Starship Rogue series Box Set

by Chris Turner

  The planet Gistron Delta hung below, a small maroon disc, gleaming like a rheumy eye.

  Wren studied me, as if trying to guess what went on behind that brow of mine. Good luck with that. Desert tanned, lithe as a country cat, she stood tall, back ramrod-straight, with a pride and toughness that had always been earned rather than role-played. She always gave me something else to admire about her. Younger than me, with good pizazz, knew how to handle herself in tough situations. Wish every one of my crew was like her. No hint of our bedroom antics in the workfield. On the job it was all business. A bonus on these long excursions—voyages to nowhere looking for paradise, or was it salvation?

  She fiddled with the stock of her R4. “I don’t even know why we’re docking here, Rusco.”

  “There’s always an angle to run at the auctions. You’ll see.”

  We approached Gistron station with fake registration: Bantam registered to an asteroid mining speculator, entrepreneur, unmarried, one Jorry Rambo, a favorite pseudonym. I’d had the holo-disc with Rambo’s registry doctored up to look pretty, with a clean bill of health, and a history of fake stops at various ports, times and stamps, courtesy of a man in Hzadn who owed me a favor.

  I paged station control on a general hailing frequency. A young-old face with blue eyes appeared on the viewscreen.

  “What’ll it be?” the face said.

  “Berth for one mid-range craft,” I replied. “Crew, maintenance and cleanup.”

  “Premium berths are going at 400 yols.”

  “What, a week?”

  “No, a day.”

  I gave a croak of disgust. “Highway robbery. You have anything cheaper?”

  “Down the end, there are lower-end berthings, going for 180. For limited time. 12 hour max.”

  I grunted. “Okay, but it’s still very high.”

  I saw his lip move in irritation. He gave me a distracted shrug.

  “Busy today,” I muttered. “It’s like a circus fairground here. What’s up?”

  “Holse and Detran are hosting an auction. Starships galore. Wholesale.”

  “You don’t say?” I looked on in feigned interest, my eyes traveling to the roster of sleek, grey silver hulls neatly arranged on the far side of the ring. “Nice vehicular lines. Those some of the ships up for sale?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I might want to bid on one myself.”

  He regarded us with a dubious grunt, then scratched his cheek. “If you get the proper clearance maybe. But I’ll warn you it’s a minimum 600 to enter a qualifying bid, refundable on purchase of a ship.”

  I whistled a low note. “That’s a mighty steep entry point, chief. Still, if it fetches us a decent ship—”

  “It discourages sharpers.”

  “How far will a man go to get a good starship?”

  He shrugged, clearly not engaged. “You look like you’re doing pretty good with your own craft, Rambo. Why buy another? You not pleased with what you got? What is it, an early Bantam?”

  I nodded. “Big on the horsepower, lean on the energy.”

  “Go down to central to get your badge, though I warn you, if you want to bid, there’ll be some serious players.”

  We berthed on the farther side of the docking ring amidst somewhat dodgier-looking vessels than those on display. The automatic air lock connected to our cargo port; we passed through, strode down the hall and passed customs, though I took a disguise kit with me and another two of those hide-saving explosives that could pass easily as coins. Needless to say, no weapons were allowed beyond the checkpoint. Rectangular artificial-grav units, regularly spaced around the station and emitting their characteristic low hum, kept us walking on our feet at expected Earth g levels.

  A large open-air rotunda buzzed with activity. A milling crowd flushed with pre-auction excitement, jostled for position. As did we, in its main restaurant-bar, enlivened by the noisy rattle and hum of slot machines and video games set up to the sides. Glass ports overlooked the docking station where thirty some odd starships were moored. Wren and the others grabbed seats with me around the curved bar, complete with vid screens showing sports and news. A place to scout the scene, relax. I picked an area to the left and center of the bandstand, ideal for people-watching as it offered an unobstructed view of every movement. Banners and flags pinned on the high wall behind the bandstand and over the glass observatory fluttered in the air-circulator’s draft.

