by Sean Allen
“Well, the swelling is down and you seem to be in good spirits,” she said as the countdown in the kranos passed ninety seconds. She started to unsling the harness she had brought for him, but an uneasy feeling made her pause and a wave of doubt whispered into her mind again. She looked back at Diodojo and studied his hiding place. Only his gray face stuck out of the small opening between a series of tightly packed pipes that skirted the gun deck and disappeared toward the back of the engine room. She could tell that Doj was making an effort to be seen and that there was no possible way the rest of his body could squeeze through on this end. Dezmara climbed a few more rungs and dialed in the dark-vision on the kranos. She looked directly behind Diodojo’s position and could see that he had reached his perch from a T-junction in several bundles of pipes. It was a tight fit on all sides with no room for him to slide out on either end—a natural harness in the pipeworks.
“Shit…” she said in a dazed whisper as the countdown clicked past thirty seconds. “Doj, you stay here and hold on tight ‘til I come and get you. Things are gonna get a little crazy, okay?” Diodojo let out a small roar and Dezmara knew he understood. She never could explain it, but she always felt like he knew exactly what she was saying. Simon, of course, said it was just wishful thinking and that Diodojo was ‘just another dumb animal that Dezmara needed to love,’ to which she would respond, “That makes the two of you.” But she always felt that she and Doj shared a connection. She put the insole of her boots on the outside rails of the ladder and let gravity take over. She ignored the heat through her gloves and clapped down on the floor. She grabbed the rifles she had left on Simon’s chair and then ran into the corridor, cut sharply to her right, and charged down the main deck to the cargo hold.
Dezmara sprinted through the cargo hold door and shimmied between the stacks of containers lashed to the deck, holding both rifles high above her head. Her mind was racing and she needed to rein in her paranoid imagination so she could get out of Luxon alive. “You have no idea if that’s where he was during the run to Prosiris,” she said to herself. “He could’ve been climbing around or in an entirely different spot
“But Doj is smart. He’s flown with you for years. He wouldn’t pick an unsafe hiding place during a run…
“You don’t have time for this shit! Bottom line is, you didn’t make sure he was secure before you flew like a maniac to Prosiris and Doj ended up with a cracked skull! Now, Simon is on your side—he’s always been on your side—and he’s helping you get your Human ass out of here by opening that gate…god, I hope he opens that gate…”
Dezmara settled the argument with herself just as she emerged from the stacks of containers, and gusts of air, stirred by the engines, whistled up the extended ramp at the back of the Ghost to greet her. She placed the rifles on the deck, pulled the harness from her shoulder and quickly slipped it over her legs and around her waist. She tapped the kranos and a large hook and cable lowered from a winch attached to a network of support girders overhead. She looked up at the grid of reinforced alloy and examined the collars that were meant for the last container.
The thick I-beam straps were custom made by Simon from the same material as the trusses lining the ceiling, and like most of the Ghost’s infrastructure, the cargo collars had large circles drilled out of them at exact intervals to lighten the ship. These particular restraints should have been clamped tightly around the last container with the splined shafts on their ends meshed into the grooved locks on the floor. Instead, the C-shaped beams swayed empty on their cables above her as the ship hovered. She wouldn’t have the time, or the means, now that Libby was broken down on the dock, to line the container up and lock it down with the collars. She was almost certain she could get the cargo into the hold, but she wasn’t exactly sure how she was going to secure it to the deck once she got it there. “You’re gettin’ ahead of yourself, girl. Just get the damn thing on board first!”
With fifteen seconds left in the countdown, Dezmara threaded the cable through a heavy ring attached to the deck, clipped the hook to her harness, and then jogged over to a floor-mounted winch to her left. She pulled down on the lever sticking out on the side of its cylindrical body and then yanked on the line with both hands. The big spindle turned freely, whirring and humming as the thickly braided cable spilled to the deck and coiled haphazardly at her feet. She gripped the hook in her hand, ran back to the center of the cargo bay door, and scooped up one of the awkward-looking rifles. The top of the gun had a grooved channel above the barrel and she laid the cable inside. She fastened the cable hook to a large, offset ring on the backside of the bulb extending from the barrel and then worked the pump action back and then forward again with a smooth chik-chik. She loaded the second rifle in the same fashion using a winch on the right side of the bay.
