by J. F. Holmes
“Okay, we’re all set. We can run up to jump as soon as we have a destination,” Rosia said as she walked around nude in the commons.
Tito was sitting on a booth’s table, feeling somewhat better after his fight with the goon slut. The suit had taken most of the damage, but the slice through his side, along with the vacuum damage, tended to be the real bitch. Eighteen inches of gash and vacuum-frozen flesh sealed by nanogel and a ton of pain killers spared him most of the pain. He smiled and gave a thumbs-up to the naked captain making her way around the room. Sherry and the other woman were sedated and secured in the sickbay. Saully was nursing a large alcoholic drink and simply grunted. Jack was eating a ration pack, since the kitchen equipment had taken a beating from Pratt’s dart pistol. He nodded yes as he gulped down another mouthful of nutrient-rich fodder.
“So, we made a decision yet?” Rosia asked as she stood with her hands on her hips. She had herself cocked in a way that exaggerated her curves and made her look wistful and flirtatiously amorous. It was her normal look even in a suit, but damn it looked fine to Jack.
“We go to Indie space, they may not believe us,” Tito said sadly. “We may get blasted as soon as we show up, even.” He laid down on the table. “By the way, you have a nice butt, Captain. Eleven out of ten.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. And you, Saully?”
“Twelve out of ten at least.” He giggled a little then gave a subtle “OW!” as he settled down to the alcohol.
“Dammit, Saully! I meant our destination, not how my ass looks!” She laughed, and the others chuckled a bit.
“Indie. We’re fucked if we go back to UN space. Pratt has to have made sure he’d return, or that if he didn’t return, we’d die.” Saully’s remark hit home. Pratt wasn’t a big enough idiot to have left all that to chance. They’d have another citizen waiting for his return. They may not know why, but they’d have his orders.
“Shit, you’re right,” Tito moaned from the table.
“Well, Boss Man?” Saully took a big swig from his glass. “I can get our shit transferred and make sure we mop up any loose ends, but we’re fucked either way. I’d rather trust an Indie than any UN goons right now. Not that we ever trusted ’em.”
“I agree with Saully’s suspicions. We have to go to an Indie system.” He looked at Rosia, smiled, then said, “I’d give that ass an A-plus rating any day. Even for an officer.”
“Best ass this side of Sirius B!” She smiled and went up the ladder to the bridge, stopping halfway to wiggle her money maker, then continued her climb.
After a false start due to a pressure valve, the run up to fold was underway. Rosia was back in her suit, and everyone was strapped in or secured. Saully was in sick bay to keep an eye on Sherry and company. The “company” would be a bargaining chip for them, they figured. The technology and information the bitch knew would give the Indie systems a serious leg up on the UN efforts to wipe them out. After all, she had tried to kill them. Now she would probably spend the rest of her days as a data dumpster of information for the Indie military. Tito and Jack were in the commons and buckled up. Sparky was using the litter box, and none the wiser as to their destination. After all, he was a cat.
“Jack, get up here!” Rosia said hurriedly over the intercom. “It’s Pratt!”
Jack unhitched the buckle and all but flew up the ladder. “Where?” Rosia pointed. The HUD showed an escape pod making its way to the Merlin’s Ghost. Ponderously slow, but it was gaining momentum. “I’ll go to –”
“No,” Rosia said flatly. “This bastard dies now.” Rosia stopped the planned run up to fold and swung the ship around. Pratt was only a few hundred yards away and desperately trying to get to her ship. She hit the throttle and made a beeline toward Pratt intended to skewer his pod with the three-meter-long plasteel nose-sensor tube. He somehow nudged it into a roll enough to avoid collision and skimmed just over her port wing. “Really, fucker? We’re playing that game?” Rosia looped the ship around and followed him a few kilometers. He was erratic in his flying, like his controls didn’t work.
“He’s doomed out here,” Jack pointed out. “There ain’t no help for many light years around. Let him die a cold, airless, horrid death.”
