The Gray Market: A Space Opera Adventure Series (The New Dawn Book 5)

by Valerie J Mikles

  “You-you did what? You sent her where?” Roland sputtered. The Vimbai used to be the baddest crime lords in Clover until Sikorsky sunk their yacht. “She’s on the hook for that drop!”

  “Better her than me,” Cyn retorted, wrapping her coat around her rail-thin frame.

  Roland cocked his fist, but when he saw Kit cringe, he backed down from the fight.

  “What help could you want from a Vimbai?” Roland chastised her.

  “No one here is helping me get rid of Tobias,” she groused, punching him in the gut. Kit hated her stepfather.

  “I could for a price,” Cyn began, sealing her lips when Roland turned his glare on her.

  “I don’t see the point in killing Morrigan anyway,” Kit pouted, referring to the Vimbai heir with dangerous familiarity. “She’s weak already.”

  “That’s the point. She’s an easy target,” Cyn smirked, an evil glint in her eye. “Every loss makes Vimbai weaker.”

  “She doesn’t know anything about the Vimbai business,” Kit said. “I mean, she knows her parents were into illegal stuff, but she doesn’t know what they did.”

  “You stuck around and talked to her?” Roland asked.

  “She was sad. She had a lot to … cry about,” Kit shrugged. “If she dies, will I go to jail?”

  Roland put a hand on her shoulder, wishing he could reassure her.

  “Of course not. The risk is hers. No one’s forcing her to dabble in uncontrolled, recreational substances,” Cyn dismissed. She cringed when she saw Roland’s fist cocking again. “But the kid’s right. Killing her is just for show at this point. They got nothing to sell us.”

  “Lois is building a supply. She must have a buyer in mind,” Roland said, rubbing his hands, fearing they’d soon be covered in blood.

  “She better have a buyer,” Cyn grumbled, kicking the dirt. “Aren’t you tired of being a waygee?”

  The Double Wedge pub was the lowest-class, hole-in-the-wall, alcohol-serving establishment within Quin’s spaceport of Kemah. Alex preferred it because it was mostly populated by the morally ambivalent who did not hold his history with the Terranan Patriots against him. In fact, many of the friends he’d met here were a part of the Citizens’ Channel, helping expatriated Patriots from Terrana establish new identities on Aquia. With the embargo and death of the space trade, business at the Double Wedge was rapidly tanking.

  Nattie Bay, the gray-haired communications officer on the Cadence, sat in a corner booth by the street window, her misty eyes gazing out at the inactive port.

  “Thinking of Terrana?” Alex asked, sliding into the booth, offering her a dark beer, keeping a blond one for himself. The trip from Pierce had taken an hour because he’d insisted on walking from the train rather than getting a cab. The first half of the walk had been invigorating, but then his ankle seized, his ego took a plunge, and he’d been forced to use his cane to hobble along.

  “Thinking of flying,” she said. “Pre-dome society loved their satellites, and four-hundred years of collisions has made an awfully dense cloud of debris. It would take us the better part of a decade to clear the Kessler cloud. I just wish the Cadence could be a part of it.”

  “Maybe it will,” Alex said, his throat getting tight. “The engine will. The rest—”

  “It’ll make a fine museum,” Nattie interrupted. “The ship is over four hundred fifty years old. It brought the moonslate back to make the Domes. It’s a part of history.”

  “There’s not a part on that ship that hasn’t been replaced,” Alex muttered, bitterness seeping in. He’d owned the ship, but he’d never made it his home. Now, he wished he had.

  “Not a cell in my body hasn’t been replaced. Doesn’t mean I’m not seventy-five,” Nattie chuckled, patting his hand, then raising his chin. “They won’t take the engine right away. There’s no way this embargo can last forever. We’re going to decommission the ship. This museum thing… it’s just a way to make money. It’s better than turning it into a space yacht. Even the water yacht industry is starting to suffer from this embargo. The rich people are running out of money, and the industries that serve them are laying people off.”

  “Rich people love micro-g therapy. We can be turn her into an orbiting medical lab. The micro-g therapy would do my leg some good,” Alex said, sipping his beer.

