Starship Rogue series Box Set

by Chris Turner

  Quick, neat, but we weren’t out the frying pan yet. We had to skip this houseboat in case more of Elmer’s goons noticed the boss’s absence. That second boat was angling to shore.

  As soon as it bumped against the pier, we were off, tramping our way through the red light district and the back alleys, avoiding the downtown tram stops, in case Elmer’s thugs had eyes on them. I had to fry some enterprising vagrants who jumped out at us, looking for spare coins. Hell would freeze over before I’d let all that work go to waste while almost getting killed, only to get sacked by some grubby backalley punks.

  We doubled back toward the lake on a zigzagging course and caught an air taxi farther up the line back to the repair shop. As we flew away from the boats, I let out a sigh of relief, knowing we had escaped a deadly scenario relatively unharmed.

  Billy, turns out, had gotten himself in a bit of trouble, locking himself out of the loo, running back and forth not knowing what to do until he had finally wet himself. Was a while before one of the mechanics heard him banging on the hatch and had let him out. A sorry sight.

  We got Billy cleaned up and squared up with the repairmen. Back on Starrunner, I took a bit of Myscol to help with my reinjured knee. The familiar tingly warm feeling overshadowed the throbbing agony as my eyes glazed over. Okay for now, but that leg was taking a beating. I’d have to see some doctor. Wren, who had been eyeing me with more than appraisal as the night wore on, took advantage of the success of our little venture to attempt some familiarity of flesh. She leaned in, brushing against me to snake her arm about my waist, a gesture so intimate as to feel almost passion-driven. Her voice dropped in a husky murmur, “Well, hubby, a good night’s work, let’s do it again real soon.”

  I leaned in on my good leg with only slightly less languid intent. “Tigress, you’re being a naughty puss. Let the law of thuggery prevail. While the heat’s on, lie low.”

  TK chose to blunder in on us like an ox at that moment. “I don’t like this town, or their greasy games.”

  I blurted out an oath. “You and me both.”

  She slumped, turning away in frustration that the moment had been spoiled. “You know, you two are real wussies.”

  I shrugged. I could see that Wren was hedging for Miss Prickly of the Year award. TK and I moved off to the bridge.

  We’d just about broken even after dispensing the funds for repairs, coming out a few hundred yols ahead. Not bad, but not good either. Split three ways, that wasn’t much. Well, strictly speaking, I took 60%, considering it was my ship and I was doing them a favor, saving all our asses by getting out of Dodge twice now.

  The rear fin stabilizer was working so we couldn’t burn up or wobble ourselves to death upon reentry. The warp drive was still an issue, the Barenium canister still with a hairpin leak, but it was an old part that couldn’t be replaced too easily, the lead mechanic had told us. “We can put it on order, but a used part like that would be only 85% operational.”

  I slapped my fist down on the nav console at the memory as we warped out to Baile’s planet, somewhere far away in Yanadar.

  TK growled, “I know I should have monitored those greased monkeys better. I don’t believe the drive was ‘irreparable’.”

  “Good luck hanging around Zanzadeer while Uncle Elmer is on the rampage,” Wren groused. “We should’ve killed him and all his thugs while we had the chance.”

  I waved a hand. “Don’t get too trigger happy. Do no good anyway. His business associate rats’d still come out of the culverts and get us. This is the problem with being a traveling huckster, Wren. No time to do fix-it-up jobs. One chance, and it’s vamoose. We’d better suck up our losses and move on. Bigger fish await in the pond across the way.”

  I felt glad to be away from Zanzadeer and the boats.

  Wren caught up with me in the hall as I was stumbling my way to my cabin. She pressed her mouth hard against mine. I was surprised, for she was up front to a fault, but she was a tomboy after all. Pretty no-nonsense and a convincing one at that, despite my initial non-interest in her. It didn’t feel proper to resist.

  Back in her cabin, our clothes quickly became unpeeled and after the inevitable, ‘Ew, what happened to your ear?’ we were right down to business.

