Starship Rogue series Box Set

by Chris Turner

  There was a long pause, a pregnant one that had us worried. I stared over at Marty, my fingers ready on the impulse engines, ready to blast out of here if things looked sour.

  “You’re cleared, Marmot. Proceed. Landing designation, Bay 6. Talk to Jraden, the commissions officer. Unload your product as quickly as possible and move out. We have a dozen other vessels scheduled to land in the next few hours.”

  I could barely suppress a laugh. Easy as that. What a joke. Security must be laxer than ever. Old Sharki hadn’t learned a thing, the arrogant fuck. But then again, what idiot in their right mind would try to sabotage the station so soon after the last stunt? The ultimate double-bluff, Rusco at work.

  The oval portal slid ajar and Deidra took Goliath in closer to the massive station. Parabola #1 veered over us on station northwest like some thing from an alien planet. I cued up Deidra for our attack ascent to rip into the tower containing the parabola.

  Just when I thought we were going to pull off this impossible feat, a repellor beam caught us broadside. I’d had to keep shields low to maintain the whole charade. It cost us. We were on a quick dive to hell—down.

  “Of all the idiotic things!” yelled Marty. “You just lost us 100 grand in yols and our lives, Rusco.”

  “Get us moving! Out of here, Deidra,” I cried, ignoring him.

  The ship was toast, finished. No question. But I seized the controls at the last minute. Thrust Goliath in toward the closing portal before our nav was completely dead.

  “You crazy, Rusco? That’s an enemy station staring at us.”

  “Better than burning up out here—or would you rather get pegged by those bastards?”

  Goliath surged in through the portal on sheer momentum, caught the tail end of sliding metal before lurching through, knocking us roughshod into the landing bay.

  The bottom of her fuselage sheared off, crushing her landing gear, smashing her beyond repair. She ploughed through the closing portal, careening down on the platform landing, knocking us on our asses.

  Systems went haywire; every buzzer and red light went off at once.

  “Into the suits! Quick!” I grated. I knew we’d be in vacuum while the outer port stayed jammed. I scrambled for the wall, tore down the lightweight grey-silver suits. Marty was at my side, seeing the writing on the wall. I avoided his ‘I told you so’ gaze.

  “Move!” I swatted at Deidra, who crouched frozen by the controls.

  Marty grabbed an extra R4. After suiting up, we scrambled out of the cargo bay as Goliath smoked and new flames broke out on her starboard side. We raced along the padway past V-Zons and loader craft before any security men riddled us with shells. We moved as fast as our suits could carry us. Time was running out. Our chances were slim, if any. Stray gunfire nipped at our heels. One wrong shot and it would be all over in this vacuum.

  I shot back at the gunners and glanced back at the dying Goliath. Her flank was black-streaked and smoking, our remaining beryl lost forever. Our get rich schemes had gone up in flames. Maybe Marty had the right idea all along if it were just a venture for profit. Yet we were still alive—but maybe not for long.

  The place was cavernous with lots of metal piping and upper walkways. Huffing and puffing for breath from the mad sprint in our suits, we made it to the first airlock and turned the silver ring to pressure lock.

  The chamber pressurized. Once through, Marty was about to strip off his ape-suit but I held him back. “Keep it on, Mar. We don’t know when this place is going to birdshit or the sky will fall on our heads.”

  He gave a grim nod. For once the bastard actually listened to me without arguing. A record.

  A plan, Rusco, a plan. What’s the use of all this running about without a plan? We were nearly at parabola #1 and its ominous stingray-shaped gun mounted far below. The thing loomed over us like some monstrous, long-necked insect from hell. Below us in a circular dugout sat eight massive crucibles of raw beryl, waiting to be ionized, polarized in vacuum, whatever the fuck they did to it here. Three ships sat parked a hundred feet away, also the portal to the depths of space not eighty feet the other way.

  Of course—we could use the gun as a weapon. Melt the other parabola and the station’s hardware in the meantime. Why not?

  “Quick, up into the control station,” I hissed at Marty over the suit com. “We take our final stand there, in the solar tower.”

  “What for?” Marty gawped. “Die high up?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I’ve trusted you enough already, Rusco.”

