by Kieran Shea
You’re so out of your element…
Crap, this was supposed to be a simple and straightforward scam, a way of getting clear of this mining life forever and starting over, but now, with less than four kilos extracted, things had become very cloudy indeed.
Jimmy then had an idea.
For his own protection he’d better take steps and hedge his bets.
18. BAITING THE TRAP
On her haunches, Piper verified Stormkast and Østerby’s data and operational checks on a portable CPU.
“Okay,” she announced, “everything is looking real good. Remote ignitions are clean and the diamond-caliper cables are tight. Everything seems set. Good work, people.”
Stormkast and Østerby crossed their arms.
Piper looked up. “Is there a problem?”
“Mind if we, like, knock off, chief?” Stormkast asked.
Piper dropped backward and sat on her butt. Like a Zen monk, she crossed her legs and welded her gaze on the two men. “You two in some hurry to be someplace special?”
“Well,” Stormkast said, “me and Østerby here have been working straight through, so we were thinking about catching a bite to eat.”
Piper checked the time on a floating digitalized orb just below the ceiling of the shipping hangar. Funny, even with the calliope riff of Einsteinian relativity in space, time sure did fly. Stormkast and Østerby had done everything she’d asked of them without complaint or fault. Now that their parasol gear was all packed up and ready for their assignment, grabbing a bite to eat wasn’t an unreasonable request, she supposed.
“You two must have cast-iron constitutions,” Piper said.
Stormkast shrugged. “Hey, it’s not the worst grub we’ve ever had. Slather on enough hot sauce and down enough drink and anything can be palatable.”
Piper flapped a hand. “Have at it. I’ll check in with you two later in the canteen.”
To save herself the aggravation, Piper elected not to supplement her approval with a “dismissed” and Østerby and Stormkast headed out.
It took her a few more minutes to properly close out all the open files on the CPU before Piper was able to reset the hard drive’s security measures and pass codes. When finished, she clammed the portable computer together and rolled a pair of mortise locks along its side as a final protective measure. Bowling forward onto her stomach, Piper did a short set of twenty push-ups and a long “downward dog” yoga stretch and then leapt to her feet. Somewhere overhead a brief three-count horn sounded, and then an advisory over the hangar’s PA system garbled with distortion:
Notice: Azoick Vessel 67230 Adamant has successfully acquired orbital pattern. Tender descents now confirmed and on schedule. Designated personnel, please prepare armadillo bays A through Z for cargo loading.
Looking around, Piper realized not far away in a tall kiosk at the center of the main hangar Jock Roscoe was watching her. Hmm, she thought, maybe it was time to finally introduce herself. Work up a little coquettish chit-chat, make the cue-ball deadbeat see her in a friendly way so when it came time to take down his sorry ass she could draw him in close. Piper tucked the CPU under her arm and ankled her way across the hangar. Approaching the kiosk, she gave Roscoe a nod and a wave.
Jock keyed a bone mic hooked to his ear, and his voice spat like a sizzle of hot fat from an external speaker.
“Can I help you?”
Piper batted her eyelashes. “Oh, no. I’m fine. I was just saying hello is all.”
Jock keyed the bone mic again. “Oh… well, hello to you too. Hey, you’re one of the subcontractors Azoick brought in for the parasol studies, aren’t you?”
Duh, like you haven’t been watching me all the livelong day, dead man.
“Yes, I am,” Piper acknowledged spryly. “I hope you don’t hold it against me. Lots of people around here, well, they’ve been sort of giving us the cold shoulder ever since we arrived.”
Jock pushed to his feet. “Well now, you’re just doing your job. I can’t really take issue with anyone trying to make a living.”
“Seems like you’re the exception, but thanks. My name is Piper, by the way.”
“Oh, I know.”
“You do?”
“Sure,” Jock replied. “Word gets around. And a dandy handle like that? A name like yours is hard to miss. But I’m happy to say it’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. People on station know me as Jock.”
Piper smiled. “So, do you run the whole show out here?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say run,” Jock said, angling his head with affected modesty. “I merely keep things functioning as they should. You know, make sure the designated cargo gets to where it’s intended to go, some occasional machine maintenance and inventories, that sort of thing. Pretty much easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, but don’t tell anyone I said that. I like to keep people mystified.” He pointed to the packed-up parasol gear behind her. “So, are you folks out for a long haul or is this just a one and done posting for you?”
