by Chris Turner
Blasts raked the hallway, blue and green beams, pinning us down in the docking area. Not good.
“Wren, you fake them out, and I’ll try to blow Gris’s boys to kingdom come,” I whispered. She nodded. I looked to Dolgra. “Now!” I lobbed a hunk of broken pipe fallen from the ceiling at the closest of the men down the hall.
Blue fire came spitting to blast the metal to a pulp. Wren pushed off in a crouching run. She rolled for cover behind a white-paneled wall, aiming a stream of fire at the wall for added subterfuge. Good girl. I chose to pepper the place where the other man lurked, my gunfire eating away at the wall. Showers of sparks and metallic rubble covered the wretch. He cried out in pain, a shot catching him high up on the shoulder. The smoke and dust masked my rush for an instant, so I ran through, bold as brass. Dolgra, swift as an ocelot, ran close on my heels. It was now or never. I caught a glimpse of a dark form lurking in the smoke and sprayed it with fire, hoping I could snag even the slightest of body hits. Return fire spat back at me, but I rolled on my belly, moving like a fish out of water. I heard a painful cry and hiss of anger as my assailant fell over. My lips curled in a triumphant grin.
I caught a glimpse of Gris. No mistaking that salt and pepper grey, the ends of the hair trailing at the back. It was a fine mullet for a man of his age, but he had on a gas mask and that alerted me.
The man was good, a cold-blooded killer. Deadly. I saw Dolgra’s man, Yeir, lying face down in a smoking heap, blood pooling around his inert form.
A clink of metal sounded in front of me. My head shot around, eyes blinking as a silver cylinder, six inches in length rolled a few feet away. Smoking gray coils rose from its core. My eyes started to burn.
“Tear gas. Get back!” My throat contracted in a wheezing rasp. This was something I hadn’t expected.
Dolgra, Wren and I staggered back into the pod. A rain of blue fire came ripping into the shuttle, decimating our only defenses.
Lolling on the rubble-strewn floor, I clawed for the utility panel in the forward bulkhead. Through the clouds of dust, I motioned Wren to grab the masks inside. I sprayed the entrance with fire so that some bright light didn’t march in and waste us right there. She and I snatched masks from the bulkhead. Wren tossed extras to Dolgra and others. I lay low, urging Dolgra’s two henchmen to curb their wretched, muffled yells.
I knew they’d be advancing through dusty clouds in the murk, protected by masks and breathing tubes. They’d keep low, their weapons aimed to kill anything that moved. Gris, the crafty bastard, knew his assault techniques. Perhaps I’d underestimated his cunning.
More was yet to play out. Gris was about to move in and waste us, but I held Dolgra back, made a small hand signal indicating I would draw them out and he would storm in and kill them. He gave a grim nod and patted me on the shoulder, wishing me luck.
I grabbed a piece of ruined pipe at my feet, knowing I had perhaps seconds to live. The blood pounded in my ears. In a rolling twist, I tossed it out as I frog-hopped along the edge of the shuttle’s wall, blasting the grey cloud before me. I heard a cry of anguish, the pad of desperate feet behind me. Dolgra and Wren scrambled forward, taking advantage of the confusion.
My last barrage of blasts must have charred Gris’s right side and he stumbled out, like some wounded animal, cursing in the open air, dropping to his knees.
I seized the man’s shoulders and jerked him around, gun trained.
Gris croaked, “You fucking popsicle-brain, Rusco. When Paz hears—he’ll kill—”
Dolgra jumped in and peppered the man full of holes. “That’s for Yeir.” The man’s last act of contempt. Grisheimer sank in a heap of charred, limp bones.
Silence. Even the alarm had blown itself out.
The ship was ours.
We stripped the bodies of their communicators and weapons. I helped Dolgra drag Gris and the others to the jettison hatch, disposing of the bodies in a brief whoosh of vacuum. Though I had no personal quarrel with any of these thugs, I felt no remorse in seeing any of them go. Too many lowlifes in this universe. The rational part of my brain said it was a cleansing.
Dolgra suffered a broken finger, Wren a scraped elbow, me, my usual battery of cuts and bruises while rolling and shielding my head from falling debris. All in all we were lucky to have survived, but not so lucky, Yeir and Dolgra’s other man, Benzit.