The countdown hit three—Dezmara secured the right winch hook to the second gun and cocked it. Two—she bent down and picked up the other rifle and took a deep breath. One.
The Ghost launched forward with a burst of power from her engines and Dezmara could feel the acceleration pull at her hips as the cable she had clipped to her harness stretched taut. “Come in, Simon,” she bellowed into the kranos over the violent eddies lashing at her body as the ship sped through the dockyard.
“Yeah, luv.”
“Be ready to take some fire up front.”
“Er…how much bloody fire we talkin’?”
“If I’m right about those guns on the mountain, not much. Mostly glancing blows.”
“Well, I hope you’re bloody right—I don’t fancy being shot at so close to the windows, luv! Not that it matters much. Those eigh’y eights’ll shred this ol’ girl in two jifs if they get a clean pop.”
Dezmara understood why Simon was worried. The ship was armored and could take some damage, but Rolfing 88s were huge, powerful guns and there was very little distance between the circling Ghost and the multiple gun turrets on the mountainside. To make matters worse, there was simply no room for Dezmara to maneuver the ship—no way to present a more elusive target or to create angles of opportunity for attack. She wouldn’t want to be up front right now either, but they had to take out all of the Rolfings if they were going to get the cargo container and escape up the tube and out of the gate—and that’s the only way Dezmara would play it. “You let me worry about the guns and cargo. What’s the deal with the gate?”
“I’m tryin’, luv. But every time I get in, the bloody encryption changes the code!”
“You can do it, Sy. Just keep at it.” Dezmara was trying to convince them both that they were going to get out alive, but she knew their chances were getting slimmer by the second. Dezmara broke off communication as the ship swung dangerously close to the tower on the next dock. She steadied herself against the wall as the Ghost banked hard left and she heard every gun aboard open up in an orchestrated blitz on the mountain. She saw the bent, crumpled remains of the Rolfings over dock seven as they sped past and she cracked a mischievous smile. “Two down…”
The Ghost soared on in its intrepid flight and took out the guns over docks eight and nine before the portmaster caught on. There were six more stretches of decrepit alloy beams and buckled planks jutting into the circular cavern from the mountain, and all twelve guns above each of the dockyard doors breathed fire and spat metal in fiery coughs and fits, two at a time, as they approached. But Dezmara had won this round. It was a simple game of attack vectors and she played it brilliantly. By flying to the inside of the towers and as close to the mountain as possible, Dezmara decreased the angle of attack until the buttresses that helped hide the Rolfings obscured their fire. She approached with the triggers on the fore guns mashed open, and the revolving barrels dotted the mountainside in line with the port’s defenses before they could get a clean shot. Dezmara heard a smattering of frustrated return fire glance harmlessly off the forward fuselage and then the com crackled inside her helmet.
“You’re proving to be quite a nuisance, Ghost,” the po
rtmaster grumbled in her ear, “but you’re only delaying the inevitable! Your pathetic hacker is an amateur. He’ll never crack the gate, and I’ll force you down or you’ll run out of fuel or ammunition and then I’ll have my prize—you’re trapped, Ghost!”
“I thought you would’ve learned your lesson in The Boneyard,” Dezmara said. “You should pay more attention to what you’re doin’ and less time talkin’ shit—I’m almost through your encryption while you’re busy runnin’ your fat mouth.” Dezmara bluffed. She was angry that the portmaster was so confident, and that Simon hadn’t radioed back yet to say the gate was open and they were going to live. She was angry and she wanted to remind him of the stinging blow she had dealt him and his preacher-bot in this game to the death. But the portmaster understood the value of psychology in warfare and he was slowly figuring out how to get to Dezmara.
“And now you’ve left your precious cargo behind—aw, that’s too bad. Tell me, Ghost, how does it feel to know that even if you manage to escape from Luxon, you won’t be the number one runner anymore, eh? You’ll be a lighter. Hahaha! I think knowing that I ended the winning streak of the mighty Ghost will be more satisfying than when I kill you!”
