“Screw the headaches, Doc; I can handle those.” Danny put his hands to the vents for warmth. “Just find me a juice that works so Mr. Black and I can do our job. That’s all that matters.”
Doc’s silver brows tightened. “And what happens when you’re too crippled to do that job, Danny? Will they matter then?”
Danny didn’t respond.
“Okay, cover cargo’s in place, and we’re good to go.” Shotz slammed the driver’s side door and wiped the fresh soil stains off his chest.
Doc and Danny recoiled from the stench.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Shotz glared at the both of them. “Does my manly, occupational smell suddenly repulse you now?”
They nodded.
“Good!” Shotz let out a belly laugh, snow and grime dripping from his thick hair and beard, then threw the vehicle into drive. “Serves you both right.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, the distant lights of Lynder Colony filled the windshield, and Danny watched them loom larger on the horizon.
Much like other settlements on Iglyah 4, Lynder was a small, civilian-run mining outfit that served as both a port for inbound ships—ice freighters or vagabond transporters, mostly—and a trading post for those passing through the region to Kyma 4. That made the business on Lynder legitimate for the most part, though, like all worlds in the rim, it wasn’t without its fair share of illegitimate work, either.
In the cases of Danny and his crew, that meant posing as contracted garbage collectors for the high-country ice rigs—an easy enough sell given that ice, or rather the water it yielded, was by far this world’s biggest export.
The radio on the dash squawked over the roller’s elderly engine. “Inbound vehicle, this is Lynder security. Please identify yourself and state your business.”
Danny pulled the mic from its cradle on the dash and put it to his lips. “Copy that, Lynder. This is Captain Daniel Teller of the sanitations barge, Overlook. My crew and I are fresh off a pickup from the northern territories and headed for an offworld disposal site. Over.”
The radio crackled again. “Standing by to receive your contract’s identification code. Over.”
Danny grimaced at the thought of his next words. Charade or not, it still turned his stomach to have to say them. “Contract IDC is as follows: 1356-2B. We’re imperial. Over.”
The voice at the other end went silent as its owner awaited verification of Danny’s contract code.
“IDC confirmed. Please have your documents ready and prepare for inspection at the checkpoint.”
Shotz snickered behind the wheel.
“Copy that, Lynder. I’ll warn you now: this was a pretty ripe run.”
A sigh of dejection. “Appreciate the heads-up, Captain. See you at the gate.”
Danny hung up the mic and turned to Shotz. “You got our papers, right?”
Shotz pulled an envelope from his inner breast pocket and handed it over. “Picked ’em up first thing this morning.”
“And you checked them?” Danny asked.
“As soon as I got outside,” Shotz said. “As far as anyone knows, we’re here on official sanitations business for Minister Armand Felling, director of the Alystierian Waste Management Service.”
Armand Felling. Danny smiled wryly. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Six months ago, Felling had been among the empire’s most esteemed officials as head of its science directorate. But then had come the Firefall corruption scandal that’d rocked parliament to its foundation, and he’d lost it all. These days, some scrub named Hugo Kerns was running the directorate while Felling serviced outhouses on backwater planets like Iglyah 4.
Fitting for a piece of crap. Danny emptied the envelope and inspected the contents. “You’re sure these are authentic?”
“Positive,” Shotz said. “Trust me, my guy’s a pro. And even if they’re not, I can promise you the load in the back is.”
The fact that Danny still refused to breathe through his nose was a testament to the latter.
The trash roller’s brakes let out a creak as the vehicle eased to a stop at the gate. A guard exited the security station outside and traipsed through the snow toward them. He was a heavy-set man with broad, round features, wearing a rugged, hunter-green uniform, not one of imperial gray. That made him a local.
Danny watched the guard approach. Check our papers and get back in your booth, buddy. It’s too damn cold out, and you’re not paid enough for this.
Shotz lowered his window and produced the documents. “Evening, sir. I think I’ve got everything in order here.”