  “You’ll have to trust me some more.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a fucking menace.” He stared at the chaos, cursing with eyes white as gunfire, shouts and death streamed all around us. “You sure?” he grunted.

  “No, but what other choice do we have?”

  We ripped shells into the detail of men at the base of the solar gun. They dropped one by one. Fire tore by us, but theirs was poorly aimed. Marty was an ace shot, me no less. Between the three of us we took them down, Deidra picking up the stragglers. Damn we were a prime killing machine. Could that woman shoot. The defenders died before they got a chance to aim.

  We stormed up the stairs in the vacuum-protected tower to the gun’s control base. Gunfire erupted away somewhere behind us. Some fellows were mighty pissed at our illegal entry. Especially when we should be floating corpses in space. Tough shit.

  We scaled the metal-gridded ladder like calfs driven in a stampede. I ripped open the steel door to the control post.

  A uniformed man stood gaping at a console overlooking the beryl vessels. He’d been frightened out of his mind at the chaos below. We caught him in mid op while he had been aiming the gun at crucible #4. His mouth gaped wide. “Hey, you bozos, you can’t just waltz in here to a restricted area.”

  “Not restricted any more.” I pushed him back. “Show us how to work this thing.”

  “You crazy? I’m not just going to—“

  I rapped him hard with the end of my rifle.

  “Ow! What the fuck? Who the hell are you people?”

  “Get it moving pal, west, toward the end of the station. Lift that solar gun away from those loads of beryl. Now!”

  “Okay, take it easy.”

  He was stalling so I smacked him hard again on the crown. He howled.

  “Don’t fuck with me! Do it now or I’ll blast a hole in your head.”

  Marty rounded on the operator with a toad’s grin, his R4 tipped at the man’s groin.

  The man capitulated then, raised trembling hands. “No need for violence. Okay, I’m doing it.” He adjusted the gun’s trajectory, turning dials with trembling hands. I watched him with a hawk’s glare, waiting for him to dillydally again. I eyed the sequences and noted the intensities and the degrees of shift he used. “Good, Elmer. We’ll take over from here.” I clubbed him hard over the ear and he fell unconscious.

  Shots came up from below. “Fuck, what else?” I cried. “You two take care of it.”

  Marty pulled Deidra along. Good thing we all had working weapons.

  Marty and Deidra clambered down the stairs to the lower level and took up positions at the cross landing. They rained fire into gunmen coming up after us. Like picking off flies.

  I hesitated only a second. Any more would have been our doom.

  This would be the last time this gun would ever fire for Sharki’s benefit. I trained it at the other parabola far across the length of the station. I kissed goodbye to the shipment on Goliath and any other we might salvage here. Channeling and magnifying solar power thousands of times, the solar beam lashed out to melt the tripod-shaped metal base of the other gun. It disintegrated in a wall of sizzling metal and steam. The structure caught on fire and burst into flames.

  The heat blast triggered more explosions, a convulsive chain reaction that ripped along the spine of the station’s superstructure. I hoped Sharki was down there, getting fried.

  Thetis Station started to list like a boat at sea.
Artificial gravity was going to shit. We floated a few inches off the ground to our startlement, then settled back down again on the metal grates at half our weight.

  I swung the gun back to zap the most aggressive of the newcomers who’d slipped through Marty and Deidra’s net. I gave a grim laugh, an ugly sound at the back of my throat. Soon there’d be nothing left of this station. Nothing to stand on. If we were going to die, why not go out with a bang? A crazy smirk crawled across my face. An intoxicating feeling, this wielding of immense power like one of the titans.

  I shook the daze out of my head. Zombie talk, Rusco. You’re breathing gas fumes. Get with the program. There are ships down there. In a second you could be making a getaway—why fry to death on this perch?

  “Time to get the fuck out of here,” I mumbled to myself.

  I herded the other two down the stairs. “Move. Party’s over.” We scrambled down to the base and out across the smoking pad to one of the small carrier ships, an Alpha-messenger craft.

  One of its neighbors, a V-Zon went up in flames as a nearby crucible blew, heated beyond measure by our runaway solar gun. It poured hot slag onto the ship’s fuselage.