  We nursed our drinks; Noss, poor boy, ordered a cold glass of milk, on account of his ulcerated stomach due to stress. Blest chewed a mouthful of peanuts then shoveled a handful of crackers down his maw too before downing his two shotglasses of rum straight up. I looked at him in amusement, but couldn’t see anything worth salvaging, or softening in that lackluster gaze of his. Eyes two pissholes in the snow. A rosy nose, like a drunk’s. Comical with that mop of dirty blond hair, but a sullen stare like a teenage rebel. I knew he had more brains than what most credited him for. Not my usual recruit, but such are the woes of running a ship on a tight delivery schedule. Wren sat back in silence, her shiny vibrancy and health the epitome of cheer—at least next to Blest.

  My brain gave critical scrutiny to the clientele. A mix of sorts, but somehow the partners, Detran and Holse, had attracted a stable breed of middle-incomers and well-off business-people searching for their next pleasure craft. Maybe one to upgrade their current vessel in need of an overhaul.

  Loud talk, breezy smiles, energetic drinking—all marked a definite pleasure-cruise atmosphere. Men with women on their arms, pointing at this ship or that, the women cooing with delight at the sleek lines and chromium glitter, and the man lifting eyebrows at the luxury while secretly licking his lips at the cost.

  A haven for hustlers too, from the two bit con with the shifty eyes and greasy smile and overused clichés, to the higher end player who will invent his own stories and likely instruct his assistants to bid against the competition, not unlike a ploy I imagined Detran had going for himself in an effort to inflate prices.

  Where was my angle? Something was here. Just had to find it. Had to keep my crew busy too, keep their teeth chewing on something. The last run had nearly put us over the edge. Blest had become more of an annoyance than ever. May have to get rid of him. Though his heroics had surprised me back in the alley.

  A big man with a loud voice came bragging about his luck at the space casino in Vega. A crew of cronies at a nearby table gathered about to listen. He was getting a little tight on the Black Dog, a few too many highballs light on the rocks.

  “Boys,” he said, just shy of slurring his words, “you stick around with me, and you’ll go places. Give you shares in pickings that you won’t find anyplace else.”

  The bald idler beside him, maybe his business partner, grinned ear to ear. “Now, Sal, don’t you go shooting your mouth off.”

  Jolly boys, out for a romping time away from wifey and the kids and the haze of their humdrum lives. Living it up with big talk and big drink. Didn’t doubt they had all the money in the world to buy one of those space yachts parked out there but not the brains to keep it. How hard would it be to lift one of those suckers off old Sal or one of his buddies?

  “I’m going to take a little walk,” I said at last, depressed by it all. “You folks settle in, mingle with the gentry.”

  I drifted over to the end of the rotunda, gazing at the mixed bag of folk and their garish dress, and the antiquated slot machines they played on to idle away the time, half listening in on random conversations with an amused grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big man dip into an exit. He looked important, wouldn’t be surprised if it were Detran or Holse himself. On a whim, I followed him, down a wide stairwell to a service bay where some maintenance crew or what could have been the big boy organizers themselves and their lackeys were preparing a kind of pre-bidding lounge. A lower level, a mini version of upstairs with large picture windows granting a view of the vintage offerings on the docking ring.

  Yep, Detran, a
ll right. I caught the drop of the name ‘Halley D’. At any rate, looked as if the two partners were setting up their wheel and deal spectacle to a few VIP customers in advance. I pushed a colored hair net over my head to make my purple streak more silver, then wiped skin cream on both cheeks to create a look paler than I really was.

  Detran, even from a distance, I didn’t like from the start. Swarthy, long-boned with sandy walrus mustache and big, fleshy lips, a match for his mouth and ego. Something off about him, his ophidian mannerisms, like when a certain song plays on the radio that makes your skin run cold, so did this man’s strident tone offend me.

  I did a subtle hop and skip and bounded in behind some crates of decorations and accessories being offloaded onto their starships. To make them look prettier? Every gimmick counted. I scootched in closer to listen in on what they were saying.