“Thank you for that.” The guard studied them with little more than a cursory glance then started for the cargo hold.
“Wait for it.” Shotz folded his arms.
The hatch opened.
“Holy gods!” The guard’s arm rocketed to his mouth and nose. “Did something die back here or what?”
Shotz chuckled and kept his voice low. “I’ll never understand why nobody thought of this before us. Smugglers posing as garbage men—much as it stinks some days, it might just be the perfect con.”
The guard slammed the hatch and returned to the driver’s side, his expression still one of disgust. “Okay, I think you’re all set here.” He shoved the papers back through the window. “Move along.”
“Thank you, sir.” Shotz fired up the engine. “Have a great night.”
The guard grunted something then vanished back into his booth.
The trash roller eased through the gate and found its way onto the colony’s primary thoroughfare, a narrow, two-lane stretch that doubtless needed grading at least three times per day to stay operable. The strip was lined on each side by a series of tiny, single-room storefronts and businesses, most of them closed for the night. There was a clothing outfitter, a clinic, a garage, and even a coastal-themed cantina—of all things—next to a public house on the right.
Danny’s eyes found their way to the chimney over the pub. Looks like somebody’s open for business.
Rounding the fourth corner past a sign reading “Kemp’s General Store and Trading Post,” the roller turned off into the port district and made the short drive past shipping to E Block, where Reegan and Remy were waiting with the ship in hangar twenty-five. Soon after reaching it, Danny leaned out of the passenger window and keyed their code into the half-lit panel at the entrance.
“Hey, guys.” Reegan rose from his seat on the cargo ramp as the roller ground to a halt in front of him. “I presume everything went well at the gate?”
Shotz killed the engine and climbed out. “Like taking candy from a midget.”
“It’s a baby, Shotz.” Danny trailed him out of the cab. “Candy from a baby.”
Shotz waved off the admonishment. “Midgets, babies, whatever. They’re both short, wrinkled, and gross.”
Doc threw him a smirk. “Your mother must be so proud.”
Shotz belched and scratched his crotch.
“Where is he?” Remy was all but spastic, hands and arms slapping about, as he bounded down the ramp. “Wuh-wuh-where’s Mr. Black? I need to see him right now!”
Danny put up his hands. “Take it easy, Remy. Mr. Black is fine. He took a few dings along the way, but it’s nothing you haven’t buffed out before.”
Remy spun and put a finger in Danny’s chest. “If that Dart had hit you full bore, you’d have been fuh, fuh, fuh…” His small hands balled into fists. “Finished!”
“And yet, I wasn’t hit.” Danny threw a wry look at Doc. “I’m fine, Remy, and so is Mr. Black. Now, how about instead of berating me for how I use him, you help me get him out of the trash roller and onto Overlook? Sound like a plan?”
Remy’s dark-brown eyes smoldered with all the intensity an eighteen-year-old runt could muster. “Fine.”
“All right, people.” Danny turned to the others. “I want this stuff unpacked and stowed on the double. We’ve got buyers back home in Detron, and I do not want to keep them waiting. Thrusters up in ten
.”
“Yeah, about that.” Reegan adjusted his glasses.
Danny arched an eyebrow at his pilot.
“So, as it happens,” Reegan began, “your little dustup with Mangum tipped off planet security to our heist. They’ve got every port in a three-hundred-kilometer radius on lockdown until further notice. We’re not going anywhere. Not for a while.”
“What about our cover?” Danny looked at Shotz who raised a shoulder. “We’re imperial, right? Doesn’t that get us a pass?”
Reegan shook his head. “Sorry, Top, but we’d still get boarded if we tried to break atmo right now. We’ve got to wait. It’s our safest option.”
Danny growled and turned away.
“For what it’s worth,” Reegan rushed to add, “Shotz’s guy was still a good investment. In addition to our access papers, he also got Overlook’s registry number listed on the local port manifest with full government status.”
Danny snorted. “And that helps us how? You just said imperial ships are grounded with everyone else.”