  Marty howled in anguish as a bullet ripped into his left leg. His suit was finished. Heaven help him if this place ever turned to complete vacuum. Already I could hear a roar and hissing in my ears as parts of the station went flying past; shrapnel, machine parts, and out to a breach point further down the hull’s superstructure. In minutes this place would be a cold tomb. It was a straight dash to the Alpha carrier. We were only fifty feet away. But fifty feet could as well be five hundred.

  I took Marty’s arm and we slogged on avoiding gunfire and random debris riding the air hissing out of the station. Shells skidded around us, smashed into the nearby hull. Deidra ducked, returned fire, a wild gleam in her eye and laugh on her tongue. I could see the dream of survival swirling in her head, fighting against all odds against Sharki. She was a vixen gone rogue caught in a frenzy of blood lust. “Die, you shitbox station! No more a prison for me,” she shrieked, laying fire every which way, taking out foes. I gave a grim laugh. Kamikaze Deidra. We reached the cargo door and were inside. I closed the hatch and breathed relief, hustled Marty along the darkened hall toward the bridge while Deidra raced ahead to get the ship started and moving as thumps and bangs echoed across the hull. Just a parked ship, nobody aboard. I reached the weapon nav and blasted the station’s portal open. We surged though as bits of hot metal and loose fibrofoil fell away from our sides.

  Marty slumped in a nav chair, his face pale and breath hoarse. First time I’d seem him so vulnerable.

  A great ball of fire lit behind us. Thetis 3 exploded in an angry burning ball. I saw amongst the fragments and supercharged debris, several bright specks that might have been starships making their escape from the doomed station. But these were few and most of them ended up in cinders, engulfed in bright flames before they could get too far. Thetis 3 was no more. Just another blip in history. I felt no remorse.

  The concussion knocked us sideways, zapping our impulse drive and our nav haywire. But we were far enough away from the disintegrating station that it didn’t compromise our warp drive for long. For once, the gods seemed to be on our side.

  But I am ever skeptical of that assumption.

  We surged across the black gulfs and the Varwol’s green light blinked on and I jammed the hyperdrive to full, sending us across the threshold of singularity.

  We sat in silence, disbelieving the stillness and safety of the light drive, staring at the impossible trails of time-light streaming from our sides.

  Marty’s voice came as a hoarse rasp. He was hurting, his supply of Myscol run out. I scoured the bridge, looking for some regen. It’d be a while before we could get some for him if there was none aboard. I found some in a half-stocked storage bin. I peeled off his spacesuit, slathered the smelly orange paste on his lower leg. He gave a sigh of relief. The miracle goo was already starting to work its magic.

  Whether Sharki perished down there or had escaped on one of the evac ships we’d never know. The prospect left an uneasy knot lingering in the pit of my gut. I sensed Deidra felt this unease too, though I could see in her twisted expression her burying it deep along with her hurt from the past.

  Deidra spoke in a cracked voice, “If it’s any consolation, I’ve got a mechanic friend out on Voolies world in Aldebaran who can fix us up good with an Alpha Explorer. Might even trade in this junk for a better vessel.”

  “Good. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. We need a break right now. Marty, what do you say?”

  He just waved and groaned, the sounds of longing for a hit of Myscol.

  “My brain’s still wondering how we’re gonna stay afloat. Only a week of vacuum-packed food on this rig and we’re down to our last yols.”

  “Rusco, you’re a killjoy. We’ve got each other.”

  I looked at her and gave her a hard stare.

  Her mouth got all puffy and glistening like a flower in dew. “Where you got to go so fast?” She hooked an arm around my shoulder. I looked back at her, my face deadpan. An idea warmed in my head. I suppose I could make an exception along the lines of a bit of R&R.

  Marty just rolled his eyes. “Come on, really?”

  “Relax, Mar. Sure as rain there’s some desperate gal down on one of these scum worlds who’ll fancy even a dog like you.”

  STARHUSTLER

  BOOK II

  Chapter 1

  I got the transcall from Marty two days ago on Starrunner. Meet me at Drenny’s Bodega. Bring explosives.

  I was tempted to blow it off, but something in my gut told me to follow through. Business was slow out in Veglos and the cons I had pulled up and down that wretched sector, had either blown up in my face or been substandard. Like that smuggling op to get land mines down to the rebels on Rlenion. Three shipments, discovered at the last minute, up in flames.

