by Chris Turner
“They’ll take what I give them, Lew. Traders’ rations, Squatters’ rights, Governors’ Law.” Detran laughed. “Once an item’s sold, it’s sold. No law around here’s gonna hold out to some fine print. We’ll be long gone, rounding up more ships and more suckers to sell them too. Universe’s full of suckers, Lew. Junkers, derelicts, impounded craft, especially with that warmonger Mongo or Bongo, whatever the hell his name is, on the loose.”
“So, you didn’t hear then? Maybe you aren’t worried, Hal, but there’s an RSA agent out there, posing as some bidder. Already checked out The Alastar. Targa spotted him. Remembered him from a job back on Jajaran.”
Detran swore. “That fouls things up. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me right off?”
“Thought Targa informed you.”
“He didn’t. You say this RSA person scouted Alastar already?”
“Targa says dogs were on board sniffing around shortly after the RSA left.”
“Jesus, Lew! Lucky we didn’t have any stash there. Somebody must have tipped somebody off.”
“Still so sure of your little plan?”
“The only one of those ships worth anything is Alastar. It’ll go for plenty. Vintage. Transfer the contraband off the other rigs to Alastar. Mistress Luella, Flyboy, the rest of them. Mr. RSA won’t suspect at all. We’ll stall out Alastar’s sale, put her off the list if we have to, so the scam doesn’t get out from under us.”
“Security’s locked down all the ships’ ports—auction protocol.”
Detran hissed. “So, go in the back door. Get it fixed.”
“Hard to muck around when there’s nosy patrols crawling around the station. They’ve got ear coms, networks galore, cameras.”
“I don’t care, just get it done.” A pause. “Wait, Lew.” I heard some beeps as somebody fumbled for something in his breast pocket. Maybe a mini-com or tablet as Detran pulled up some data. “Here’s the code. 661XA. Override the main nav and unlock the control board on Alastar, loosen any hatches you need to stash stuff away. The code’ll give you the nav.”
Another patron came into the washroom. There were sounds of running water and the two conspirators coughed, shuffled their feet, cleared their throats and left without a further word.
I pieced it all together. So, Detran’d sell the ships to tourists and magnates as pleasure craft, hopping the worlds on vacation while his lackeys stashed the drugs on board. The tourists who’d get past borders and checkpoints, would be prime cash cows, being low suspects on the list for contraband. He’d get his boys somehow on the other end to sneak the stuff off their ships and sell it on the streets.
I waited some minutes before I finished my business. Been holding the rest in too long now. I strode out of the loo, pondering Detran’s greasy scheme for more than a few minutes, half my brain taking in the auction ships on the nearby ring and the busy flush of activity at the lounge. It’d be hit and miss as some of Detran’s unwitting stooges would not pay out. But when others did, the profits would make up for the losses. I rubbed my chin, pretending to take personal interest in a vintage cruiser with wide tail fins and beaklike prow, The Starbird. To ensure he got the right dupes at auction time, I guessed he’d probably bid them out with plants giving fake bids, if they weren’t the types he was looking for. A slick scheme. I wouldn’t have thought the oaf had the brains to put this together, but then again, it must have been his slimy partner behind it all, Lew, or whatever the fuck he called him.
If I could get The Alastar out from under them, I’d get two for one—a ship and a viable product. Sell the Myscol myself on the black market. Maybe even find the need to use some myself.
Chapter 7
I approached our part of the bar where Noss was trying to enliven Blest with a joke and failing.
“New plans,” I whispered, “we’re going after that old bird there, the one with tinsel color and queenly look.”
Blest was all ears. “Oh, yeah, how? You suddenly got a quarter of million yols?”
Noss laughed.
“Better. What I want you to do is get cleaned up—in disguise to bid against any others and stall out the process. I need you and Noss on the floor.”
“What are you planning to do?” Blest asked, squinting from Wren to me in suspicion.
“Give a little surprise to Mr. Halley Detran and his accomplice then jack his ride.”
Noss’s lips curled in amusement. Blest just shook his head.