“I told you what I’d do to him, Jack. I meant every word.” She crept closer as Pratt swung around and skewed his speed in an attempt to attach himself to the hull. Rosia barrel-rolled around him before she keyed the comms. “Hello, shitstain.”
“I demand as a citizen you provide me safe passage! I will surrender to you if I must, and I swear I will protect you when we get to a station.”
“The only way you’re going to a station or anywhere else is on the tip of my ship’s huge dick.” Rosia flipped and sped away for a few seconds before she flew back at greater velocity.
“Now, wait a minute! I have a great deal to offer you! I know things! I have connections! I can make you rich and powerful! Please don’t do this!” Pratt begged.
Rosia veered away at the last second and took up a matching trajectory to Pratt’s pod. “Okay, then. Start talking. But you move one millimeter toward my ship, and I’ll end you,” she threatened.
“You serious, Rosia? He splattered your shipmates and friends against an enemy he knew would wipe them out. I don’t trust him, and neither should you,” Saully relayed from sick bay, choosing to watch after the injured Sherry with all the maneuvering going on. “Talk to her, Jack.”
“She’s the captain of the ship, Saully,” Jack reminded him. “It’s her decision to act on a plea of surrender. Though I’ll throttle him as soon as he’s aboard, surrender or not.”
Everyone listened in as she and Pratt hammered out the terms of his unconditional surrender, which was conditional on his not wanting to die and her wanting him skewered. After a few minutes, she convinced him to EVA to the aft cargo airlock, as she stated the cargo bay doors had been damaged by the explosives. They were actually fine, but Pratt didn’t need to know that. She also insisted he keep the pod where it was, and that Jack would help him aboard at the aft airlock. No weapons or objects of any kind would accompany him. Pratt reluctantly opened the pod door and started his very limited EVA to the aft airlock. When he approached to within five meters of the lock, Rosia had the ship suddenly flip about. This knocked the pod and its burned-up contents away. Presumably the last goon’s remains, now floating away with the pod at several meters per second. She swooped the ship toward Pratt.
“Gr’acklckthpt!” came Pratt’s voice over the comms as the prong of the sensor tube slipped smoothly and painfully through his abdomen and out his back by two meters. Blood and fluids froze and congealed around Pratt’s midsection with nanos desperately trying to seal the suit from air loss. “Fruck’n cunkt!” he managed to squelch out through gritted teeth.
The sight of Citizen Pratt on the point of her ship nearly made Rosia orgasm from all the emotions releasing inside her. Tears flowed, anger raged, the thrill of his demise pulsed waves of satisfaction through her. She felt no remorse about doing this to him. Oh, God! she thought. This is glorious! She closed her eyes a few seconds and regained control.
“Before you die, asshole,” her voice was calm, “remember that I killed you.” She stared at him. His eyes stared back through his visor. With a deep coldness she spat, “I’ve delivered you to Hell.”
Rosia hit the commands for the ship to fold, and within a few seconds, Citizen Pratt’s still-living mind and body experienced fold space from the outer hull of a starship.
Citizen Pratt didn’t appreciate the view.
_________________________
A former active duty Sergeant in the U.S.A.F. and Veteran of the Gulf War, Sean McCune currently resides in Indiana with his wife and three cats. Sean works full time in the communications industry. Occasionally goes hunting and fishing. Enjoys writing what his Muse demands for numerous stories. Performs voice over work. Plays online games. Spoils his wife rotten. And you might catch him attending the Indy
1500 Gun and Knife Show, just visit the ‘Sharp Pointy Things’ display booth.
Finding Sara
by Daniel Humphreys
_______________________
Present Day
I hate space stations.
This one was nicer than most, in a decadent, gold-plated sort of way. In terms of creature comforts, the orbiting ostentation marketed as ‘NuBai’ by its owners offered everything a being might ever need, want, or dream of, so long as you could afford the price. If I wasn’t here on business, I never could have scraped the credits together for the docking fees.
