by Chris Turner
Chapter 9
The Barenium held. After clearing Talyon’s gravity we jumped to warp. The nearest shelter was the outpost at Skeller’s Run, a massive space station in the Wizrin sector on the far edge of Orion. Not a first pick for me, the space station, but it would do for now. We needed supplies, particularly water.
TK paced back and forth on the bridge in a huff, face contorted at the risk of the compromised Barenium. “The liquid’s not settled. Besides, they’re still going to trace you.”
“Right. Have to get that fixed.”
He shook his head and threw his hands in the air.
“Okay, Beleron then,” I said, “but first things first. We make it to the outpost. Go and play cribbage with Billy or something. You’re making me nervous with all your pacing. We’ve got time to burn aboard this ship.”
TK didn’t budge. Wren occasioned to bump her hip against me as I was swiveling to check the log coordinates on the nav. I turned to cast her an inquiring glance. Her cheeky smile culminated in a lush rise of black brows. It intrigued but also irked me at the same time. I ordered her to scrub down in the shower. On the next stop, our second priority would be to get her some proper clothes. She didn’t seem to appreciate the hint, and stormed off.
“Molly, get us info on the next destination.”
“Orbital station, class D. Captive of gas giant Orves. Inception 2362. Fueling and supply center for inner, terraformed worlds Megal and Vylnos.”
TK’s mouth dropped. “Molly?”
“It’s as good a name as any,” I growled. “My first girl if you want to know. You’ve got a problem with that?”
“No, but—”
“Good, then check out the landing protocol on the station, if you want to make yourself useful. See who’s on duty, what they’re looking for, and on guard against. Sometimes these stations can be funny about deep space cruisers coming in out of nowhere, with skeleton crews and ones without papers.”
TK grumbled and tapped some holo keys on the data console. It was something Molly could have told me in an instant, but I needed to keep TK busy. At the moment the man was a nuisance. Judging from his hobbies down on his home world, his mind was too fertile to be idle for any length of time.
“A certain Roga Flann is the designated contraband checker,” TK muttered.
“And?”
“They seem to be particularly intolerant of bombs and peddlers hassling clientele in transit.”
“Good. Keep digging, TK. What’s Flann’s official’s game? Credentials, past history. There’s more info lurking about on what they’re looking for. Not that we’re carrying anything illicit, but sometimes these officials try to pull a scam where they plant stuff on an incoming ship like ours then shake the captain down for yols, a bribe not to report us.”
“How’s me digging for stuff going to help if—”
“Just do it,” I grunted.
He clamped his mouth shut and set to work. Billy was moving at his side like a spider. Damn, that munchkin, shadowing the old man like a leech. The kid couldn’t sit still. Another source of frustration for me.
Seemed we’d been flying forever. The Varwol disengaged and the course coordinates finally became a reality. The ship lurched, bucked like a crotchety old mule. The slow corkscrew out of warp had minimal hiccups, I suppose.
In the viewport, the station loomed—a gigantic figure-eight with hundreds of birthing docks, bays and pods, with untold shield meshes, solar panels, tracking stations. My jaw dropped. Hundreds of ships passed in and out of the ring. So many? Another unexpected sight, these masses of ships converging on the space station. “What in—?” I wheezed.
TK grumbled, “Looks like a mass run on the station.”
“Something must have gone wrong on one of the nearby worlds. Look at those space junkers and tramp freighters. I sense desperation here. They’re ready to fall apart.”
“Should we try somewhere else?” Wren asked.
“No, we need supplies. Some news wouldn’t hurt at this point.”
I eased Starrunner through the bee-like swarm of traffic. We approached the far side of the station. From what I could see it was going to be slim pickings for berthing docks. Lucky to see two free stalls. I made contact with the ground personnel.
An officious voice resonated over the com. “Alpha Explorer XU6, proceed to reserve dock A2. Berthing will be restricted to two hours.”