  “That industry is saturated by the mid-sized passenger transports now,” Nattie reminded him, sipping her own drink. “Took a gig on one of those last month. Whiny aristocrats.”

  Alex pursed his lips. He was going in circles, grasping at straws. The museum route was his only play. “Is anyone else from the crew coming?”

  “Sanders fled after the Guard paralyzed you and he hasn’t been back to Kemah since,” Nattie shrugged, folding her arms and putting her head down. “He and Holly have a kid on the way.”

  They’d left Terrana twelve hours behind Oriana, and he’d talked to Danny just hours before the crash. Amanda was safe and alive; she and Danny were going to come live with him. Things seemed to be going right. Even through the pain in his body, he’d stolen a few hours of peaceful sleep, only to wake up to disastrous news. Nattie said there was a streak of light as Oriana veered off course, and then nothing. They’d stayed in orbit for three days searching, waiting for a distress signal. Alex understood why Sanders quit. He still wished his friends were here for the decommissioning.

  “Have any of the ships that go up gotten news from Terrana,” Alex asked, dropping his voice. “Any word on how they’re doing?”

  “I took a gig the other night moving trash,” Nattie smirked, rubbing her eyebrow. “They’re not calling for help. I got through to one of your contacts on the Citizen’s Channel. No one has heard from Johann since he blew up his house.”

  Alex shuddered at the answer to his unspoken question. “Well, he blew up his house. He obviously had an escape plan,” Alex reasoned, though he still felt like he’d lost another son.

  A siren sounded in port and within the bar, workers leapt from their chairs. Some gulped down the rest of their drinks, others abandoned them altogether, their hands instead reaching for their side arms. After Jennifer’s warning of dole attacks, Alex had brought a pulse rifle with him, too. Nattie shoved her beer toward Alex and gave him a look.

  “I’ll be fine. Go!” he said. When the siren sounded, all ships were on alert, and Nattie had to report in to her new captain.

  Leaning his face against the window, Alex scanned the port for smoke or emergency crews, but the emergency didn’t seem to be within port itself. That meant the trouble was outside—one of the ships flying in the Kessler Cloud.

  Abandoning the drinks, Alex walked purposefully out of the bar and headed for the Dome gate. He couldn’t be here for the death of another crew. There was a crowd forming at the gate, and emergency crews lining up. Alex balled his hand into a fist, ready to fight his way through if need be.

  Then he heard the whispers—the nature of the emergency. The one word he kept hearing over and over was Oriana.

  2

  Oriana. His life, his love, his home. The name of the ship meant ‘new dawn.’ It was a place of second chances and perpetual hope. For Alex, the crew had become a surrogate family, and the ship a second home.

  The port was abuzz with fire crews priming pumps, medical crews lining up ambulances, and security crews armed to the teeth. Weaving through, Alex raced to the control tower. The A-team was called to stations, and much of the younger staff were pressed close to the windows and leaking out the front door, eager to catch a glimpse of the action. Many had Virps raised, taking pictures and videos of the scene.

  “What’s going on?” Alex asked one of the suited, young men with an intern’s wrist cuff.

  “It’s Oriana. The lost water hauler. She made contact a little under an hour ago,” he said, smiling broadly, keeping his eyes on the open gate. Alex’s knees went weak and he fumbled for a support.

  “She’s flying?” His throat was so dry, he nearly choked on th
e words.

  “Flying, yes. Landing? We’ll see. Whoever is at the con is inexperienced.”

  Alex covered his mouth, so overwhelmed and excited he thought he’d be sick. Inexperienced meant Tray. The others knew how to fly that ship, and the question was: why weren’t they?

  Pushing his way into the control tower, Alex climbed the stairs as fast as he could, using the banister to pull himself as his energy waned. By the time he got to the top level, his knees buckled with every step.

  The control tower was a semi-circle of desks, chairs, and monitors, all directed toward a giant window facing the gate. At this time of day, every seat was filled. At the far left were the controllers in communication with ships just leaving Terrana and monitoring their progress. Incoming ships were handled by the next segment, then outgoing ships. At the far right was port operations, handling the opening and closing of the gates, airlock controls, and emergency crew coordination. The people in this room controlled who came in and out of Kemah, and they did not like unscheduled landings.