  The woman had a luxuriant figure when stripped of her hunter’s-gauge black leathers. I suppose our first joining was fated. The cabin vibrated to the sounds of our lovemaking. A long sweaty dance of push and pull that had both of us gasping and sucking in the same lungfuls of air. It seemed Wren had always wanted to get it on with me. Okay, I’d bite. I couldn’t admit to the same, but I humored her all the same. It took the edge off the loneliness of a con-artist’s existence, with no hope for tomorrow.

  I awoke some hours later to a tangle of limbs. Her soft breathing on my left shoulder, a warm breast pressed to my chest. I rolled over and my lightly purple-tinted hair brushed her neck like a horsehair fan. Her long legs twitched, a moan pattered in her throat. The memory of some horror of the past? I rumbled out a lion’s roar and squeezed her tightly and ran my tongue along her neck which prompted a murmur of escalated breath.

  She seemed amused by the animal roar and gave me a playful slap. “Enough, tiger. Let’s sleep it off. Plenty more time to play bride and groom in the days ahead.”

  Chapter 12

  We’d been scamming up and down the Zaion worlds for a few weeks now and after several false starts, began to turn a profit. We’d finally repaired the Barenium leak and equipped the landing shuttle on Starrunner with extra space suits. I’d got my knee looked after at the local regen clinic on Gainor, one of the six habitable, terraformed worlds. Some regen—not cheap, and a loving pat on the leg by the stony-eyed medic. After scouting down a new-old Barenium cylinder on Gainor, I gave a praise to the good Kazoo that I no longer had to worry about Baer tracking us. As for the blood-hungry pirate Mong, we’d keep an eye out for him. The man had discovered a superior form of armor or shield technology that had given him a significant edge over his enemies.

  I walked onto the bridge to catch TK and Wren glued to the holo screen. The free store planetary press was having a field day with the latest sensation—always a new goldmine of cheery information. The face that stared back at me with those eyes black as charred coal had me cringing.

  The broadcast came over the public channel—Mong, in all his glory and ceremonial garb, black-braided ponytails and leather shoulderpiece. His cheeks flushed a ruddy bronze, but that face was set as serene as an avatar.

  “Citizens and people of Questra! Surrender your government, your ships and your wealth, or I will unleash a rain of fire that will send you to hell!”

  The image cut out and the screen panned back to the announcer. “And that is the latest ultimatum from warmonger, Kaibus Mong, known as the ‘star lord’ or the ‘dark lord of death’. His latest conquest on Megal orbiting Tiran’s star turned the landscape into a fiery, feudal wasteland. Will ‘Questra’, another of the inner planets, suffer the same fate? No one has come to offer aid to either Megal or Questra. Experts say that nearby governments and planetary United Nations are reluctant to defy Mong, fearing retaliation with his blitzkrieg tactics.”

  “Turn that fucker off, please,” I ordered.

  TK hit the switch. “See, this renegade Mong is bad news, Rusco. Doesn’t look as if he’s going to let a few petty worlds satisfy his greed.”

  “No kidding.” The transmission had cast a shadow over my mood. “No different than Genghis Khan, from what I gathered from history. Snatching up territories as if they were candy for the taking.” I shook my head. “No matter. Nothing we can do except keep a wide berth.”

  I finally decided to quit Gainor and scout out crime leads in my old haunts on Tarsus, the second innermost planet. The gigs we were pulling out in the hinterlands were but two-bit shams, raking in a few yols, mere milk money, in retrospect. But they were stepping stones to test out my team, iron out the wrinkles, so to speak, see where TK and Wren’s weaknesses lay and
how we could improve upon them. Wren was always too impulsive, a natural hothead, but brave and for the most part, unquestioning. TK, on the other hand, was a cautious worrier and a slightly lazy sort. But smart, and his input on cons, particularly timing and logistics, had given me an edge. Even that caper down on Zanzadeer had been a cockup, truthfully, a little bit too convoluted for my ragamuffin recruits. Had almost blown up in our faces. Not that I was Captain Gohimbo or anything. TK and Wren were rising in my estimation and I felt I could trust them with some bigger fish to fry. After purchasing some explosives down on Gainor with the gambling money from Zanzadeer, I decided to reach a little higher.

