accepting the comp-vid. I'd not heard Silmor's name before and wondered where he was from.
"Will you make yaris fish as a special on your first day? I'll come for that," Wroth smiled.
"If you want. I'll ask Teira to buy it. Are oxberries available?" I asked.
"I'll see." That question piqued Wroth's interest, I could tell. Eight-Day was two days away. I had plenty of prep work to do if I were to do my best for my new employer.
"We're worried that this will filter into the Alliance," Norian stood before the huge screen in the meeting room. Sixteen agents sat at tables, scanning the information gleaned from spotty records concerning the Bardelus child disappearances.
"These monsters eat humanoids," Norian went on. "We currently have reports of child disappearances on sixteen Alliance worlds since these creatures disappeared from Bardelus. And we have it on good authority that these may be allied with Lersen Strand and his cousins, in addition to other criminals. What we need is intelligence gathered. Do not approach any of these yourselves; they will kill you easily. We have no weapons against them; we can only pass the information we receive on to others, who may be able to combat this threat. Now, let me repeat this—if you want to die, go ahead and attack them. Your death will be most swift, I assure you. While they appear to prefer the tender flesh of children, they are not above the occasional adult humanoid, tough skin and all."
"What do they look like?" An agent raised her hand. Lok, sitting at a table in front of her, turned to see who'd asked. She didn't interest him—she was of medium height with light-brown hair. He preferred women from Falchan—warriors who could spar with him. Tall, black-haired and tattooed was his ideal. He turned around in his seat and stared at the image of a monster on the vid-screen.