The portmaster laughed on and Dezmara slapped the side of the kranos in frustration. He was smug and he had good reason to be: he was right. If Simon didn’t open that gate, it was all over; and if he did somehow manage to crack the encryption, Dezmara needed to get that container. Missing cargo, even a fraction, could ruin a runner. Not only would the ringer in charge of setting up the run levy a huge penalty, but once it was rumored that a runner ‘came in light,’ they’d never be used to transport goods again. Nobody with anything valuable to ship would trust his livelihood to a lighter.
“Where we at, Sy?”
“If you could do somethin’ to distract ‘im, that’d be a great help, luv!”
“I’m way ahead of you,” she said, and with a tap of the controls on the side of her helmet, the Ghost opened fire on the closest dock. Floor panels shredded and buckled as the slugs withered support beams and snapped tower cables like they were string. The dock leaned to one side and pitched the landing pad at its end so it tilted almost ninety degrees and then it paused for a moment, clinging desperately to the mountain by centuries of dirt, rust, and acquaintance before sounding a wounded groan and tumbling into the darkness below.
“AAARRRGGG, NO! You goddam bastard!” the portmaster screeched at the top of his lungs as Dezmara blasted the next dock.
“Tell me, asshole—how hard will it be robbing travelers with all of your docks lying at the bottom of this pit?” Dezmara paused for emphasis as the ship’s guns shrieked and the next dock frayed and crumbled into twisted, jagged pieces and then vanished. She could hear the portmaster’s erratic breathing on the other side of the connection and every knifing rasp seethed with spittle and hatred. “And how long will it take ‘til you’re back in business, eh? I mean, it’ll take months, maybe even years to get the materials—not to mention construction. And the cost—whew—it’s crazy!” Dezmara poured on the sarcasm; after all, if it was going to be her last smart-ass performance, she wanted to make sure it was a good one. From the curses streaming non-stop from the other end of the com, she knew she had accomplished her goal.
“That’s it, you sonofabitch. You’re dead!” said the portmaster.
“You know, I think knowing that I cost you your entire operation murdering unsuspecting travelers and stealing their cargo will be more satisfying than killing you—maybe.”
“You’re dead, do you hear me?! YOU’RE DEAD!” The receiver in the kranos couldn’t process the volume of the portmaster’s rabid cries, and it crackled painfully in Dezmara’s ear. Her head jerked to one side before the slap of her hand killed the transmission. The smallest beginnings of a self-satisfied smirk tingled warmly around the tops and outsides of her cheeks, but before the feeling could materialize into a conceited laugh, the kranos flashed a warning and a diagram of a new threat rotated on the right side of her display. They were fighters—ultra-maneuverable and armed to the teeth. Five of the small craft buzzed from a hangar door beneath one of the remaining docks and swarmed after them.
“Luv, we’ve got comp’ny!”
“I know, Simon. Just get that damn gate open!”
The Ghost was more powerful and better armed than the little fighters, and in open space Dezmara could have reduced the whole squadron to dust with a few twists of the control stick and a flick of her trigger finger. But inside the cramped dockyard of Luxon, the smaller ships had the upper hand. Dezmara hoped it would take them a little while to figure out that if they hugged the mountainside as they pursued, they could easily shoot the Ghost from the inside position and use their superior agility to avoid her guns.
“So far, so good,” Dezmara said as the five little aircraft pulled into attack formation directly behind them. She checked the time until the next pass over the cargo container and then pressed the button in the center of her left vambrace. She had barely lifted the shield into position when the lead fighter let loose with a hail of bullets. The large caliber slugs slammed into the shield so hard that her teeth rattled, and it felt like a star freighter had plowed into the left side of her body at full speed.
“Sonofabitch!” she hollered as she tapped the kranos and returned fire with the Ghost’s aft guns. She wasn’t lucky enough to hit any of them, but the salvo sent the little fighters scattering for a moment—swerving and weaving in righteous fear for the heavy artillery aimed in their direction—before they regrouped again.