Wren looked around with contempt. “Raez or Gris’s going dark will signify something went wrong and one or both of them are dead. We’re screwed.”
I made a low sound. “If we can hide the ship or TK can reprogram the tracking beams, we can be in the clear.”
“Where’ll we do that?”
“We backtrack, hide the load on Phoros, that large asteroid on the fringe of the belt. No one will look for it there. Once the dust settles, we’ll take Urgon elsewhere to sell the product, maybe one of the outer planets. Shouldn’t be hard, if this stuff is hot.”
“It’ll take weeks to get there.”
“So? At least we get paid and blow Pazarol off.”
Dolgra shrugged. “We ensure that our payload is intact first.”
“Agreed.” We marched down the companionway to the lower levels, Wren tagging my heels. It was a goldmine of goods: five heaping lodecarts full of crystal and a thousand cylindrical rods, fareon beam enhancers, stacked in upright racks a few inches apart. Even if we didn’t fence those tons of Beryllium crystal, the fareon beams were worth millions, and I’d be a fool if I was going to pawn it off on Paz’s warlord on Jasmel—
“I’m staying to guard our investment,” Dolgra grunted. “I’ll radio my ship to have them drop me off a couple of men. Send along this TK fellow of yours to do the tracking alterations.”
“Stand by.”
I flew Wren back on the Messenger to fetch TK so he could pilot Urgon to Phoros and work his magic on reprogramming the flight plan and the tracking chips.
The Urgon was one of those old freighters that needed to refuel so we charted out Elphi Alpha II, the next planet away. I worked with TK all day to get the Urgon’s flight path reprogrammed and disable the home beacons. Then TK and I flew back on Messenger to Starrunner, with a promise to rendezvous with Dolgra and his men on Phoros within a week. I’d quietly informed Dolgra not to get too adventurous, that I’d taken precautions against doublecrossing, and he could expect a big kaboom if he failed to show for the next meet with Urgon. I was a paranoid man. As with Raez who had ill-timed his getaway, he had not counted on my extreme paranoia. It had spelled his doom…
Chapter 16
We landed on the outskirts of the capital city Desia on Elphi Alpha II. I needed to get away from my crew. The twists and turns had rattled my nerves, not to mention the bloodshed. TK was gloomy as death with the absence of Billy, absorbed in his own private melancholy. Wren had gotten weird, distant, sullen, but mostly whiny as if pleased with nothing and becoming something of a live-in wife with her high demands between the sheets, cramping my bachelor’s style as if we were in some committed relationship after only a few screws. Which kind of astounded me, considering we were hardly soul mates, just a couple of waifs trucking along the harsh road of life, blasting people to death and stealing. My old adage rebounded back on me: Don’t mix coital experiences with the hired help.
So, I cooked up some lie to run to port on Desia to get supplies for our next heist. I’d lay over for a day or so, with some cock-and-bull story about needing to scout out the terrain, research what other side scams we could rustle up while on layover. Which wasn’t far from the truth.
“I want to tag along too,” insisted Wren. “Like you, I need to get off this crate.”
“Not today. Find your own entertainment, Wren. Remember we leave at oh-twelve hundred tomorrow.”
“Fine, sure.” She packed up some gear and left, taking the local air tube into town. TK opted to stay behind. Predictable. Good luck finding that phaso, pops.
I disabled the main drive by pulling out a special circuit, the orbigon,
or something like that, something even TK couldn’t easily figure out. I didn’t trust the old man who’d been giving me evil looks ever since Billy had vanished. Either way, I didn’t have time to ponder his next move.
There were things to do. Water tanks, new purifier, frozen meal packs: microwaveable, several yummy flavors, including synthetic chicken, fish, stripped steak, liver, no salt. Loaded with nutrients, also synthetic. Of course, scurvy was a bit of a concern out in deep space. Like the old mariners of the ancient Earth, back when humans had first explored the new worlds and faced down the formidable sea beasts, they had suffered. Loved those old classics yarns, Moby Dick and Gulliver’s Travels.