“One missing piece.” I frowned, snatching a glance down at the beady-eyed attendant by the cargo hatch to Alastar. “I don’t want to be on the register, even with credentials as fake as Jorry Rambo. Ties me to the ship. Puts me on a list of suspects to crosscheck. So, that means going in incognito.”
Blest scoffed. “You’ll never do it.”
“Never say never. What I need is that turnkey ring on Detran’s belt. I’ve watched him, he punches little buttons and enters numbers into it. It’s a kind of security register, I think, helps him keep tabs on his merchandise. If I have it, more credence when I try to con my way aboard Alastar. Prevents me having to strongarm any of his lackeys if things go sour.”
“How are you going to get it?” said Blest. “He just going to give it to you?”
“What are you, Mr. Pessimist?” I jeered.
Wren winked. “Leave that to me.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Wren lifted herself off her barstool with a suggestive movement of female magic. “I used to handle braggarts like Detran on Talyon,” she explained. “Had lots of experience fending off mouth breathing cretins when I was younger. I know his type, plus I’m a better dissembler than you think.”
“If you want to try, give it a shot.” I shrugged. “I’d try my hand at some dissembling, but I don’t want Hally Detran to have any reason to get a whiff of my ugly hide.”
Wren grinned. “Wait here.” I idled at a nearby table while she planned her approach.
One of the RSA people came bustling by Detran who was watchdogging The Lady Lou, and I saw him go red in the face. “You people couldn’t have picked a worst damn time to come nosing around my ships,” he rasped.
“Sorry, sir. Just a routine check.”
“Routine check, my ass. It’s called personal harassment.”
“Step aside, sir.”
Wren moved forward. At the last instant, she contrived to trip on the half steps leading up to the glass observatory and accidentally spilled her drink on Detran. She clasped him in a firm hug, making sure to give him a generous dose of her breasts. Meanwhile her hands worked like spiders around his back to get the key ring off him and slip it under her own belt.
“My mistake, omigod! My bad, sir, sorry, sorry!”
“You stupid cow!” he yelled. “What kind of a klutz are you?” When he got a better look at her, he licked his lips and stammered, “I mean—”
“No, it was my fault, sir, really. Here, let me wipe that gunk off your coat! Sorry. I really am. I feel terrible!” She lifted her head with grief-stricken eyes and peered up into his flustered face. Snatching a kerchief from her pocket, she scrubbed at his chest, all the while flashing doe-eyes at him and holding his wrist and touching his shoulder.
“Well, I guess it was an honest mistake,” he grumbled at last.
“That’s mighty kind of you, sir.”
He frowned with a half nod. “These half steps are something of a liability anyways. Don’t know why the idiot management positioned them here where decent folk can trip over them!” He paused, scrutinizing her with more interest. “Maybe you can make it up to me, doll. Stick around after the auction and we can both have a little nightcap, indulge in a drink or two at the bar, revel in how much money I made.”
She winked at Detran. “That would suit me fine, mister. I love to hear how much money a handsome man like you can spend on a lonely girl like me.”
That got him grinning. “It’s a date then.”
Wren disappeared into the crowd, did a round around the
rotunda and hurried back to Bantam as I had instructed her. I followed a few minutes later and slouched at the Bantam’s bridge’s conference table.
“Clod,” she muttered under her breath.
“No better kinds. Let’s hope he doesn’t get wise too soon. The others didn’t come yet?”
She shook her head.
I rubbed my chin in speculation. “Gotta keep him and Blest out of trouble.”
Noss and Blest arrived a quarter of an hour later, carrying a bag each of duty free water pipes and Black Dog whiskey.
I rooted around Bantam’s utility bin and pulled out a strange hand-sized contraption with a magnetic stamp, feeder cable and small suction plugs. I called it the spider. “We just need the drive codes and this little baby can override the main nav system. Wonderful device. Works on the older models. Tricky part will be to con the guards.”
“And how on Neptune are you going to get that eyesore through security?” complained Blest.
“Easy, an external pacemaker. Monitors blood. See.” I hooked it up to my arm by a cable and a little red light beeped at a regular interval.
Blest shook his head and threw up his hands. “Rusco, one of these days your grand schemes are going to blow up in your face.”
