“Hey, Jik, how about you use one of those flexible eye-stalks to take a peek over the table and see how many assholes are firing at us?” Peter whispered.
“Certainly, Captain.” Cautiously, Jikilenga raised an eye-stalk over the table and reported he saw five soldiers in battle armor firing from the door.
Floyd spoke, “I suggest that while you are all raining cover-fire from the door, I rush it and take out as many soldiers as I can. You follow a few seconds later. Someone will likely be injured or killed, but they can't kill all of us. The soldiers from the front of the restaurant are sure to be in here any second. There are ten more out there, and then we will be completely exposed from the rear. I think this is our only choice.”
“Flox-shit! That's not much of a choice!” Peter whispered loudly. Already his crew was showing the effects of all the weapons fire; small cuts from slug fragments dripped blood. The indents from the rail slugs were starting to get bigger on their makeshift shield, and chunks were already missing from the edges.
“OK, Floyd, let’s do it! Hear that everyone? Floyd's rushing the door, and we will follow...uh five seconds later. OK! ― Go!” Peter whispered again.
Floyd dashed from their improvised shield toward the doorway spewing bullets before him.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.” They all pulled their weapons.
“Four.”
“Five.”
They rose as one and ran for the kitchen door, firing like crazy before they all stumbled to a stop, plowing into Peter’s back comically, staring about in amazement. All the soldiers were dead.
“Damn! You are good, Floyd!” Peter gasped.
“This was not my work, Captain.” Floyd said bluntly.
Indeed, on closer inspection some of the soldiers had been dispatched with knives and meat forks. Something had crushed one’s head, and in another case, a soldier still writhed on the ground with some sort of brown liquid cooling on the bottom half of his face, his neck, and hands. His agonized screaming was muted by his helmet.
“Boiling caramel—burns like napalm,” said someone he presumed to be the chef standing inside dressed in whites with the name Lorenzo stitched over his breast pocket who pointed at the soldier moaning in pain on the ground.
“Thanks hardly seems enough under the circumstances, but thanks. Mighty brave of you― sheesh! And they call us pirates bloodthirsty!” Peter said, looking at the carnage. One cook’s cast-iron skillet still dripped blood.
“Least I can do for the owner and his guests, but I think you better get a move on. Someone doesn’t like you very much, and already I'm seeing more soldiers poking their heads around the dining room door. One of my staff will escort you through the service corridors, “Pooh Bear! See them safely to their ship,” the man said calmly pointing to a Teddy dressed all in white.
“Owner?” Peter spoke, looking questioningly at John.
“Thanks, Lorenzo— for saving our ass’s and your big mouth,” John said glaring at the current chef, “how about I explain that one later, Peter? When we have the time? Time now to run like hell!”
“Agreed!” Peter added, and they ran like hell.
A service corridor ran the entire circumference of the space station and Pooh hustled them along it. They had only been running for seconds before weapons firing, screaming and shouts sounded behind, alerting them to the fact that more soldiers were in pursuit. Obviously, John's kitchen staff was slowing them down in a pitched battle.
As if reading his mind John said, “My staff is extremely loyal. I make it a point to hire mostly kids in trouble. I was a bit of a street kid growing up. Some of the homes these youngsters come from on Hyak and the station are horrific. They are survivors, and they fight dirty. I give the soldiers short odds,” said John, panting while running down the corridor.
“What about later?” Peter panted back. “How is your staff going to explain all those bodies? Shouldn't they be worried about repercussions from Hyak II?”
“What bodies? You forget they entered a kitchen. Along with all those dangerous things lying about like knives, boiling liquids, broilers, and flames, there are band saws, meat grinders, and buffalo choppers. I'm sure all those bodies will disappear like magic, and Constantine will either doctor the security discs, or lose them. Their ship will be chopped up for salvage and disposal in a day or so. Just about every inhabitant on this station is some sort of crook, or on the make. Remember also, Hyak I is at war with Hyak II. There will be no extradition, no matter how much they protest,” John added.