  An old acquaintance of mine in Haifor City gave us our first genuine break. A Gigor Knox aka ‘Blinky’, who worked as the concierge at the Big Apple Hotel was my lead. He was a middle man up to his ears in larceny and schemes, from black market to sex trade. A contract job had come up through the grapevine, orchestrated by a certain gangster, the Dancing Slugger, Pazarol.

  At the hotel and after a few words of catch up, Blinky took me aside. “I can hook you up for a meet down with Pazzy, kind of an open house.” He spread his arms wide, and I saw brown rotten teeth rooted there in his grin.

  “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you say, Blinky. Just looking for a few opportunities here.”

  “That’s the spirit, JR. That’s why I like you.” He patted my back with his ham-like hand.

  Risky, making the contact with Pazarol, knowing the man was on a par with Baer from what I’d heard. A faint watery voice, a very distant one, told me to back off. But not a loud enough voice for me to take heed.

  I did my research and checked out his modus operandi. A jack-of-all trades: arms, clothing, slaves, mercenaries for hire, anything that he could use to turn a profit, which in these days of gang-run, war-torn cities, was mostly contraband.

  The gas cloud in the holo view coalesced and morphed into whatever 3D stimulus the ship’s computer willed of it. The holo image, drawn from the public free-store, showed a series of dingy warehouses in a seedy industrial neighborhood with broken antennae prickling its rusty roof and decaying load lifters scattered in the yard with flat balloon tires. Inside, the secret cam, highlighting bootlegged clips from the free-store darknet, revealed some old sewing equipment. Outside, a wider pan revealed a few aging dumpsters and cargo ships. Junkers. Didn’t think they would fly. A good front.

  “You coming with me?” I muttered at Wren.

  She shrugged. “Why not? We can go down together, but no wig this time.”

  I smiled. “Suit yourself.”

  TK grunted, “I’ll stay put with Billy.”

  “As you wish. Keep an eye on our progress. We’ll be wired for sound and video. If things go sour, that little red button’ll glow. Hit the override sequence, fire up Starrunner and blast that piece of shit warehouse to shreds. Then I’ll know my death was avenged. I’m not planning on Pazarol being that much of a shyster—but one can never be too sure... In the meantime, put that big brain of yours to work devising new and wonderful scams.”

  “I’ll do that,” he agreed with a laugh.

  Keep old TK busy, out of mischief.

  Those holo data dumps, part of the free store, came in handy. Someone had told me that far world data was updated by a simple file-sharing algorithm, courtesy of the ships’ computers that came into proximity of a star system. Every time a ship made the Varwol leap, the local network of a new world would collect any updated info and merge it with its own local database while uploading new data to the ship’s computer. Hence the system stayed current. Ingenious, but not 100% real time. Of course, worlds like Wren’s on Talyon would get nothing of this, having no traffic to speak of nor any network infrastructure.

  I met Pazarol and his gang down in his crib out in Tarsus in the decrepit town of Belgen, liking none of it from the get-go. I hoped to hell TK and Billy came through if there was trouble. Wren seemed indifferent to the meet, as if she were immune to danger. I think the days of violent terror she’d lived through in early years, with sand dervishes and mad boys had made her immune to fear.

  I landed neatly in the service yard and debarked. As the engines wound down, the wide gated shutter of tin fluttered up and eight men of a standard merc detail jumped out and escorted Wren and me inside. A large echoey warehouse was busy with motion, tall upright machines and long low vats, looking like stitching and dyeing equipment to me, and some robot assembly machinery stamping out circuits. Pazarol met me with a meaty hand, a big rubicund man with a gleaming pate and a fuzz of blond hair at the back. He wore a starchly-ironed blue plaid suit, polished black shoes, gaudy necktie, all smelling of cigar smoke. Protruding buck teeth dominated his face, goatee hanging from a snub chin. I had no reason to dislike the man on first meeting, but nonetheless I did.

  He motioned to his assembly plant with what could have been a gesture of pride. “This is my side business,” he said, spreading a sweaty palm at the production line of boys and young women working fingers to bone to manufacture heavy clothing and boots, others fastening bolts and small latches to what looked like equipment scanners of some sort.

  “You mean, ‘front’?”

  “Sure, whatever you want to call it, Rusco. Why argue over details?”