“Until then, let’s celebrate.” I poured drinks for them all.
* * *
I put on my best disguise, a blue uniform, black tie, greyed my hair, wrapped it up in a bun and hid it under a white maintenance inspector’s cap. “How do I look?” I posed, did a ballerina’s twirl.
“Hokey.” Wren pursed her lips.
“Good. All the better. Won’t take much to fool those sleepy sallys on watch. Like the one by The Alastar. He’s practically sprawled out on the floor from boredom.”
“Which might mean he’ll take an active interest in you when he sees how dopey you look.”
I laughed. “Nah. I fit right in with this crowd.”
“You think?”
Blest drew me aside. “Why not get Noss or me to sneak aboard and fly that ship?”
“You’re not up for that kind of theft, Blest. Plus, if security checks the roster, they’ll see one of us missing and it’ll give them cause for suspicion. Don’t want any paper trails.”
I pulled away from him and made my way back to the restaurant, passing easily through security. The attendant at the open cargo bay to Alastar just stared at me. Sure enough, he held out a hand blocking me with his R3. “Hold it.”
“Inspection, sir,” I said. “I’m with Gistron security, contracted by Secure-A1, LLU #4155, and we have to check the drive codes, for the usual stolen goods. Halley Detran gave me this chit.” I held up the red tablet, the master passkey. “You can check it out with him if you want.”
The monitor shrugged, grumbled and waved a hand. “Go on. Don’t bother any potential buyers though in The Alastar. Tough enough as it is to sell a starship these days. Scares them away. People might think there’s something wrong with our ships.”
“Not to worry. I’ll be discreet.”
And discreet I’d be. I put on the deadpan look of a security inspector. “If everything checks, I’ll be out in no time.”
He turned away.
I entered The Alastar’s cargo hatch and made my way into the inner service bay. A series of halls branched out to various areas of the ship. I took the main one toward Alastar’s bridge. The ship was roomy enough and built with class. High-ceiling, pleasant grey and black panels. Not a lot of glitter on the bridge like a lot of the newer space yachts. Simple design. Simpler was better, in my opinion.
Did I have a backup plan if the monitor decided to call Detran? No. Bit of a risktaker there, Rusco. My crooked grin grew crookeder. Seems I didn’t even need Myscol to work up the nerve for these scams anymore. The evolution of small time operator, Jet Rusco.
I made my way to the nav com, bent under the console that housed the main nav controls, with spider in hand. A couple of wires plugged into the right places and I’d be done. I shone a light under the cowling and saw the serial number lit in red underneath. Perfect. I punched the codes into the spider and let the magnetic strip latch itself to the cowling out of sight. I’d already entered 661XA, the secret passcode Detran had whispered back in the loo. The thing was smart enough to assume wireless control once it had the codes. A couple appeared, browsing the bridge, voicing their admiration for its roominess, its sleek lines and teal and enamel decor. I had to agree.
The guard had followed me in and was scrutinizing me with more than lively suspicion. “Find what you’re looking for?”
I put on a frown. I pulled out a tablet from my breast pocket and punched in some codes into a fictitious fact checker, then nodded and raised my hand. “Checks out, mister. This here’s an older model, manufactured at Orizon Enterprises on Falcion. Has had eleven maintenance checks, three owners over its lifetime. All legitimate sales of transactions. Looks like we’re good to go.” I gave him a clever smile and took a deep breath. Good thing I had Wren back on board radio me background info once I gave her the drive codes. I saluted and left.
With a grunt of relief, I made directly for the loo to chuck out this ridiculous disguise and wash the grease off my face. I unfurled my lovely hair, whisked it back with my fingers, sprayed it with more purple dye. There, back to Jorry Rambo again. Much better.
I came out a new man, but not too quickly. I headed back to Bantam for the final prep.
“All smooth,” I said to Wren. Noss and Blest lounged nearby. “Now we work fast. In the next half hour the auction starts. When the buyers go in to bid, our Vega-6 star queen Alastar will suddenly come to life, start to lift of its own accord.”
“Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here first?” asked Blest. “Why stick around?”