Fighting the urge to lash out at the drunk revelers stumbling along the wheel world’s main thoroughfare, I shouldered my way through crowds. Decorations or not, it was hard for me to forget that this was a steel-and-composite ring orbiting around an engineering spindle. The smell of the recycled air and the shortened horizon imparted by the corridor brought back too many bad memories.
I’d come a long way from my days as a duct rat. Days like this made the gulf of years seem that much shorter.
My presence didn’t merit a guide, but navigating the station was easy enough. The outer, Earth-grav rings were broken up into twelve sections. The meeting was in section 3, room 19.
The only surprise when I found the meeting room were the guards standing on either side of the door. I’m no lightweight, but these two easily topped two meters in height. Their tailored suits were close enough in style to dub uniforms and did little conceal their muscular bulk. If either weighed less than 120 kilos, I’d have been be shocked.
They didn’t bother to ask for identification. The hulk on the left pulled the door open, and his buddy waved me inside. I frowned but stepped into the meeting room.
Real plants and tasteful art covered the walls, but a massive, rectangular table dominated the room. Two more bodyguards stood at either end, and a less physically-imposing bureaucrat type sat in the center, opposite the door.
Before he died, my dad told me stories about how even poor people were fat on old Earth. If he was telling me the truth, those times have been over for a while now, because it’s pretty easy to spot those who come from a life of means these days. The well-fed opulence of the man across from the table spoke of big-time resources. The glimmering syn-silk of his three-piece suit and the glittering gold of his pocket watch were simple exclamation points.
“Reed Dyson,” the bureaucrat intoned. “Date and place of birth unknown. Recovered as a child during UNMC action aboard Tocchet Station, 2139. Enlisted UN Marine Corps, 2148. Decorations for valor. Multiple actions and tabbed as an officer-candidate promotion. Honorably discharged, 2160. Second career as a bonded bounty hunter. That about the gist of it?”
The bureaucrat was showing off. He had tell-tale magnetic contacts on each temple. Implants are still rare in the outer systems. We have to make do with good old brainpower rather than terabytes of auxiliary storage. He probably had every bit of information on me there was to have, down to my shoe size and porn preferences. The joke was on him, though. Data can tell you about a person, sure. But knowing someone, putting yourself in their place, that takes empathy. As of yet, they haven’t figured out a way to implant that.
Which worked out well for me and my crew. “I prefer ‘recovery specialist’, myself,” I said.
The ’crat smiled. “I like that. Please, Mr. Dyson, have a seat.”
I settled into the chair across the table and folded my hands in front of me. “What can I do for you, today, Mister –?”
“Underwood,” he supplied. “Cassius Underwood.” He slid a single sheet of glossy photo paper across the table in my direction. “And you can help me by finding my niece and bringing her back home.”
The picture showed a serious-looking young adult, with curly dark hair and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. A pair of sunglasses perched on her nose.
I fingered the photo and tried not to frown. There was something strange about it. The angle wasn’t right for a candid shot. The camera would have been up and away, rather than on the same level. “This is from some sort of security camera.” My tone made it sound like a question, but I knew I was correct.
“Yes. That’s the last photograph of her I’ve been able to find. Sara was – is – a college student at Purdue. Brilliant girl. But a week ago she quit going to classes, and none of her friends have heard from her.”
“Police?”
He shrugged, though there was a bit of fire in his eyes. “Of little help. Their jurisdiction ends at atmosphere. And they don’t have the resources to look for someone who seems to have gone off on their own. With this man.” He slid another photograph toward me.
The lack of caring exhibited by the police would be insulting, considering the taxes most citizens pay, if it didn’t provide me with a comfortable living. I examined the new photo. This guy looked akin to the bulky sentinels standing guard at the door. Definitely not the type to be gallivanting around with a college coed, but in the picture, he pointed to something out of frame while guiding Sara by one elbow. She was smiling, which struck me as odd. She looked like she was right where she wanted to be.