  “No reason.” A half dozen gunmen idled by, toying with their remodeled Uzis, lazy yawns on their thick lips, evincing casual interest, sleeping lions, but I knew better. I could sense they were wire alert, their lazy, easy steps too light, their sleek bodies too toned, their quick fingers too close to the triggers. To Pazarol’s side, two of his men seemed to be paying more attention to the banter, one tall, swarthy, and sleazy looking with short greased hair; the other shorter, stockier, with down-turned brows and slicked back grey mullet and wearing small round glasses.

  “A man needs a legitimate business in this world,” asserted Pazarol, “otherwise he’s got nothing, right? A few scams giving him a bit of bread now and then. His heist money always running low; no investments, nothing to fall back on, and the wolves, the opportunists, the terrorists, the hired government guard, whatever’s left of them, coming out of the woodwork like termites, asking awkward questions.”

  I just smiled.

  “Something tells me you never really got a business going yourself, did you, Rusco?…you should try it.”

  “On the to-do list, Mr. Pazarol, earmarked for a rainy day.”

  “That’s good!” He wheezed, slapped me on the back. A bad smoker’s cough. I’d give him five years, no more.

  I wondered when he’d broach particulars about the job. This was his game, feeling out his new personnel, gauging the reactions, sparring with bullshit, testing reflexes, even though he was doing all the talking.

  “Hire ’em cheap, work ’em hard,” he went on. “Rusco, that’s my credo. Watch and learn. No labor costs here. Look at these patsies. They’re a bunch of dumb, happy freaks. I give ’em room and board—for the price of protection.”

  It was a sweatshop in the worst of ways. I saw frightened eyes, young boys, battered women with bruised cheeks or a blackened eye, the cocky guards walking about with Uzis, cracking jokes, ogling the prettier women.

  “Get out your lumo pen, Rusco!” Pazarol laughed. “I’ll let you take notes for a limited time, no extra charge.”

  I clenched my teeth, a part of me vowing to come back to this dumphole and free every one of those slave laborers. Blow Pazarol’s enterprise to kingdom come. “What’s this they’re making? Looks like army clothes.”

  “Boots and combat fatigues. Guerilla outerwear for all sorts. High demand for merchandise like this in these times. A lot of traditional guerrillas, aka war thugs, are doing assaults on land.”

  “No doubt.” I moved over and hefted a boot on a rack. Brown leather, durable, super light. Fast for runners in the bush, swamps or other onerous terrain.

  “There’s an extra kick in those babies, for sure.” Pazarol shook out his fingers, bragging. “A barb with nerve toxin stu
b on the toe. One kick to exposed flesh and the victim is paralyzed, dies in twenty seconds.”

  “Nice.” I set the boot down, wincing. He picked up a pair of fresh fatigues a nervous woman had sewn a battery pack to and motioned to the hand-sized circuit box wired to the back collar.

  “This khaki blends into whatever environment a combat soldier is in. Brown bush, grey concrete, red sunset, don’t matter. A phosphoro-gluten plant-based resin coats the inside surface. This doohickey on the back, a black box, sends the signal down to the plant membranes or whatever, telling it what form to take. Right down to the color, texture. Big seller. The rage these days. Touch it. It’s realistic.”

  “I’ll pass. Seems impressive though.”

  “Ah, a cautious man.”

  I offered no comment.

  “I’ll throw in a pair for you as a freebie, my token of appreciation and good faith. What size? Oh, you look about a ten.” He grabbed a new suit off the storage rack and plunged it too into my hands.” He eyed me, seeing how I’d react.

  “Who’s this lovely young lad you got here? Hiding behind your skirts like a bashful choir boy.”

  “This here’s Wren—as in the bird.”

  “A mighty fine bird, that. Got her all dressed up like an army brat and what, with a fuck-boy cut? Surprises me, Rusco. Didn’t peg you going for that. I’m liking what I see. Got to get me a fuck-boy.”

  “Very funny,” I said and Wren growled her contempt. In spite of the rudeness of the remark, I let a dog snicker of grin brush my face. Get on Paz’s good side. It’ll give you an edge in this fencing. Let Wren get a little sore, no harm. Dressed in khakis and looking as unlady-like as possible, Wren was well, Wren.