by J. N. Chaney
My food finished, I stood up and cleared away the mess. “I can’t say that I won’t react—that I don’t have an emotional investment—but my plans are being made outside those moments.”
“No. You make the plan as if you will react badly in the moment, and create safeguards. Pretending, hoping, or even just calculating them out leaves you vulnerable. Plan against your weaknesses. That’s how you win.”
I smiled. “We prepare for things to fail because they sometimes will. Success is what happens in the absence of failure. Another excellent point, Vetus.”
Dorian shook his head and opened his mouth to object, but I held up a hand.
“I know, I know. You’re not my Vetus anymore,” I said with a lighthearted smirk.
“Right,” he said with a smile of his own. “Hey, look at you, making jokes. I like it. We’ll make a Constable out of you yet, kid.” Then Dorian winked and walked out into the bowels of the ship.
After he was gone, I sat at the table and contemplated our conversation for a little while. As usual, he was right. I needed to take a hard look inside and face everything I’d been pushing aside for the last year, then use it somehow to my advantage.
I sat up a little straighter and set up my workstation. The small emitter device synced up to my datapad and projected the images from the screen so I could look through more information at once. The file from Shaw was massive and I could tell it would be a huge undertaking to get through it all in the next few days, but I knew just where I would start.
My tea had gone cold an hour later, so I warmed it again then sat down to resume my deep dive into the dossier.
One thing was for sure. Evelyn had made a mistake by not making sure I was dead. I may not be coming for her out of a sense of revenge, but I was coming after her using my substantial skills, and with the considerable power of a Constable.
5
Three jumps and a dozen standard hours later, we arrived in the Vadilon system and set a course for Taurus station. Din was an inner world and we still had a day of travel ahead of us. Already the lack of full gravity and irregular hours were starting to sap my reserves.
Dorian sat strapped into his seat, watching a holo on the console. He looked over and saw me staring at the huge station as it drew nearer. Everything about deep space was black until you got close enough to a light source, and Taurus was a hell of a source, at least to my untrained eye.
“Welcome to the life of a Renegade, Al. We’re going to refuel here since we’ve gotta stop anyway.”
I noticed that the closer we got to our destination, the more drastically Dorian’s personality changed. He now walked around the ship with a swagger and his speech had taken on a streetwise attitude. It was impressive and fascinating to watch, just like Max when he’d done the same at the Red Keep.
I kept watch on the receding transport. “I’m Alphonse, you’re Dorian. First names are best, so we sound familiar. We are run specialists, personnel smuggling and small cargo runs from the rim to the core worlds of the Union. Officially, we’re a bonded and licensed vessel with limited allowances through a small independent refinery based in the Ixatil system. We’re recognized as Renegades in the rim worlds, as you have run dozens of covers with this ship doing merc work and smuggling. I’m new, a favor to a cousin or ex or something.”
Dorian nodded. “That’s right. Keep it vague and ever shifting. People will enjoy the idea that you are probably my own kid, but I refuse to accept it. The cover works best when people fill in their own details.” He winked slyly and sent a transmission to station control to get a docking number. We had a wait time of eight standard hours, some of which the former Vetus used to quiz me and teach me some of the easier aspects of piloting.
“Right. I’ve been on-ship for no more than a few months. It explains my lack of endurance and familiarity with locations. It also explains why nobody has seen me out here before.”
Dorian prompted me onward. “And?”
“And I’m a bit funny. I grew up without much supervision or education. I know how to do a few things but am still learning the family business, though I have some small conquests in my past. This gives me access to people and areas and disarms them into thinking I’m not a threat or responsible.”
“Exactly.” Dorian sounded pleased as he moved
“Is this how it goes? Do your covers always include a cool veteran and his boy sidekick?”
Dorian smiled. “I stick with the classics. There is a bit of fantasy that people like to stick to out here. The people living in the Deadlands consider themselves pioneers and trailblazers. They are self-made and self-assured. Nothing settles their suspicions like an old pro showing new blood the ropes. Now, go get some rest before we dock.”
I didn’t plan on falling asleep, but the fatigue of deep space travel took a toll on my inexperienced body. I woke to a light flashing in my cabin and a klaxon alarm blaring.
“Dorian, what’s happening?” Even as I spoke, I bounded out of the bunk and put on my boots before launching out of the door and toward the bridge.
“We’re out of fuel and lost in the dark. Get up here and figure out where you sent us!”
My mind was foggy with sleep as I stumbled to the chair and strapped in. Outside the viewscreen, everything was black, punctuated only by tiny pinpricks of starlight. I called up the navigation holo, but it was glitched and fragmented. “This looks bad, Dorian.”
Dorian tapped a line on his own display. “You think that’s bad? Look at this.”
The fuel indicator gave us less than an hour of burn before we would be floating aimlessly.
“Day one and you’ve already killed us. I knew I should have partnered with that Nolans. He was a spacer and a former smuggler. No way he’d die like this.”