  Looking at the decadence and slummery of Hoath here on Brisis 9, capital of the supplier planet of all goods, I wasn’t quite so sure now. A giant shanty town of neon and old glitter, a place I’d vowed never to return to, with its seedy dives, black markets, toothless hawkers and painted brides.

  What was the point of it, I asked. Without one taking a chance, opportunity always made its way to the next bidder.

  Maybe that’s why I was in the traders’ depot. Following up on the lead just come in from Marty. That or a slump. Call it what you want, a malaise of spirit, some last desperation after the last string of bad luck.

  This waiting line was taking too long. Really? That many shmucks in line for firearms? Granted, the depot was the best place to go for munitions this side of the Orbego ghetto, aside from regular black market channels. But I didn’t feel like getting my legs blown off today.

  The eminent sociologist, J. Markel Braeth, wrote in an informal essay, that human corruption reaches its peak during times of a dark age, after war has obliterated the countryside, after the planets, once prosperous, ache for green once again. When the worlds far and near, once so proud and with such potential, cry tears of dry sand, vomit up garbage pits and every half-baked crime lord in the galaxy.

  I’m inclined to disagree with Sir Braeth’s statement of tomorrow. I think it can go lower.

  Rusco, you moron, who cares what you think? You’re just another rambler risk-taker wanting to play it loose and fast. No different than the other hustlers in what’s left of the free sectors of the galaxy, those lawless regions, the pleasure domes, the ghettos, the gang-ruled cities. The difference is you pride yourself on being one step ahead of the average con, a little quicker on your toes, a little edgier, sidestepping the dangerous beast waiting around the corner. It’s a dangerous assumption, one that can get you killed.

  All six-foot leathery hide of me reeked of the same starveling message. Go easy on the burnt-out con today. Here’s my medallion of battle scars as proof of claim. The pale purple-tinted hair trailing to shoulder hiding
the torn off ear. The wicked tear-dropped curve on the left wrist from that knife fight on Tethris. The pink scarring down the right cheek where a red hot iron had pressed the wrong way and the fleshy part of ear had kind of up and disappeared. No broken bones, no implants, no prosthetics, or anything that modern flesh-regen couldn’t fix, given the right amount of funds. All it said was you were lucky.

  As I scrutinized today’s clientele at the depot, I felt the familiar tired sigh hiss through my teeth. What was the sod in front of me going to do with those stolen bills he clutched in his purple-veined fingers? Grab the luger off the shelf, go out and rob the local diner? Kill a couple of innocent women or some old man to feed his mescal habit?

  Merc Surplus was just a hop, skip and jump down the line, stocking mint-condition gas lanterns, bowie knives, lighter fluid and rope, you name it. Great kit for arsonists or hangmen. On the other end, a pawn shop and the ubiquitous recyclo-mart distributing everything from boxsprings, old leather boots, water pumps to sex toys and tire irons. This edge of the colonized worlds had gone from seedy to seediest. Technology had all but vanished on this out-of-the-way planet. But then again, where hadn’t it? The last of the space wars had gutted mother nature’s belly, milked her dry. Now she sported only bands of raiders savaging the free planets. Outlaws, hoodlums, scumbags, wannabes, small men carrying big guns and wanting to be big chiefs in a messed-up world. A feudal universe of settled planets, raped of their resources; burned out cities ravaged by pulse cannons, run by organized crime thugs, crazies, religionists, every known breed of gangster the criminal world could offer.

  The odd resistance fighter still roamed about, sure…freedom fighters they called them, fighting against decadence and injustice, but those were few and far between, and stupid in my opinion for risking a bullet in the head or torture by flamethrower to prove a point. For what? Wearing their crispy, blood-drenched capes to the grave. Martyrs without a cause, or hope? The slippery slope for Jet Rusco started long ago. I could have been a greater man, but instead settled on the life of a two-bit thief, trying to make ends meet, a sad vagabond, owner of a dilapidated space junker I’d won, or rather stolen from a couple of dying ruffians. Yet a part deep down in me wanted to be one of those valiant types that made a difference in this decrepit framework of humanity. I croaked out a laugh, shook my shaggy head, thinking maybe not today, Rusco, maybe not today.