Peter looked at him in horror. “Ew! You are going to eat them, or serve them to the public?”
“Nooo! What kind of sick freak do you think I am, or my staff? Down the drains! Although some pets might be eating well this week,” John gave an evil laugh. “Most of my guys have no love for police, or the military, much less for anyone from Hyak II.”
Peter and the group ran in silence for a while. The only sound was from their labored breathing, weapons and belts jingling, and the slap of their own footsteps. What had been a fifteen-minute ride by limo, turned out to be an almost forty-five-minute hike to get back to the docks. All the humans and the Meloovian had held up well on the run, but the Vookin was showing signs of distress. Rivers of perspiration ran down its body, and he was puffing like an old-time steam engine by the time they reached the ship’s dock. Oscar and Bob-Six were supporting him on either side.
“Uh-h-h,” he panted, “running—not—Vookins—strong suit. Next time—have to escape—hopefully—by body of water. Vookins great swimmers!”
“You got it, Jikelenga, but I don't know of many space stations that have canals,” Peter quipped.
Finally, they reached the access corridors that would let them exit to the docks. Pooh Bear led them the last few yards, and they were in a pubic corridor at last.
The Teddy walked up to John and hugged his knee. “When will we see you again, John?” Pooh said sadly. “When we heard what you were doing, we thought you crazy, but you now definitely in Flox-shit up to eyebrows.”
“Can’t say Pooh but give all my best and love to the staff. I'll see you all as soon as I can. At the very least, I'll call. Go on now, we have to scoot,” John said while gently pushing Pooh away.
“Yeah, let's go, crew! Only a few more meters, and we are out of here!” Peter said happily.
“Oh, man! I almost forgot Floyd, what did you and Shirley come up with to get around the grapples?” Peter said, slapping his forehead.
“Oh, it’s most clever, sir. We have placed several five-hundred-ton jacks at strategic points next to the locks. When we are ready, we activate the jacks, and it will rip the ship away from the grapples and dock.”
“Whoa! Won't that damage the hull?” Peter asked incredulously.
“Definitely, Captain. We will lose at least twelve large sections of outer hull, about six percent, but it will not compromise the integrity of the hull too badly. All ships have two layers of hull. I have bought replacement panels in preparation, already loaded them aboard, and can use them to easily fix any damage. Because it's unthinkable for most beings or ships to damage their own ships, they won't be expecting that.
“We can fly for a while with sections of the outer hull missing; the chance of running into micro meteorites and debris are minimal, as long as we make it a short while. I got the idea from a documentary I once saw about Griffoons caught in traps who chewed their own leg off to escape,” Floyd informed Peter.
“Have your weapons ready, everyone, and lets really run this last section,” Peter said, looking at the sweating and puffing Jikelenga, “but let's get close before we break into a run. I'll tell you when. I would not be surprised at all if there is a welcome party.”
He looked out at the loading dock, and clucked his tongue at how far it was, almost a gravity-ball field length. Holding his wrist-com to his mouth he said, “Hey, Shirley, any shady characters hanging out near our dock?”
“Can it, Shirley! Hey! I've got an idea! Open your bay doors and use your lift-bots to welcome our guests. Maybe you can impale one with those nasty forks, get it?” Peter said. “Alright, gang! Let's go!”
They all moved out with weapons drawn, feeling incredibly exposed as they walked across the large, empty space. The cargo bays were built like fat, triangular wedges, or sections of an orange the size of gravity-ball fields. After a few minutes, they could see activity and hear weapons firing near the dock where Shirley lay.
As they neared they could finally see, what in different circumstances would have been comical, four figures running madly in every direction from three lift-bots chasing them at top speed. The botyguard robots like Floyd were easily avoiding the lift-bots, but they were being kept busy running.
One human was not so lucky, and as they neared, one of the lift-bot forks speared him. The lift-bot shook itself vigorously left and right, and the screaming human went flying, spraying blood. It appeared that a Vookin, no doubt the Administrator, had an anti-gravity platform and was easily avoiding the lift-bots as well as getting off a lot of shots. Already, one of the lift-bots was trailing sparks and flames and began to slow to a crawl. When they were thirty yards from the bay doors, Peter yelled, “Go! Run all out! Go! Go! Shoot at the Vookin!”