“Two hours?” I croaked. “That’s not nearly enough time to either piss or shit—”
“Sir, we do not appreciate vulgarities. The station is under high volume. Do you wish to cancel your reservation?”
“No,” I growled. “But—okay, book it.” I cut the connection.
“Like a mass exodus,” said Wren, her eyes glowing in wonder.
“Never seen so many ships in my life,” mused TK.
True, every space vessel in the vicinity seemed to be seeking refuge.
“Seems we picked a bad time to dock. Okay, we’ll touch down, get our supplies and move on.”
Light seeped through the cracks as the circular gate opened and I docked Starrunner in berth A2-983. A snug fit but workable. Deep in the mooring bay, robot arms secured the prow. The hatch closed behind us and the chamber pressurized. I took my small hand weapon disguised as a small pen, and tossed a like model to Wren.
“Machine guns aren’t allowed, for obvious reasons.”
We de-boarded and I attached the water cable from the utility wall to Starrunner’s underbelly. After I’d inserted ten yols in the dispenser, the green light came on and with a grunt of satisfaction, I could hear water flowing into Starrunner’s bare tanks.
“Let’s hit the observation decks, since we have such a brief time. The water’ll shut off on its own.”
TK nodded and herded Billy down the wide hall. Wren looked about with wonder, smelling much better after her shower. Her eyes flashed on the polished chrome railings, imitation marble floors, small potted trees and dust-free cleanliness. “This is a snazzy station.” Seemed all these sights were new to her.
“Not really. Skeller Station’s been around for centuries. But it’s improved over the years. Megal’s a rich world; they can afford to pay for some luxury.”
“Why so far out from Megal though?” TK asked, as if to no one in particular. His eyes wandered past the glass over Orves, the gas giant, looming below. Our orbit was hundreds of thousands of miles out, yet still the giant planet arched below us like a monstrous white and red banded egg.
I shrugged. “Tradition? Who knows? Probably its ore-rich moons were the first mining interest before the inner planets were settled. I think they were more interested in mining rights than terraforming the inner worlds. Over time the place became a resort stop. You’d have to ask the builders, but they’re four hundred years in the grave.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” said TK.
We passed the first checkpoints, me sliding through with my breezy confidence. No, sirs, we came directly from Wiesen in Cassiopeia. No sirs, no illicit drugs or firearms. These are a couple of travelers I picked up on the ride roster en route to Alphanor. We’re more interested in getting repairs than any layovers. Thank you, sirs.’
All kinds of outworlders milled about, from those with hair piled up on their heads like donuts, to those in trim, tight space jumpers: pilots, shuttle monkeys, cargo couriers. Some were in worse shape than others. A babel of sound hummed in the background, making conversation difficult.
From the port window, a security docker ship, squat and unsightly like a gray bloated toad, floated with ominous import. Such a ship would be looking to maintain law and order—shakedown any runners peddling contraband or out to leverage any of the station’s business. Skeller’s Run would not be an easy place to work scams.
I tapped a tall outworlder on the shoulder, carrying a parcel in one hand and a paneled, cameo briefcase. He looked like an Arkadian on official business caught in an inordinately busy rush. At any rate, someone who knew what
was going on. “What’s up, chief?” I asked. “Why the hubbub?”
He turned a high forehead to me crowned with a sculpted drift of tan-colored hair. “Haven’t you heard? Ah, you just came in, didn’t you? Megal’s been attacked. Some rogue bandit just declared war and flew in with his stealth craft and took over the planet.”
I blinked. “Planetary defenses?”
“Minimal and antiquated. This Mong’s got state-of-the-art equipment, and know-how.”
“Who?” I croaked.
“Mong.”
I frowned, recalling that name. “Why attack the space station? Didn’t they just nab a world?”
“Out of the way. Easy spoils.” The man’s eyes darted to the destination boards, as if distracted. “He’s taking ships and men, everything. Laying waste, crippling any offenses, moving on.”
TK mused, “That sounds like a tried and true formula, repeated throughout history, like the Vandal hordes and Blitzkrieg of Earth’s early history.”