I furiously attempted to patch through the distorted display to figure out where we were. Then I saw a wire sticking out of the console. I opened the panel and noticed a small square device had been integrated in the system.
“MikroTrek, you are cleared for docking at bay 8. Taurus Station priority message ends.”
Dorian snorted and brought the ship around to face the station. “That is confirmed, Taurus Station, setting docking vector.”
I pulled the wayward device out of the console, closed the panel, and set the vector. “Really?”
He slapped me on the arm. “Just checking how you run under pressure. If they hadn’t tipped you off, it would have been great. I had a whole bit ready to go about who gets to try and survive in the only suit on board.”
“We have three suits on board.”
“Good catch. Now get your game face on. We’re heading in.”
The ship moved into position, matching the axial spin of the station docking ring. Dorian nudged forward and we slipped through the slot into the lower station. As we entered, I was alerted that a passive scan was being conducted. A series of heavy guns swiveled and tracked our movement until the scan completed.
“That’s quite the security system for being non-Union,” I commented.
We moved passed the artillery without triggering anything and they swiveled back at the ready for the next passing vessel. Dorian set the ship down. I felt the sudden shift when the docking clamp engaged.
“We’ll be here for at least a day. I’ll get us on the refueling list then we can try and make contact with the RBO agent here.”
I nodded. “Oliver Trinidad. Owner of the Trinidad’s Trinkets, a souvenir shop and front for his Renegade business.”
Dorian granted me a smile. “I can see you did your homework, Malloy. Now it’s time to put all that training to use. Keep your eyes peeled. This is going to be unlike anything you’ve ever done.”
Out on the promenade, I was reminded of the terrace at the Red Tower. It buzzed with the energy of hundreds of people moving from shop to shop, machinery hissing, the low thrum of engines at power, and the sharp whine of engines powering up and down. The air was surprisingly pleasant and filled with a variety
of mouthwatering aromas that drifted from hover carts and restaurants.
I’d expected Taurus station to be more derelict and rampant with crime after hearing Shaw and Dorian talk about it. Instead, the trade center’s patrons looked quite average. At first it seemed a bad idea to run illegitimate businesses concurrent with tourism, but now I saw why it was a smart move. Theory and knowledge were important, but this made a perfect example for applying it. Some things just couldn’t be taught in a sim or classroom.
I took it all in with studious eyes, careful to look unimpressed, even though I was a little.
“Exciting isn’t it, kid?” Dorian’s arm came around me and his hand squeezed my shoulder in a way that said he was trying to tell me something.
“Yes,” I agreed, not sure what else to say.
“Everything just sort of blends to together. You’ll get used to it though.” He smiled widely and sauntered off, leaving me to jog to keep pace.
I understood his message though after he dropped the hint about blending. My stiff demeanor didn’t match that of the people around us and I could do to act a little more in awe.
We headed inward to an autoslide that arced around the promenade and provided an easy way to move around, especially if a shopper had made many purchases.
Taurus was a newer station, built specifically for trade. Merchant ships and corporate transports often stopped here as they moved between Union space and the Deadlands, ferrying supplies and goods across the nearby systems. Like much of the Deadlands, Taurus didn’t fall under Union control, but I knew from my readings that this was soon to change. The Union had plans to expand into this lawless region of space, which meant Taurus would be one of the first places to go. It was only a matter of time.
I followed my partner and stepped into an empty spot on the glide.
“First time away from home?” a voice said, coming from my left.
It was a man standing near Dorian who was in his sixties, at least, and grey from toe to tip. He was rail thin with loose, sagging skin. His vision was enhanced, as was his hearing with implants. I could tell from the way he favored his right side that he also had reinforcements to the joints in his left arm and knee. His implant was noticeable from the way his jumpsuit creased along his back.
I offered him my hand. “Wow. To see a frequenter like you on my first station trip. My mother told me it was good luck to see a veteran. Means I’m in the right company.”
The old man looked at Dorian and then shook my hand. “Good to see the youngins being taught right. You stick with it, kid, and don’t give that soft life a second glance. Out here”—he gave a wide gesture and a bit of a spin, even in the cramped lift— “out here is where real living happens.”
The glide came to a stop and we exited into a section of the station that sported more bars and adult entertainment. I regarded the old man. “Maybe I’ll run into you again in another few years. I’ll buy you a drink and share some stories.”
He laughed. “I’m sure I’ll have heard them all. But you’ll never go wrong buying drinks for your elders. Good luck to you.” The man limped off and went into one of the more downtrodden brothels. I tried not to think about what he’d be doing there.
Dorian led me along the deck in the opposite direction. “You’re doing good, Al, but this next bit is going to take me in a solo direction. I’m going to meet a contact and get some details on our next move.”
“I’m not going with you?” I asked, somewhat confused. There was enough going on around me that it wasn’t possible to study his cues at the same time.
“Not just yet. I think you could use a little more time out here to get acclimated. Trinidad gets one look at you and he’ll make us, even with the cover. Don’t worry, it won’t count against you when I make my report.”