The most interesting aspect of the photo was the clothing Sara’s companion wore. Facial recognition, in the central systems, is a way of life. It’s one way of keeping the crime rate low, I suppose, but the thought of being under constant watch, whether you’ve done any wrong or not, has always given me the creeps. This guy wore a stocking cap, angled high and pulled down low. His face was clear as day – covering your face in public these days was instantly worthy of official attention – but his ears were completely covered.
In some ways, your ear is as unique as a fingerprint, and the best facial recognition hardware scans it as well. You can change the contours of your face with prosthetics, and the color of your skin with makeup, but short of surgery, there’s no way to disguise your ears.
Who is this guy? I held the photo by the edges and wondered. If he was that careful to keep his ears covered, he must have known he’d flag a standard security scan. Which meant he’d done something to disguise his face, as well, but it was done well enough that I couldn’t pick up on it. And if I was picking up on this, why hadn’t the police?
I looked over the top of the photo at Cassius Underwood. “Where were these photos taken?”
“Indianapolis International. Off-world departure terminal.”
The need to raise an eyebrow overwhelmed my poker face. “And the feds weren’t interested, either?”
No fire this time, which I found interesting as well as disconcerting. “No cause for concern, I was told.”
I held up both photos. “My copies, I presume?” He nodded, and I continued. “I need everything you have on your niece. This may require quite a bit of travel, so that ups my usual fee.” I hesitated for the barest of moments, then plunged ahead. “Half a million now, another half upon recovery.”
Underwood didn’t blink. He nodded to one of the guards, who retrieved a case from under the table and slid it to me. Underwood reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Look through this. It should have any and all information you need on Sara, as well as some additional pictures.”
I flipped through the folded pages. It was frighteningly complete. There were even lists of friends who’d spent the night during junior high sleepovers. I didn’t have the sense I’d need to dig that far back. Unless I missed my guess, ‘stocking cap’ was a new arrival into her circle of friends.
I popped the latches and fingered my way through the banded bundles of polymer credits. Four rows wide, five rows tall, three layers total. Each neat packet still bore the wrapper with the bank imprint and credit value printed on them. Sixty packets, 10,000 each. “It’s too much,” I said. Normally I’d have expected the opposite, but something about this guy had my nerves up. The missing weight of the sidearm from my hip didn’t help. NuBai was a gun-free zone unless you were a suited gorilla bodyguarding a fleshy bureaucrat.
“Down payment,” Underwood said smoothly, then flashed me a brilliant white grin.
“On what, exactly?” The unexpected largess made me suspicious, and I suspected there was a catch.
“Bring me his head when you bring back my Sara, and there’s another hundred K bonus where that came from.”
***
The first thing I did when I got back to my ship was to dump the cash into a well-used duffel bag.
Maybe it was paranoid. Don’t get me wrong, most of the enemies I’ve made since I left the Corps are the direct type. They’d much rather put a bullet into me at short range, to make sure the job was done right, than rely on something as imprecise as a bomb. That didn’t eliminate the possibility of active or passive tracking signals emanating from the case. The easiest fix for that was to ditch the case. I left it neatly beside the airlock door as though I’d merely forgotten it. Any other station, the duct rats would have been all over it as soon as I turned my back. Here, the port police cracked down on vagrants, hard. Space enough of them, and the rest are generally encouraged to beat feet to more welcoming environs. And sucking vacuum is a hell of a way to go.
My ship, the Puller, wasn’t much compared to the rest of the craft arrayed along the docking section of the space station. The builder had laid the keel down before I was born, and there wasn’t a system on the ship I hadn’t taken apart to repair or modify. That, along with the fact that it was paid for, made it mine in a far purer sense that I doubted the rest of the folk on NuBai would ever understand.
Five hundred feet from bow to stern, I knew every dent in her hull like the marks on the back of my hand. She looked big from the outside, but that size was deceptive. The back half of the Puller consisted pretty much of engines and reaction mass. Even so, there was plenty of room in the living quarters for the three of us. She was more than a ship – she represented freedom and a hell of a lot more room than most of the unlucky sods in the universe got to enjoy in their short, miserable lives.