Following his gaze to the equipment and then turning back, Piper said, “I’m afraid it’s a temporary duty yonder for me. After the parasols get deployed I’m going to catch the next available ride for a skip back. Actually, this is the furthest I’ve ever been out. The other two guys on my team, I don’t know. They might have other plans, but I’m not sticking around.” After a pause she added, “Must get real lonely out here.”
“Lonely?”
“Yeah.”
“In what way?”
Piper tossed her blonde hair flirtatiously. “Well, you know, deep space and a remote station, same faces all the time for months and months and months. I mean, I know it’s my job and all, but I like the proximity to Earth and the quicker turn-and-burns out and back of my own solar system. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a thrill to be way out here in deep space, but being so far from home is kind of freaking me out.”
“Aw, you just have to put it out of your mind.”
“Easier said than done. It’ll be months before I get back.” Detecting a mild flutter in Jock’s throat, Piper intentionally decided against mentioning anything about her fiancé. “You know, I don’t normally like to comment on such personal things, but I really like your tattoos. Looks like you went all in.”
Jock peeled a palm over the crown of his inky dome. “Oh, you’re a fan of art, are you?”
Turning sideways, Piper pulled back her weskit and unzipped her red bodysuit. Underneath she wore a supportive black tank top and, baring a shoulder so he could see, she gave Roscoe a good view of one of her own tattoos. God, Piper thought, if her fiancé saw him ogling her like that he would beat him to pulp. Oh well, when in Rome…
“Been in the wars, I see.”
“Yes, sir. Joint-engineering corps, PAL.”
“One of the demagogic oligarchies or the Southern Alliance?”
“Splitting hairs, but the Southern Alliance. Argentine.”
“Funny, you don’t sound like you’re from Argentina.”
“They kind of beat inflections out of you during boot camp. Did you serve somewhere?”
“Me? Nah.” Jock removed his bone mic. Opening the kiosk door, he tottered down a twelve-step staircase fixed to the side of the structure and moved toward her. Up close Jock barely came up to Piper’s shoulders. “May I?” he asked.
Ewwwwww.
Every nerve in Piper’s body buzzed with revulsion, but she steeled herself. When Roscoe traced a tattoo on her shoulder with a light caress she tried hard not to cringe. Her PAL tattoo was monochromatic and sharply defined—a canine skull with two cross-boned pulse carbines.
“I’ve more,” Piper confided, “but those are a bit more private, if you know what I mean.”
Jock retracted his finger and pumped his eyebrows. “I bet.”
Covering herself super-quick, Piper zippered up and smoothed her weskit. “Say, speaking of accents… yours is pretty cute. You wouldn’t happen to be from New Zealand, would you?”
Taking
umbrage, Jock leaned back. “Me? A bloody Kiwi? Never. I’m a proud son of Oz—Brisbane, to be more precise—and my relations go back twenty generations. So… have you ever been to the sweaty continent?”
“Australia? Oh no, but I’ve always wanted to visit.”
“Well, don’t believe all the hysteria about the wacky weather. Personally, I can’t wait to get back.”
Piper nodded. “You know, I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Oh, is that a fact?”
“Yeah, post-skip. That taco service in the canteen? More than a little gross, but the bar seemed like quite the lively place. A girl has to wonder, though. Is that it for all the fun out here?”
“Mostly,” Jock concurred, “but there’s other amusements. Your arrival on Kardashev 7-A is fortuitous. You’re just in time for the big party.”
“Big party?”
“Yeah, post-blows we cut loose with this huge hoedown before the spiders take off. A bottom of the bottle sort of an affair, but people tend to go all out. Dancing. Lots of loud music. We piggyback the shindig right here just after the pre-liftoff assembly. They don’t like to advertise it, but management even has special food set aside as a treat. Tell me, are you of the carnivore persuasion, Piper?”
You dumb Aussie fucker… you have no idea.
“Oh, definitely,” she replied.
“Well, you’ll love the big party, then. There’s stuffed sausages, stacked terrines, and these amazing little pointy fried rice dumplings I can’t seem to get enough of. A total feast. You almost forget all the identifiables you’ve been scarfing down for months.”
“Sounds tempting.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as tempting, but it’s tasty. It almost makes you feel like you’re back on the big blue dot.”
“Gosh, I haven’t been dancing in, like, forever. Are subcontractors invited?”
“I don’t see why not. You’ll be at the assembly, won’t you?”
“I think attendance is stipulated in our contract, but no one said anything about a party. I don’t know. The staff on station, like I said, they seem a little resentful of us being here.”