“They are. But they also can’t be searched without extreme probable cause.” Reegan adjusted the band on his shoulder-length ponytail. “As long as we stay put down here and don’t do anything to draw attention to ourselves, we should be fine. If we run, all bets are off. It’s that simple.”
Danny looked at Doc.
“The authorities are looking for a stolen haulercraft, not a trash roller.” The old man shrugged. “Theoretically, we should be in the clear.”
Danny exhaled. He wasn’t a fan of hanging around once a job had been done—too much of a chance for people to ask questions. Still, as long as he was stuck there, he figured he might as well make decent use of the time. He started for the ramp.
“Where you going, Top?” Reegan asked.
“To change clothes and step out for a minute.”
The others traded looks, but only Doc spoke. “You did hear what Reegan just said about laying low, right?”
“Relax Doc. I’m not going out to pick a fight,” Danny said. “I just need to run an errand. It won’t take long.”
That apparently wasn’t good enough for Overlook’s chief medical officer. “Don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate on what that errand is or why it’s so important.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “I’m out of zanerack, and I need another bottle. Any other questions, Mom?”
Reegan’s eyes met the concrete floor. “Listen, Top, Overlook’s your ship and all, and I certainly don’t mean any disrespect…but are you sure now’s a good time for drinking?”
Danny huffed. “Maybe, maybe not, Reeg, but we’ve got an expression on my world for days like these.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere. Now, get off my ass and get to work. You’ve got cargo to load.”
* * * * *
Chapter 4: Happy Hour
Once out in the night air, Danny tucked the lanyard containing his forged imperial credentials under his shirt and tightened his coat and toboggan for the walk back to the public house. Reaching it, he was pleased to see the lights in the place still on, its chimney brimming with smoke. It wasn’t much, just a run-down, hole-in-the-wall shack. But it would do.
Danny inspected the sign out front. The Digger’s Den, huh? Quaint.
A chime rang—a scuffed brass bell attached to the door—as Danny entered, and his nostrils filled with the scents of fried meat, stale ale, and burning firewood. Danny crossed the hardwood floor, past a trio of high-top tables and a stone fireplace that had to have been a century old, and snagged a chair at the bar.
“What can I get you?” The bartender was a rugged-looking man, late forties or so, with a mild paunch and slicked-back hair that seemed to glisten under the room lights.
“Zanerack, neat.” Danny dropped a pair of Alystierian credits onto the bar.
“Coming right up.” The bartender turned for the spirits shelf and retrieved a bottle of clear liquid, which he tipped over a nominally clean tumbler. He slid the glass to Danny.
“Thanks.” Danny dropped a third credit onto the bar. “Leave the bottle, will ya?”
The bartender flashed a crooked grin then scooped up the coins and hurled them into a nearby coffee can where they hit with a clang. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Yep.” Danny waited for him to go then studied the contents of his glass. Historically, he hadn’t been fond of most Alystierian liquors, zanerack included. They bit hard and smelled like rubbing alcohol. Alas, he’d always been a vodka guy back home, and zanerack had been the closest thing he’d found to it since arriving here, so he’d made do.
Danny fired back the tumbler and winced at the initial burn that struck his tongue like a high-voltage power line. Black-label Stoli you are not, my friend. He put down the glass and poured himself another. After that, he surveyed the room in the mirror behind the bar. Two miners were shooting a game of stick at a sarlen table in the far corner, one a meatheaded-looking fellow in pit-stained workman’s clothes, the other a lanky guy with a goatee. Across the room, two other miners sat hunched over plates at one of the high tops.
Danny’s stomach rumbled as meat sizzled on a nearby tray. Wonder what’s on the menu.
The door chime jangled, and the fireplace crackled when a newcomer dressed in heavy trousers and a long, duster-style coat entered the room.
Damn it. Danny tugged at his toboggan and looked away.
“Welcome to the Den,” the bartender said. “What are you having?”