  A few of the workers had tears in their eyes, watching with hopeful anticipation for the return of old friends. Others were wary, prepared for an act of terrorism.

  Then Alex noticed Sikorsky. The mob boss, with his sleek, ankle-length coat and perfectly coifed hair stood out among the waygees in coveralls. Although the elected Quin council had enacted the embargo, the people blamed Sikorsky and his longstanding feud with Terrana’s Lieutenant Governor, Deivon Parker. The man did not belong in the tower.

  Sikorsky hovered near the Capcom station, a Feather hooked over his ear so that he could talk directly to the inbound ship. By the way he crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders, it seemed his concern for Oriana was personal.

  “Is it Oriana? Is everyone alright?” Alex asked Terry Gueme, one of the medical team coordinators. Terry was an old friend of Jennifer’s, and had helped the Citizens’ Channel smuggle in some of their more critically injured refugees. Seeing him panting for breath, she abandoned her desk and pushed him into her rolling chair.

  “They have at least one mortally wounded,” she said, watching the window expectantly. She was dressed in uniform coveralls with woven-in ports to hold any medical scanners and equipment she needed for emergency response. Once her teams were lined up, all they could do was wait.

  “Let me talk to Danny. Is he the one that’s hurt? Let me talk to the pilot,” Alex said urgently.

  “Alex, let us handle this. This is what we do,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “I flew that ship for years. I know it like the back of my hand. I can get them to ground with the fumes they have left,” Alex insisted. After so many weeks in the wild, there was no telling what condition Oriana would be in, or if it would even be the same ship. Parts of Oriana had been flying off just before the crash, and any Terranan spy could have picked up the transponder and set up the ruse to get into Kemah.

  Terry raised her eyebrow, her doubt reflecting his own misgiving.

  “Yes, let him help,” Sikorsky ordered, desperately waving Alex over. He offered his own Feather to Alex, but the Capcom picked up a plan, black Feather from a line of spares and motioned Alex over. Using his good leg, Alex punted across the room on the rolling chair, took the Feather, and tried to look reassuring.

  “Welcome back, Oriana. We thought you’d detoured to Alea on an archaeological expedition,” he said, leaning his elbows on the desk, focusing on his task rather than all the people watching and listening in.

  Alea was the nearest planet to Aquia. It was farther out in the solar system, and according to history, there had been a scientific outpost there just before the great war with Caldori. Danny loved pre-Dome history, and he’d come up with the phrase as a code for danger in port.

  “If only we had fuel for chit-chat,” a female voice said.

  Alex shuddered. He didn’t know Corey’s voice, but he could tell it wasn’t her on the vring. Saskia would have recognized him. “Who is this?” Alex whispered, looking up at Sikorsky.

  “Sky is an old friend,” Sikorsky said, rubbing his arms. “She says Tray Matthews is on the brink of death and needs medical assistance.”

  Biting his cheek, Alex twiddled his fingers. If Tray was hurt, that explained why he didn’t hear Danny’s voice, but not the other two women. He turned the monitor at the station so he could watch Oriana’s entry path. It was flying in low, from the northwest.

  “What’s your engine status?” Alex asked Oriana’s new captain.

  “I—hold—I’m having pilot issues,” Sky replied. “Hawk!”

  There was a click and suddenly a man’s voice came over the Feather, swearing in a language Alex didn’t recognize. Grief surged and Alex rubbed his chest, telling himself to focus on the job. There were strangers in his home. Danny and Tray, his friends, the closest he’d ever come to having sons, were in trouble.

  “My name is Alex. I’m a pilot. I’m going to talk you down,” Alex said.

  The man fell silent, and through the rush of wind noise, Alex could hear the familiar beep of Oriana’s engine failure alarm, then the echo of his words being translated into Trade by the ship’s computer.

  “They call me Hawk,” the man said in thickly accented Trade, like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I am alone; I don’t know how to land.”