We spiked our drinks with Vit C liquid drops and threw in supplements whenever we could get them: kiwi fruit, apples, genetically engineered and modified. I kind of wondered at the long term effects. Humans hadn’t died off as of yet, it seemed. Other things to worry about. Like when the next blood-toothed warlord was going to plug a bomb on our ass.
Okay, Rusco, off topic.
Lack of sunlight was a problem too. To solve that, I had a lamp room installed early on in Starrunner to sunbathe in and soak up rays. Throw on the oil, lay back with the old eye patch, the dark glasses. Hence, my bronzed look. A worthwhile investment. Also a hot tub installed, but rarely used, water being a scarce resource on such a small starship as Starrunner. If I really wanted to impress though, the tub came in handy…
I treated myself to an evening at the hotel Medusa in downtown Desia. Looking forward to something other than protein powder and microwaved patty dinners with TK and Wren’s doom and gloom scenarios about the state of the galaxy and their communal trials on Talyon, that garbage pit of a world they’d holed up on for so long. Looking forward to bright lights and space to move around in. Some upbeat human contact.
In the glass lounge I kicked back at the bar and sipped my dry gin. Quite a selection of highbrows here, some fine fillies too. In laced tops and tight skirts, black and white, modular hair styles. The men wore executive type suits. Clean cut, ran the syndicates, the food production and transpo systems of the new age—at least before the gangsters got to them, bombarded them with naphtha. Then there was the run of regular shysters and crime jojos, but fancy ones with classy, gold cufflinks and tailor-made suits. It was a high end place with multiple security webs and high-voltage fencing staked about, electro-grids and a hundred yols cover entrance. We’d made some dough on our prior cons, so I could afford it. The latest in techno music played, live bands with tables and dance. I set my creaking back down in a soft sofa and loosed a whistling breath, trying to release the cobwebs from my head and ease my joints.
But still the old brain buzzed. Many cons and scams worked their course. Outside of the fat wallets to pickpocket, not a lot to move on. I could scavenge the games table in the next room, but there were limits to what I could do solo. My hound ears picked up snatches of conversation, of this merger and that merger, the need for under-the-table investment—gangster money. Wouldn’t be too hard to work up some con here, build some contacts with thin bread down the line. Make some friends, rub shoulders with the moneyed players and leverage them with a kick in the ass later.
Give it a rest, Rusco. Is this your day off or what? I grabbed another drink, a tall tuber at the bar.
I chatted up the young brunette sitting two stools down, who intrigued me—Raquel—with long legs and enigmatic smile that was a compelling lure, classic lines to the face, even though the face was a little too lean for my tastes. Seems she was game, while being coy at the same time. They were always like that. I gave the hint of money, dropped some yols on a fancy dinner and some local champagne, which springboarded the rental of the cheapest room in the hotel. Sir, what is your budget? 100 yols? Hmnn, our feature suites are 500 yol rooms, but that’s clearly unaffordable. But we have them as cheap as 80. I blinked. The 80 yol room, please, for a night. Another 80 yols. Yeah, it was adding up, but I was worth it.
She moved to the rhythm and thrusts of the moment that had a way of turning me on in a unique way. I roused her higher by not giving into her climax. Was the sex good? Better than average, I’d say. I had a lighter spring to my step, a bit of kick in my bones, a spice in my blood, eyes a little dreamier by the end of it, and my voice a little lower. Our slow gallop to the finish line had moved in synch with the sounds of the alley below from the open window, and the sleazier hotels that ranged appallingly close: a blend of low level techno pop, the sound of breaking glass, wide gas holo screens playing loud movies, a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s laughter.
My brain spun. Spent and lathered, I lay back in the damp blankets, blinking, contemplating life at this moment. For all its glamor, it was one of those low moments, Raquel’s sighing breath, the warm air playing across my bare chest, her slender white fingers on my scarred arm, knowing she would soon age and be forgotten, my own sad ass chased across the galaxy by crime scum, whipped at the heels by fatal impulse, still hoping to be some hero at the end of the day. What a pathetic dream. At least I’d rid the universe of one Raez, and if I had my choice, I’d include Pazarol, Baer and Mong on that list. My implausible excuses for rationalizing my own criminality were like an overused mantra. When I was young, I wanted to be a rocket engineer, build ships, the best that could fly. Then came the gangs and the beat downs and the drugs and rock and roll, and my parents wiped out in a single strike by a warlord’s cannon in our humble neighborhood on Jaunus 8. Me scavenging the streets with no family, no friends, driven like all the other poor refugees to some tarped-up camp, starving, hollow-eyed, wondering where to go from here. What a pipe dream. Where did the dream of young Jet Rusco go? The dream about his little rocket engines and do-gooding. Blown away in some ugly tale where the ogre swallows all and stamps out all thoughts of philanthropy.