They ran like mad and were ten feet from the open cargo doors when one of the other lift-bots pulled a lucky maneuver and skewered one of the assassin robots. Oscar let out a whoop of joy.
Distracted, Monica turned to look, slowed, and a lucky shot from the Vookin slashed in and took her right arm off at the elbow. She passed out in shock without a sound, making an ungraceful face plant as she slid along the cargo bay floor.
“No-o-o! Oh, fuck!” Peter screamed, firing back at the Vookin. He scored a hit and a spray of blue blood spouted from its shoulder.
He dropped to the floor, scooped up Monica, grabbed her severed arm, and staggered the last few feet to the safety of the Incontinence’s cargo bay.
“Shirley, quick, close the doors,” Peter said, seeing that everyone else was already inside.
The crew dropped to the floor and returned fire at the remaining attack-bot and the Vookin.
“My lift-bots!” Shirley wailed.
“Fuck yer bots! Close the door!” Peter screamed.
The doors closed with a whoosh.
“Somebody help me with Monica!”
John ran to Peter and the two of them carefully carried Monica and her severed arm to a large, casket-shaped object attached to the side of the newly-installed cabins in the cargo bay.
“Medical-bot,” he said in answer to John's quizzical look. “All single-pilot ships have to carry one by law. Now that I think of it, we are screwed, if more than one of us at a time is critically injured. We got lucky that more of us weren’t. Come on, help me get her in here.”
In a matter of moments, they had Monica and her severed arm in place. The lid closed with a whoosh.
“Medi-bot, how long is she going to be in here?” Peter said worriedly.
“A full twenty-four hours at least, unless complications arise. The fact that you brought the severed part and body within five minutes of injury, means I won’t have to grow a new arm which can take days. With lasers cauterizing the wound, her recovery is sure to be optimal,” The Medi-Bot replied.
“Will there be scarring?”
“Please, being, I am not a butcher! No one has ever died nor had any scarring from this unit! Of course, I have never performed surgery in this unit before as I have never been activated, but the doctors mind that this was programmed from has done this thousands of times! Don't worry, and let the DR Bones work its magic.”
“Hey, Peter, Whale-face wants to talk to you,” Shirley announced.
“I figured he would. Put him on.”
A hologram of the Administrator appeared before Peter. He was holding a piece of fabric against his wound.
“I am most angry, Captain; you have wounded me and killed two of my employees...”
An assassin robot laying on the floor not far from him interrupted, “I'm only injured, sir. I could be repaired... at minimal expense...I...”
The Vookin pulled its gun and shot the robot through the brain pan as it was struggling to pull itself off the fork punctured through its midsection.
“As I was saying, you killed two of my employees, and wounded me! Me! After I saved your pork strips at dinner!”
“What the heck are you talking about?” Peter said, irritated.
“Who do you think was killing Captain Tolane? Employee on my orders, that’s who! Would have taken out the rest, if not for bloodthirsty cooks! Where's my money, by the way? Me thinking it's now back to $700,000 again, for inconvenience. Remember having your ship booted?” the Administrator said smugly.
“Yeah? Well, you took my friend’s arm off! And screw your extortion Administrator, go fuck someone else. You have caused me no end of aggravation, and about your 'boot'…Shirley, let’s blow this shithole!”
Suddenly, a shrieking, grinding, popping noise grew—getting louder by the second. Klaxons started screaming in alarm. Inside the station, cargo bay sensors registered a pressure drop. Red lights flashed, signaling the pressure doors on the other bays were seconds away from dropping, and sealing them off. “I suggest you get somewhere safer, Blubber-butt. The atmosphere here is about to get a little rarefied,” Peter shouted over the sound of tortured metal.