  “You’re not alone. I’m here to talk you through this,” Alex said in Trade, taking a deep breath, routing more information to his monitor. Virtual displays approximated the console as Hawk would see it. Three of Kemah’s tracking cameras had been turned to monitor the incoming ship. The optical and infrared cameras showed only clouds, but microwave and radio imagers showed the blurry outline of the ship. Alex’s eyes misted.

  “We’re gliding. No engine output,” Hawk panted, his voice getting weaker. “I am depleted. I can’t make more fuel.”

  It looked like they were on a collision course with the Dome. The moonslate shell of Kemah was reinforced, so the damage would be minimal, but Alex wasn’t about to let Oriana fail now.

  “What is the fuel situation? Do you have thrusters or are you fully gliding?” Alex asked.

  “The sensor says we have fuel, but the smoke choked the thrusters several times. I’m so tired. I can’t get the fuel to the thrusters,” Hawk said. “Sky turned on the gravity. She stopped helping Tray to fly us with the gravity drive.”

  “You mean the engine,” Alex corrected. The grav-drive system was not related to flight.

  “I lost port engine to the smoke,” Hawk replied, his quivering voice underscoring his fear. “Can I land with a single engine?”

  “Let’s get as close as we can with gliding,” Alex said, shaking his head. “There is a long runway that goes east to west on the peninsula. If you’re down to 600 kph at the west end, you should coast to a stop right in front of the Kemah gate.”

  There was a long silence on the other end. Alex wasn’t sure if the barrier was in language or experience. He had to remember he was talking to a civilian, not an aviation student. Oriana needed to slow down and bank, or they’d overshoot the city.

  “For Tray, for Tray, for Tray,” Hawk panted under his breath. “I missed that, what?”

  “Do you see the white stripe that crosses the land and appears to end at the water? That’s the runway.”

  “Yes, Sky mentioned a runway,” Hawk murmured. “My first real runway.”

  “And Danny?” Alex tried. “Is he—”

  “It’s too cloudy to see the white stripe and I can’t read the Lanvarian labels on the console. Can you see me?”

  “Yes, I see you. We’re tracking your position,” Alex said, focusing on the projected replica of the console. He’d landed Oriana with no sensors before, but the day had been clear, and both engines were working. “Increase your altitude to 4500 meters. There’s a display to your upper left that shows your altitude.”

  “My safe limit is 2500 for the hull damage,” Hawk said. Another alarm sounded on Hawk
’s end of the comm and the ship’s altitude increased in jerky thrusts. “Middeck hatch came loose again.”

  “That’ll keep things turbulent,” Alex said. “Have you flown Oriana a lot?”

  “Yes,” Hawk panted. “It’s my first landing. I’m alone.”

  “You’re doing fine, son,” Alex said.

  “Son,” Hawk repeated, taking a deep, calming breath.

  “You see that green lever to your left?” Alex asked.

  “Dorsal thruster,” Hawk said, his voice steadying. Alex was glad he had that level of recognition. Talking Hawk through a series of banks, Alex got the ship facing east, and headed for the runway. The ship dipped below the clouds, and the visible light camera focused on the ship. The hull had been patched over, and appeared slathered with reddish slate and black soot. It flew like the cargo hold was unevenly loaded.

  “Do you see the white strip now?” Alex asked.

  “Yes. I can’t get the landing gear down,” Hawk said. “I feel drag like it’s down.”

  “The landing gear is down. I can see it from here,” Alex said. “You’re about to touch down. Brace yourself.”

  The ship touched down, bounced hard, then hit again, nose first, and skidded sideways down the runway.

  “Sky, we need lift!” Hawk shouted.

  Oriana lifted suddenly off the ground, seeming to levitate over the runway. It had to be the grav-drive that Hawk had mentioned. Thrusters spat erratic fire, completing the spin and aligning the ship with its forward motion. The wheels found purchase and the second landing was soft, the ship coasting to a stop five miles shy of the gate and five inches shy of the ocean.

  The control tower erupted into cheers, and Alex covered his ears, pressing the Feather deeper so that he could hear.

  “Good work, Hawk. You’ve lived up to your namesake,” Alex said, fanning the front of his sweat-soaked shirt.

  Hawk swore, unable to silence the myriad of internal alarms. Oriana wasn’t out of the woods yet.