“Another petty warlord come to make life miserable for everyone,” the man spat. “Just another power-monger rising from the ashes of doom.”
“Mong,” I grunted. “So, that bastard changed his name, did he?”
“What do you mean?” the outworlder demanded.
“I knew a Ging or a Gong on Hazzerot planet—the scum planet of the universe. Raged bloody murder and mayhem there, tore it to pieces. Drank human blood from the victims’ skulls.”
“That sounds like a bit of hokum to me,” said the outworlder.
“You mean old wives’ tales?” hissed Wren. “Try visiting Talyon some time.”
“Yeah, tell that to the victims’ families,” I said.
TK pulled at his whiskers. “I seem to recall a legend of a degenerate warlord out of old Earth history savaging the lands, a Googis Khem. Took over half the ancient world before he was killed.”
“That’s Genghis Khan,” I corrected him.
“So maybe this Mong guy takes after him?” asked Wren.
The outworlder shrugged. “No doubt he’s a role model.”
“Haven’t had the grace to meet the man,” I said with a low mutter. “Hope I never do.”
“Let’s just get our stuff and go,” Wren asserted. She wrung her hands, clutched her sides and flashed impatient looks.
“What else do we need here?” asked TK.
“Just packaged goods. Dry packs, meals of any sort, add water and you have instant nutrients. Here.” I tossed over some thirty yols and motioned him to the confectionary section to get the supplies. Billy hopped after him, his ferret-dark eyes blinking in adoration. I shook my head. It’s as if I’d given his mentor a ‘prize of the year’.
I directed Wren to the clothing shop, passed her a handful of credits. I further noted it would be taken out of her share when work was divvied up and the spoils came in. She trotted off with a haughty air and came back from the change rooms a new woman. Leathers hugged her slim hide like a sleek leopard with a fit pleasing to any eye. I wished I could get a real wig for her or something to cover up that blasted bald crown...
In fact… I shuttled her to the hair salon down the way and tossed a thick black wig into the basket at the sales counter.
“That’ll be three yols,” the attendant said.
“What’s that for?” Wren demanded suspiciously.
I smirked. “Nothing, really, just part of my plan. Relax, all good.”
Moving onward deeper within the terminus, we came to a giant rotating rotunda milling with people. A high dome spread overhead with reinforced glass that overlooked a lovely view to the stars. Service shops, eateries, hair stylists, outerwear, everything the casual, weary traveler could want, young or old, rich or poor. Step right up, folks. There was even an executive pad on the upper level like a casino royale, stocked with fancy restaurants, shave and a haircut, shoe-shining parlors, rent a courtesan by the minute. My mind reeled with the cons I could pull up there. But I reined myself in. Not the time or place. Keep your imaginative skull on hold, Rusco.
This was like something out of time, from an older generation before the slums and ghettos had edged over the bloodied city ruins.
Meanwhile Wren and I hustled over to the general section for a last minute stop, some Devirol to make more of my homebrew. TK pulled Billy along and scoped out the dry goods. This section of the Run, a giant circular revolving wheel with port windows every fifty feet, was unusually busy with traffic. All kinds from the surrounding sectors.
I bumped shoulders with a lot of impatient folk from duty officers to transients, all milling about and talking a lot of hokum in loud voices. I caught snippets of conversation that were not entirely of reassuring nature. Drought on this world, killings on that world, planetary genocide. Gang takeover. Refugees from Megal, merchants from Vylnos, down and out speculators from any of the mining worlds and prospectors scoping out asteroids, uncharted moons, any chunk of rock that could churn out a dime. Any number of garden-variety drifters and hopefuls looking for a new life on a new world. I heard them all, like the buzz of angry bees, haggling over prices of basic commodities like soup, drypak, underwear, which seemed to have escalated in the sudden demand created by the exodus. A tense expectancy hung in the air; a flurry of desperation that made everyone edgy, like a massive feedback loop, the threat of scarcity and the fragile security of their lives.