  I heard Detran, who had been smiling all the time and murmuring to his crony with the grey-beard, blow air out of his cheeks. “Not bad for a day’s work, Lew. Unlucky for those SOBs out in deep space who lost their ships.” Detran gave a sour guffaw, one that had a mean and hollow ring to it. I caught some muffled words then of him bragging about how he had grabbed the ships out from under those about to be boarded after one of the Star Lord’s blitzkrieg rampages. The corpses he had jettisoned into space. He turned to his two henchman, covered in grease. “Hurry up, you bums. What’s taking you so long? These showboats aren’t going to sell themselves. Remember, what we don’t sell in the auction, we ship to the wrecking yards, piece by piece.”

  “What about these X2s?” one lackey inquired. “Sure you want to unload them, Hal? If we wait, we could get a better price on consignment at one of the local shops.”

  “Cost us too much.” Detran’s sneer widened. “We unload as much as we can. Plus, I have other reasons.”

  The hired hand seemed to grunt at that, but clearly disliked the decision. “As you like, Hal.”

  There came hurried footsteps. Someone approached, wheezing. “Hal, problem on pier 14. The Lady Lou. Some grifter trying to make off with the audio board.”

  He clicked his tongue. “What the flaming hell—Come! Holse, you too.” He swept off to investigate with his entourage.

  Wren hunched up beside me, apparently having overheard the latter part. I raised my brows, for I hadn’t even heard her.

  “Seems as if that lout Detran hardly deserves the fruits of his haul.”

  “No kidding.” I gave the ships parked outside the glass a once-over then I got a sudden idea. Caution is not usually my greatest virtue, but when an idea sparks, I’m like a kid in a candy store. “Maybe this ticket is our next easy way to cheat penury.”

  “How? You thinking of conning an unsuspecting playboy out of a starship?”

  “Why not?” I smiled. “Kinda like stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.”

  “Well, if it were my pick, Jet—I’d choose that newer, silver Starburst over there.” She pointed to a stream-lined space yacht with smooth, seashell contours and high, curved bow.

  I gave a slow nod. “On first glance it’d be my pick. But I have another in mind…”

  Chapter 6

  We returned to the bar and the subdued company of Blest and Noss. Blest stared, practically comatose. Noss, ever the ordinary man, flicked back his short brown hair, looked out from a bland face with pale blue eyes. The glare of the vid screens flashed lurid news in front of us. Thankfully the volume was lowered to allow some upbeat pop music to take precedence, but I could still read the subtext:

  “The warlord from Hazzerot continues to exert his threat of terror over the free colonies. When will the madman stop? Here’s live footage of the scene at Bajor’s square.”

  The reporter’s voice spoke quickly and somewhat garbled over the muted noise of battle. I saw shells dropping, towers toppling, kids fleeing with family members, the odd blood-streaked pet in tow. I gritted my teeth.

  The camera went blank. There was a solemn pause, a flashing picture then static.

  “That’s all we’ve got, viewers. Our cameraman and news anchor, Jerle Tomas, are presumed dead on Bajor.”

  I reached to turn the set off.

  “Hey,” cried one of the jolly boys from the nearby table. “I was watching that.”

  “Tough break, chief,” I said, changing the channel. “We don’t need any more doom and gloom to cheer our little world. Let’s watch some mindless soaps, or Dustin BeeJee yodeling along to a sing-a-long.”

  “You’d deny the threat of Mong?” the man rasped.

  “Don’t deny anything, chief. Just don’t want to hear that bastard’s name, is all.” That was the truth. I grew ill at hearing the lunatic Mong’s name, remembering well how he and Baer had blown off my hand from the wrist down. The warlord’s captain, Baer, was a hole in the ground—I saw to it myself. The details came back to me in painful waves, how Wren had managed to get me out of that death hangar on Trellian with TK and get to a regen shop. Only by a hair. Then by hairs again, managing to get me this robot, mechanical right hand that was now my albatross and a killing machine.

  The blowhard Sal came shambling up, rolling up his sleeves as if to make something of the news thing. Blest, with no love for bluster or Mong, stood up to face the drunk. “You, Mr. Fancypants, can go suck—”

  Eyes turned in our direction.

  I shouldered Blest aside, inserting myself between him and the flustered Sal. “Language, Blest, language,” I hissed. “A respectful environment here, no need to draw any undue attention to ourselves.”