The Vookins eye-stalks stood straight up in what Peter assumed was alarm. He rocketed from the cargo bay dock of the Incontinence with his gravity sled, no doubt on emergency boost. With one last horrific squeal and screaming of air, the Incontinence pulled away.
Chapter 13: Licking Wounds and a New Plan
The Incontinence had sped to a remote section of space, far away from known travel routes and planets.
“Where are we, Shirley?” Peter asked, reposed in his captain’s chair.
“I could give you the spatial coordinates, but they would mean nothing to you. Does it matter? Rest assured we are way out of the space lanes in the traveled universe, and should be undisturbed,” Shirley said smugly.
“Great! Why don't you—your repair drones—and Floyd repair the hull while I think about where to go next.”
“Yes, master. I hear and obey. Make sure your plans include not messing up my hull next time! Don't strain your brain thinking, genius.”
Peter activated the ship’s intercom to all the cabins and galley and announced, “Attention, crew! Will Floyd, John, and Oscar please meet me in the galley? The rest of you relax. You earned it. Monica is in critical, but stable condition, for those of you concerned. She should be up and about in twenty-four hours. Out.”
Peter needed some input as to what was next. By the time he made his way to the galley, Floyd, John, and Oscar were there waiting expectantly for him after all the excitement of their escape.
Jikelenga, Bob-Six, and James were hanging out non-nonchalantly in another booth. “Hey, sorry, Jikelenga, James, Bob… I hate to exclude you, but I can only take so much discussion and feedback. Could you go to your cabins or someplace else while we have this conference?” Peter said apologetically.
“Why can’t we stay?” James asked petulantly.
“For Tarcacks sake! Does everything have to be confrontational with you, James? I'm the Captain, and I don't have to explain myself to you. Let me be a little clearer, get the fuck out before you really piss me off!”
“Alright! Sheesh, what a sorehead!” James grumbled.
Bob-Six and Jikelenga got up and left with James; the Vookin silent as was Bob-Six as usual.
“Tarcacks! That boy is going to drive me to drink! Speaking of which, I suggest alcohol for this brainstorming session. We h
ave any?” Peter asked looking at John.
“Yes, Captain, I have various spirits locked up that I use for cooking. Earth whiskey OK?
“Perfect!”
“Got any tequila?” Oscar asked hopefully.
“Sorry, it's not commonly used in cooking, so I don't stock it,” John added.
“Shoot! OK, a beer or a vodka cranberry??” Oscar asked.
“Vookins balls! This is not a party! Hurry it up, and let’s get started, for Tarcacks sake!” Peter said impatiently, crossing his arms. After a few minutes, everyone was comfortably seated with drinks in front of them.
Peter sighed, “So... ahem. First off, I see now that a cruise-liner was not a good idea; profitable, but too high profile. It stirred up a mess for all of us, engaging us in a firefight, injuring Monica. I would like to avoid that in the future. From now on, I think we will be seeking smaller targets, such as common freighters, and accumulate credits a little slower—and less—uh, troublesome.
Speaking of troublesome, John, you mind explaining why you are here? It seems you own a restaurant but didn't see fit to mention it. Maybe you are not a millionaire, but you obviously have some money, and don't need to be risking your life as a criminal. What's up with that?” Peter stared intently at John as he spoke these last words.
“Uh, ye-a-ah, I guess you might question that,” John said holding his hands up, “it's kind of complicated. I guess the simplest way to explain is I was bored with restaurants and wanted new challenges…” he began.
Peter interrupted, “There are less risky ways to challenge yourself, John. Why didn't you take up midwifing sharks, black hole towing, or making explosives in your spare time? I am certainly happy to have you here, but I don't think you are telling us everything, are you?” Peter said, scowling.
“Uh, no, I am seeking to finance a pet project of mine and I needed money that I simply cannot go to the bank for, or borrow money against. Although technically it’s my restaurant—it’s still under high mortgage and was financed by a sweetheart investor. I still don’t own most of it and I’m in hock up to my eyebrows. I would like to not tell you what my plans are, that is, if you don't mind,” John said cryptically.
Star Hookers Space Pirates Page 15