“That’s the safest thing to do, Blest, but it looks suspicious. Some too-obvious cons taking off before a heist. We’ll wait a while here then we’ll take our silent leave. I mean, what dope would be stupid enough to stick around as a suspect when he could have flown off in advance? Security’ll go after all the ships that left before the heist.”
“You’re a sly bastard, Rusco,” Wren murmured.
“Yeah, well we’ll see how sly I am if they catch us. If they find the spider beforehand, we’re in trouble. Let’s hope that doesn’t come to pass. That attendant’ll squawk bloody murder and they’ll backtrace it to me, or at least, Jorry Rambo.”
I set to programming the wireless controller for the spider, setting The Alastar’s course for Deneb, light years away. Next thing I did was reset the passcode to a new one, Mr_Rambunctious, in case Detran decided to get cute and alter the course, if he had remote access.
Blest didn’t like his part in playing bidding stooge, but then again, he was always tending to be a little bitch. Noss was good to go and convinced skeptic Blest to go down to the floor with him and hodge the bids. “Let’s get some more duty free liquor. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”
“Like the last time?” Blest quipped.
Chapter 8
The bidding had begun. A crowd of three hundred or more must have been herded into that hot, sweaty rotunda, milling about, most standing holding drinks, clutching bid cards, a few sitting at tables at the bar, murmuring the talk of big gamblers and bidders. Noss and Blest joined me near the back as the bidding started. Wren had stayed back on Bantam. She’d played her part and I didn’t want her face anywhere near the action. I added Noss to the bid roster and paid the 600 squeeze fee—a worthwhile sacrifice, considering the possible payback—nudging him when I wanted him to raise his card. Blest was just there for dressing. Truthfully, I wanted to keep my eye on him. No better way to do that than to have him right at arm’s length.
We pushed our way forward to about mid-central, looking through the glass at the line of merchandise. Detran had his arm around Lew’s shoulder at the front on the dais, beaming like a new groom. Bids had started on some of the lower end junkers, and low indeed they were. 80k, 82k…A few people
had raised their hands with tentative bids.
The auctioneer stood on the podium next to the CEOs, yammering auction talk through a black mic at a mile a minute,
“Anybody for a Mars Mink! Mars Mink going for 83, 83, yes, 83! Reserved to the gentleman in the pink tie, yes, 85 anyone? 85 anyone? Going for 85, who will bid 85? Yes, yes, you there with the busk hat and the bright smile. New, fun, relaxing, hip, gotta love a Mars Mink, she’s ready to fly to your doorstep!…”
I grinned and studied the crowd. Flushed faces, speculative murmurs, backslapping, claps, mingled laughter with drunken murmurs. A bunch of kids excited at the prospect of gaining some new toys.
When the bidding skipped to the last of the eight junkers, a surprised murmur rang through the throng. “What of the other ships?” someone cried. I gave a sly grin. Probably Detran canned them because now that his drug scheme had fouled, he gained nothing by selling his ships. But the show must go on. I was curious to see how big wheeler Detran played it.
He approached the mic all apologetic and held up his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to say the majority of ships are not for sale. Only two of the former line will be up for grabs today. Sorry, a technicality.”
“What’s this nonsense?” There came another fierce hum of disappointment and loud grumbles from the crowd.
Detran waved a conciliatory hand. “As a consolation, the vintage cruiser Lady Lou will be featured today, as our primary giveaway. Not a bad catch.”
“Cheater, Detran. Shamster!” cried a red-faced bidder. “What kind of a cheap stunt you pulling here?”
“Now hold on,” cried Detran. “I’ve never been called a shamster in all my twenty years of doing business.”
“Well, there’s always a first time.”
I chuckled. Good little gambit, Detran. Too bad it’s failing.
Detran roared, “Some security people have found a need to check certain of my papers—If you want to blame anyone, blame them. It’s out of my control.” He pulled at his cherry red nose and snuffled. Flourishing a fake document in a gesture of frustration and wearing that Jim-Bob-dandy flushed face and Aw shucks look, he boomed, “Be assured sales will resume on all other craft at 0400 sharp tomorrow!”