  “I hear you, Rambo. That lowlife Mong’s ship almost killed us and made ghosts of us all.”

  “Let’s not get into the eschatological points about this.”

  “Do you even know…” He looked at me sideways, lowered his voice, “Do you even know what that means?” He shook his head in disgust. Sal seemed to have shrunk at the sight of something crazy in Blest’s eyes because he ducked back to his table.

  So far my double-speak had kept Blest’s brain busy. I liked it that way. I liked the boy’s spunk, but he was a constant irritant. I cleared my throat. “Wren, what do you think about our prospects here?”

  Her eyes made a casual sweep. “Good to fair.”

  “Yeah, why do you say that?”

  “That mark over there, for example, he’s carrying a wad of cash and low on luck. Get a few more in him, he’ll be only too willing to lick salt from your palm.”

  I nodded. “Not bad. But what about baldy over there? He’s looking mighty ripe.”

  “Yeah, but risky with the dead stare and the constant swiping of nose with a twitching hand. Might try something desperate. Don’t like the turn of cheek either or the way he lifts his upper lip in a leer at the young woman behind. It’s as if he’s a lecher feeling plucky away from his wife.”

  Blest glared. “What the fuck are you two talking about?”

  “Relax, Blest,” I said. “Just a little game Wren and I play, not to worry. We talk shop when we’re bored. How about we order some food and talk about cheerier things?”

  “Yeah, with what money, Mr. Rambo?” quipped Blest. “The Sir Jorry compassion fund?”

  “It’s on me, kid.”

  Noss licked his lips and grinned. “Sure, steaks are fine, medium rare, please, with fries on the side.”

  Wren signaled the barman. Blest and she ordered barbecued varamein, apparently a big game delicacy on Gistron. Blest requested another rum.

  “Rambo, you’re not ordering,” Wren said, cocking her head. She flashed me one of those wry looks with the dark lashes.

  Lips parted, I let out a near silent belch. “Later, not feeling so good, Wrensy.” I stood up to make for the restroom down the hall.

  I felt one of those gut aches coming on. As quickly as possible, I hustled without looking like a complete clown. Sitting down on the can, I tried to void. Nothing. Only cramps. Too much stress. A frequent happening, ever since Mong and his cretins had blown off my hand. I settle
d down and felt the wires and machinery loosen inside then a sharp pain rip through my guts followed by a loud plunk in the water. I closed my eyes, let them glaze up in agony.

  The door cricked open. Footsteps. A familiar voice. Detran?

  “Sh—” A stern cough. “Don’t be talking too loud.”

  Something caused me to lift myself off the seat, feet straddling the rim, even while half way through a dump. I felt a familiar tingle of the hustle in my bones and I held my breath. The new arrivals couldn’t see my legs under the stall.

  “Quiet down,” I heard the other say then a shuffling of feet. “Nobody here, Lew, you know the deal.” It was Detran’s voice that hissed.

  I smiled. Careless of those two to assume the stalls were empty without checking them. I’d seen it happen before.

  “What about our little problem?” said Lew.

  “What problem?” A pause. “Ain’t no problem that I know of.”

  “Come on, you’ve skimped big this time round, Hal, now we’ve got eyes on us. When those fools find out you’ve rigged the ships to look good and they haven’t got anything worth having, someone’s going to blow. We’ll get reported.”

  Detran laughed, an outright guffaw. “Report us to who? They’ll never know. Little dumb tweety birds pecking around the dunghill for a bit of feed. These pigeons’ll have no clue who they’re running with, Lew, or what they’re running—Myscol XR, Magoo’s magical formula, toting it around the universe for us. Haha. It’s in demand in practically every port. Tourists, laypeople, the odd wealthy middleman, take your pick.”

  I gave an unpleasant grin. So, scammer Detran was drug-running on the side. While ripping off the ignorant spacefarer, the man got his kicks and mega yols running Myscol to all ports of the galaxy. Nice scene.

  Something didn’t add up. I frowned, listened with perked ears, hoping my groaning guts would stay quiet.