Resentment threatened to rise up, but I ignored it and flashed a quick smile. The mission came first, not my feelings. “That’s logical. Since you’re herding me somewhere, I expect I’ll be waiting for a bit?”
Dorian pointed to the establishment we now stood by. A holo sign declared it to be “Percy’s Bar,” and it had a cozy feel to it.
“You learn what you can about the spacer life, and I’ll be back here soon. Just don’t buy too many drinks for the elderly,” he teased. “We have a budget to stick to.”
I rolled my eyes as I’d seen some of my classmates do when they were exchanging wit, then pushed through the door and into the bar. It was a simple affair and I had to admit I liked it a great deal. More like a diner than a bar with a row of booths and a bar wrapped around with stools. The décor was all faded rust patterns and retro space hulk. Everything was painted to look like it had been salvaged and slapped together, but it was all show. There was even a hint of cleanser in the air. The tables and surfaces were wiped down frequently and well.
I took a seat at the wraparound. A holo projector was mounted on the back wall and playing a news broadcast. A large man, both tall and wide, but with a guileless smile and wearing an awkwardly fitting brown canvas uniform, idled over to me.
“Can I get ya somethin’?”
There was no discernable menu anywhere, so I defaulted to what I knew. “Hot tea. No spikes. I’m waitin’ for the boss man to do a deal.” I mimicked his way of talking and dropped a few letters.
The large man nodded easily and pulled down a glass mug. “I’m Mort. Since I don’t knows ya well, I’ll kindly take payment up front.”
I nodded back and punched over a payment from my account to the bar’s datapad. “Thanks, Mort. I’m Al. Nice place you got here.”
Mort shrugged but grinned at the compliment. “Not mine but thank ya. Just a moment, I’ll be back with that tea.”
He sidled away but returned moments later and poured the steaming liquid into my cup. With a quick nod of thanks, I shifted my attention to the holo broadcast. The station was tuned to the Union News Network.
The newscaster on the display smiled winningly at the holo camera filming him. The banner at the bottom showed his name to be Quintin Dallas. He was a fair faced man with brown hair and hazel eyes, and he looked to be in his late twenties. His face was symmetrical and handsome in the way holo vid stars were. The near perfection of his features and silky-smooth delivery of his script caught my eye and I studied him more closely.
Dallas was discussing the recent infrastructure woes of the Havel-Briggs company. Everything about the man seemed carefully sculpted to suggest trust and reliability. As he smiled and addressed the camera, I noticed that his gaze would dart to his data pad and off screen every few seconds. After a few minutes of this I realized he wasn’t just a reporter, he was a mouthpiece for the Union government. Every word that came out of his lips was the Union’s, designed to garner the public’s favor.
I’d read about this tactic in the Red Tower but hadn’t understood the context. Now I could see how those watching from afar might take what the man said at face value and accept it as truth. They would be easily swayed by his looks and demeanor, and ultimately, fooled.
That puzzled out, I grew bored and listened to Dallas introduce an expert meant to shed light on why the problems of a Union company were a problem for the Union with half an ear.
Behind me, a commotion unfolded as three patrons of the bar began to argue amongst themselves. I’d noticed them on the way in during my first light scan of the bar. They were sitting at a booth across from the stools immediately to my right. One was burly with thick sideburns. He wore a flight suit with a logo from Havel-Briggs. Facing him were two more who were average-sized, likely brothers from the similarity in their facial structure, as well as their hair and eye color. One wore a sloped hat typical of fuel line runners. It was armored on top but lightweight. That one looked nimble and better prepared for a fight than the others.
I didn’t turn to look at them but focused on the tones they produced as their argument grew more heated.
The baritone-voiced one said, “The flight speed don’t matter if the power
isn’t there. You can fly twice lightspeed, but if it takes you a year to accelerate, you still lose the race.”
The alto stated, “Power isn’t going to get you more acceleration if the mass of the ship is too high. And once you add that kind of power, you risk ripping apart any ship without enough mass.”
The gruff and slightly inebriated one slurred, “You’re both stupid. Only thing matters is if it can maneuver at speed. You can’t race anything if all you do is fly forward.”
Whatever they were arguing about had started before I arrived. What I’d caught earlier was more of the same, three opposed views to something about starship qualities.
The meso-alto said, “You want to see what it’s like? Stand up and I’ll show you how force works on a body.” There was a silence then frantic scraping. “Dammit, Eddie, get out of the booth.”
The gruff voice growled, “I’m moving. This is a bad idea, Mackie.” Then came sounds of shifting followed by boots clacking on the floor.
“Stand up, Kevin, or I’ll stand you up,” said Mackie.
Then came another shuffling. Kevin was now standing just slightly to my right. I could make out the brown of his jumpsuit out of the corner of my eye. There was a grunt from Mackie and a sigh from Kevin.
“I told you. Maneuverability matters,” Kevin said.
“And I told your fat mass that nothing moves without enough power!” Mackie retorted.
There was a second grunt and Mackie, the brother without a hat, slammed into the bar beside me. I stood up and turned to face the trio of spacers.