I dreamed somebody was rapping at the door.
Figuring it was some room service personnel, I staggered half nude to the door. I opened the door, my jaw dropping. Wren? She caught a glimpse of a tangle of naked arms and legs in the white, disheveled sheets, and slapped my face. Cursed like there was no tomorrow.
I awoke to damp sheets.
Just a guilt-ridden dream. I was gone and back on Starrunner before dawn’s light with my packs full of supplies on a world with less daylight than what I was used to. Raquel, I’d left a note for and was managing to forget her, as she, no doubt, me.
Wren was all coos and giggles on the bridge, digging through the yummies I’d brought: the protein packs, the flavored meats. Granted, I would too, living off lizards and grasshoppers for so many years.
I watched the mainscreen holo-vid. This maniac Mong again, conducting a cult ceremony. Seems he was all the rage with his planetary takeovers and promises of liberation. He had a murderous dark hero look, emancipating worlds of their oppressive gang control and abject slummery. Some ambitious journalist had done a human interest story on him. Was this mongrel everywhere at once? Gave me the creeps. A big hulking ape of a man with a fatherly face. A flat-topped, amber hat padded his oversized crown. The brute had some power, sure, to have all those people under his thumb. Look at them—tragic sheep, chanting his name, bowing and praising the works of Mong. He stood tall before the colonnaded temple giving a lecture to thousands, maybe tens of thousands, surrounded by a ring of devotees dressed in blue and gold robes with half shaved heads but for a crop of chicken hair sticking up on top. With a slew of thousands more out in the field, holding their hands up in mindless abandon and chanting some Ciros thing—long live Ciros, long live Ciros, the fortress of Mong! Fortress of Mong!
TK snapped me out of my reverie. “Ciros is the name of the temple,” he explained.
“How would you know?”
“Because they just said.”
“Thanks.” I turned the set off and told them we had work to do. Starting with an idea I had for our next heist.
“TK, scour the free data store for buyers of cutting edge, high end arms. First we need to unlo
ad our cargo. Outfits, organizations, anyone who’ll pay premium for Class A hardware. Go as high as you can and dark as you dare, on the Free Store. There’re enough low-ballers out there as it is. Don’t make contact with anybody,” I warned him, “just compile a list. Anywhere but Jasmel. I’ll go through your list later and pick the ones I think are good matches.”
“Sure enough, sounds easy.”
I turned to Wren. “I scoped out some impound shops down Elphi Alpha. A goldmine of hardware there for the picking: ships, shuttles, probes, drones, the works. All arriving illegally, carrying contraband, gangsters caught by local police, mercs, shakedowns, that kind of thing. One branch is city-owned, just a regional office, so it’s light on security.”
“What’s your angle?” she asked.
“We go in, collecting a worthwhile hulk for transfer to a chop shop, bag the ship for our own and sell it cheap for quick yols.”
“Sounds promising.” Although her voice was doubtful. “What’s the risk?”
“Minimal, if we play it right. Good news is, I’ll be doing the initial scout, the run ahead and the main con. You help with the packaging and back me up if necessary.”
“Whatever you say, Cap’n.”
“Atta girl.” That’s what I liked about Wren, no fuss, no trouble during business. If only all women could be so cooperative.
We’d go in with papers, pretending to be all official and scam us some hefty hardware for half-decent resale. Outfits like city impound send the ships there anyway, at least the seized vessels the bosses didn’t commandeer for their own uses. Better we get the money than some other shyster.
The con operated on the loophole that these shops all kept paper copies of their records. Known fact: Breaking into a secure digital system would be much harder and not worth the risk.
The next day I staked out the joint, The RAI: Regional Airspace Impound. I was at the office depot a few days before the heist. Low security there, easy to slip past the sensors. I’d worked on these types of shops before.