The lead pilot got wise and Dezmara watched helplessly as he ducked his fighter to the inside of the tower on dock five. She was telling herself that it wasn’t so bad, that she could deal with it, but then she stopped abruptly. Dezmara shook her head as two more ships fell into position behind him. She’d hoped they wouldn’t figure it out until the cargo was on board, but it was too late and she didn’t have a back-up plan. The kranos announced the approach of dock six, and she had to get ready to load the container in mid flight while being chased and shot at by a squadron of enemy ships with superior positioning; after that, it was up to Simon and lady luck. She fired the Ghost’s big guns at the leader and then jerked her autos from their holsters and peppered the two fighters racing behind her. The luck she hoped for made a sudden and grand entrance, shining in brilliant orange and red as the lead ship in the inside position burst into flames and caromed off the stony, carved spires on the mountain and then plunged into the abyss.
The commotion of the attack and the downed fighter frazzled the remaining pilots, and they didn’t rejoin formation—just as Dezmara hoped. The container passed below and her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. With the fighters still scrambling, she picked up the tethered rifles and rested a butt against either shoulder. As she took aim at the loading pins on either side of the long, rectangular container, she could see the attack squadron forming again in the distance and she knew she was an easy target, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t face the shield forward while aiming the rifles and she didn’t have a free hand to operate the controls for the ship’s guns. Radioing Simon and asking him to fire would break both of their concentration and each of their tasks was dire—there simply wasn’t any time. Dezmara knew that a single shot into the open cargo bay would cut her in half and there were four fighters lining up their sights, poised and ready to shoot.
Gunfire exploded in the cargo bay, followed by the zip of unfurling cables as the bulbous projectiles hurtled toward the dock. Midway through their flight, a sharp tip extended from each spheroid, transforming the strange ammunition into speeding harpoons. The spears pierced the cargo box and multiple barbs snapped out from the pointed shaft, digging into the container on the back side. Dezmara tumbled to the deck and slid toward the edge of the open door as the tail end of the Ghost dropped suddenly. The engines let out a sluggish moan under the added weight of the load as machine gun fire slapped the co
ntainers where she had been standing just an instant before. As she slid quickly down the now almost vertical ramp, she could see the tethered container swaying below her and the dockyard beyond that. The nose of the ship pitched higher and she no longer felt the friction of her flight suit against the alloy of the deck slowing her descent—she was in free fall.
Her body jerked and the harness around her waist and hips dug into her skin as the winch cable snapped taut. Her boots dangled over the lip of the door before her backside slammed into the floor behind her.
“Bloody hell! You all right, luv?!”
“Never better!” Dezmara said as the fighters moved in on their significantly slower-moving target.
The lead ship was so close, she could see the pilot’s crooked smile as he lined up his guns and flicked out his trigger finger. Dezmara waved goodbye with one hand and tapped the kranos with the other. The Ghost lurched upward and then quickly leveled out, whipping the cargo container streaming behind it like an enormous wrecking ball. The decrease in speed had lured the two bogeys behind them closer, and now they would pay for their greed. Dezmara sat up off the floor just in time to see the cables attached to the swinging container dissect the small gunship closest to them into thirds. The wings fell away from the center section of the fuselage, and Dezmara could see the confusion on the pilot’s face turn to terror as he spiraled away and slammed into the outer wall of the dockyard.
The second attacker caught the full force of the battering ram container on the belly. The nose of the little vessel was wrenched skyward and it drifted horizontally. For a brief moment, it looked like an odd bird flaring its wings and readying itself to perch on the nearest ledge or outcropping, but then the craft’s engines coughed and sputtered as it stalled; then it fell like a stone. “Three down…” Dezmara thought optimistically, but there was no time for celebrating. Fire from the two remaining bandits still hugging the mountain clapped at the rear of the ship. The portmaster and his goons didn’t have to destroy the Ghost to win the game—a breached hull would make it almost impossible to escape into space, even if Simon opened the gate. Dezmara had to destroy the last two fighters or they were doomed. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver, but she had no choice.