“Let’s get out of here,” Wren muttered, after I’d paid for the two bottles I needed. “The vibes are terrible.”
“Agreed.”
“What’s that glass bottle? Little bit of a garden cocktail?”
“Something like that.” I cast her a chilly grin before I surged ahead.
Suddenly there came a low drone, pulsing through the air like an air siren out from an audio-net nightmare. Eyes darted up, dull whispers broke from dry lips.
A security monitor next to me spoke in a clipped whisper. “Advance armada—Early distant warning. They’ll be coming out of warp in two minutes.”
The monitor’s partner spat out a curse. “Shit, they’re already here. Why?”
TK mumbled, grabbing my shoulder. “Bad idea to berth here, Rusco, bad idea.” He shook his gray head.
I snatched at Wren’s arm. “Let’s get back to the ship.”
Out the porthole I saw the docking security ship take a turn and bank away, her weapons lights streaming on her foredeck.
That was not good.
Orange lights winked over the shops and service counters. A robot voice pealed over the loudspeaker: “Amber alert. All dockers aboard Skeller’s Run report to emergency bay. Lockdown in process. All docking bays from A1-T3 will be closed in T minus 2 minutes. All boarders proceed to emergency support bay. Repeat, report to emergency bay.”
“Jesus, can you believe it?” I bawled.
The attack came in less than two minutes.
Several stealth raiders came out of warp like banshees and flanked the station. Long beetle-like prows with glass eyes surveyed the station with predatory menace. Their tapered purple-grey hulls pulsed with malignant energy.
The emergency alert was as useless as tits on a bull.
A group of frightened souls snarled curses at the vanguard. White fingers gripped wrists; pale-faces goggled at what faced them.
The battle cruisers came arching into view. The lead craft glowed an ominous grey with triangular nose and bulkheads racked on an octagonal rear body like a souped up war freighter. The Galaga.
“Holy mother of god—” a bystander cried. “That’s Mong’s devil ship. Enough firepower there to wipe out half of Veglos.”
More and more of that name ‘Mong’. It tinkled in the back of my mind like a shaman’s death rattle. Hoath. That two-bit guard. He’d dropped the name. Some star lord or mega star-mogul.
A black-bearded man, clutching a bag of drypak meals, crowded close to the glass. The man looked like a pilot, judging from the eagle logo on his blue spacer uniform. “He’s an ugly brute. Some kind of cult leade
r. Whatever the case, you don’t want to mess with him.”
“Founded the Temple of Tirith on Ciros, I heard,” croaked another. “Priest, nomad, witch-hunter, warlord, jack of every trade. With some weird kind of powers to boot.”
“Like what?” I snarled, whirling on him.
“Don’t know, like moving stuff with his mind. Weird shit like that.”
“That’s all crap,” I scoffed. “He’s just a flesh-eating shitter like the rest of us.” But somehow I knew not, and my greatest fears were realized, remembering the tales of blood and rapine that Ging fellow on Hazzerot had committed. But it had been so long ago.
“Maybe, but that’s what I’ve heard,” said the outworlder. “Whatever, you don’t want to mess with him.”
Seems as if I already had, if Baer was mixed up with him—and I had provoked him by rifling his secret stash and blowing off his arm.
I moved off with a grunt, feeling a tremor of sick unease crawling up my gut.
“Rusco, we should—”
I waved TK off.
Without warning all hell broke loose. It seemed any communications’ parley had failed. The wasps surged in with amazing dexterity, making retaliation impossible.
The security docker opened fire but stood no chance against so many enemies. The attackers pounded it to chipboard, its shields blinking red before dying.
The security vessel and companion ships rocked under the firepower. The enemy looped around them like blackflies circling a wounded deer, peppering them with rays, penetrating shields and shearing cannons.
The flagship blew the main security docker ship to dust. That gray-bloated pig with antennae, towers and cannons was no more.
TK paled. “They just nuked the main security vessel.”