The man took a seat, his face shrouded in shadow by the flat, maple-brown brim pulled low ever his eyes, and pointed to a square-shaped bottle on the spirits shelf.
Nice hat. Danny had thought so earlier, too, when he’d spotted the man outside.
“One Smithson’s on the way.” The bartender sprang to action.
From the corner of his eye, Danny watched the newcomer sip his whiskey but didn’t face him. He didn’t need to and didn’t want to. Their last encounter had been anything but pleasant, an experience about which Danny had plenty of reminders in the form of scars covering his upper body. Still, he’d known this day would come eventually. It had to. That was the just way of things when family was involved.
Danny fired back another shot of zanerack and cursed the fact that humans had whiskey out here but no friggin’ vodka. Guess you had to find me sometime.
“Hey, you at the bar. What’s your business here?”
Danny looked back to find one of the miners standing there. It was the meathead. The sarlen cue was in his left hand, an empty mug in his right, and on his face was a snide expression that pretty much screamed “Hi, I’m a territorial a-hole, and you’re in my seat.”
Damn regulars. Danny shook his head. “Sorry, friend. I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”
The meathead grunted and rested the wooden game stick on his shoulder as if suggesting it would soon become a weapon.
Danny exhaled.
“It’s my concern because I pay your salary, you pompous parliamentary scab,” the meathead said.
Wait, how’d you know— Danny glanced down to find his forged imperial credentials dangling free of his shirt. Aw, shit. He tucked them away.
“Can I pay for your meal, sir?” The meathead mocked a bow. “How about another drink? I mean, godsdamn it! I’m already giving you vultures over half of my slaring income for your shiny new fleet, so what’s a plate of special and a couple rounds of swill? It’s all for the glory of the empire, right? Isn’t that what your pig masters in parliament keep spouting on the nightly vid feeds?”
Danny unclenched the fist that his left hand had already formed. Contrary to what the man was thinking, Danny wanted no part of a quarrel with him. Truth be told, he felt for the guy. The Alystierian government had long since been reviled out in the rim for the extent to which it taxed its citizens, and never more than now. Chancellor Masterson had seen to that from day one when he’d fast-tracked
production of his new hybrid war machine for use in the conflict with Aura. As such, that bill had to land on someone’s tab, and it sure wasn’t going to be that of the imperial elite in the core.
Alec Masterson. Danny’s blood ignited at the mere name. That was someone with whom he intended to quarrel, given the chance. All he lacked was a way in.
“Hey, pig!” The meathead tightened his grip on the cue. “I’m talking to you!”
Danny rubbed his face and turned on his stool, hands raised in a gesture of calm. “Relax sir, I meant no disrespect. On behalf of parliament, please accept my humblest of apologies for any fuss my presence has caused here.”
The meathead spat on the floor. “Slare you, and slare your apology. How about instead you give me back the business you took from me with that shiny new federal plant of yours out on the straits? Small outfits like me can’t compete with that kind of weight, and you know it. Between the taxes and the lack of real paying work, you’re cutting our families to shreds out here.”
Danny kept his body language cool. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, sir. Believe me, I am. Times are tough for a lot of us. However, if you’ll allow me to finish my drink, you have my word that I’ll be on my way.”
The meathead took a menacing step forward.
Easy, friend.
“No, pig, I think it best you leave right now.”
Danny scanned the room. The meathead’s comrade with the goatee had stepped into the picture as had the miners from the table. That made it four on one—fairly even odds, given Danny’s skills in a fight. The problem was, he didn’t want one. These people had every right to be angry. They were getting screwed.
Danny checked the man in the hat and found him still on his stool.
“Hey, buddy?” The bartender leaned in. “I appreciate the tip and all, but maybe you ought to try old man Kalifer’s place down the block. Lots of imperials frequent there.”
Danny reached a slow hand into his pocket and fished out another credit. He flipped it to his host. “Thanks for the information.” He pushed in his stool and started for the door.
At Circle's End Page 4