“Listen,” said Jock. “If anybody gives you any lip about taking part in the festivities, just say you’re with me, all right? People here on station, they know better than to mess with Jock Roscoe. And not to skite about it or nothing, but I do cut a mean tango if you’re up for some dancing.”
Jock held out a hand and reluctantly Piper took it. When he leaned down for a beau geste kiss of her flattened knuckles, she made a mental note to wash off her hand with bleach as soon as possible.
Yuck.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you at the big party, then,” Piper said, retracting her hand.
Waggish eyes a-twinkle, Jock lowered his voice suggestively. “Count on it.”
19. SPOON MAN
Long ago, back when Jimmy Vik’s weekends were an endless haze of rucks, dodged tackles, and swiped post-game cases of cheap beer, his favorite rugby coach had a ritual of handing out spoons.
The spoons, a mix of second-hand utensils of varying size and wear, were pulled from a mesh sack, and, bloodied and bruised, each of Jimmy’s teammates took one as they were distributed. Jimmy’s coach was a real hard case and rarely said anything during such moments. Not a word about Jimmy’s botched passes, the team’s accrued penalties or even the abysmally lopsided score displayed on a set of flip markers posted on the far side of the pitch. After all the spoons had been handed out, his coach would then raise his arm and Jimmy’s entire squad would drop to their knees with the somber resignation of dogs.
“Spoon it up, men,” his coach would say. “Spoon it the fuck up.”
It was a hell of a lesson.
Filling out the limits of his back-to-back, Jimmy sullenly recalled each of at least a dozen times when he’d spooned turf into his mouth. Oddly enough, the memory of fresh dirt and crabgrass on his tongue gave him strength as he drove the crawler back to base. As he ground his way over to the surface ruts, Jock sent several messages via the scrambler for an update. Jimmy ignored Jock as long as he could until finally he sent a message that he was on his way back to base.
Jock responded:
: status/hp?
: +++
Jock was ecstatic and reminded Jimmy in short bursts of text that once he cleared the shipping hangar’s massive dual-sectioned airlock he would be met by Zaafer—or, more succinctly, in Jock’s blinkered verbiage:
: our darkie in the dark;)
When the gargantuan doors on either side of the second airlock section retracted, Jimmy powered toward the vehicle maintenance area. He saw Zaafer and, with a pair of green safety batons, the young man directed Jimmy to a jersey-walled slot.
Being on edge as he was, the procedures for shutting down the crawler eluded Jimmy briefly, but eventually he powered everything down. He climbed out of the cockpit with his gloves bowled in his helmet, and approached the young tech. Zaafer didn’t look directly at him.
“I understand you had some forward seal issues.”
Jimmy cradled his helmet under one arm. “Um, as a matter of fact, yeah. Standard warning light kept flashing on and off. To tell you the truth, I’m glad I made it back in one piece.”
“Sorry there’s been a problem,” Zaafer offered as he made a note on a dataslate. “This will be taken care of right away, not to worry. Do you have anything still stowed in the crawler’s rear compartment, perchance?”
Jimmy looked Zaafer over. He still couldn’t process that this pimple-faced, skinny kid was in league with someone like Jock. He hardly came across as a formidable henchman. Jimmy knew a lot of people made fun of Zaafer because of his oral hygiene issues and how he stuck to his devout Muslim beliefs. Still, Jimmy couldn’t help but wonder just how much Zaafer knew about the gold. Given his supposed partner’s prejudiced commentary and the amount of ill-gotten profit involved, for his sake he hoped Zaafer knew very little. Jimmy speculated on exactly how Jock had paid Zaafer off. Like everyone on station he knew there had to be some compulsion or vice involved. When Zaafer motioned his head at a metal case identical to the long drill case nearby, no additional hint was necessary.
Wow, Jimmy thought, a second case was a detail he’d overlooked. He was relieved Jock had arranged the matching case for the swap, but still he had a feeling something was off. Picking up the second case by its handle, Jimmy hooked around to the rear of the crawler and quickly placed the long drill in the second case’s vacant memory foam. Jimmy left the original case used out in Fifty-Seven inside the rear compartment and sealed the hatch.
He’d slipped the three and a half kilos of gold into his rucksack before he headed back. The original was full of rocks.
Bets damn well hedged.
“Well, you’ve got things from here,” Jimmy said. “Anyway, I need to get this and my suit back to the ASOCC equipment stores on the a.s.a.p.”
“Mmm, yes, right, you do,” Zaafer replied.
“So, I assume we’re good here?”
Zaafer shook a box of candies against his mouth and munched. “Oh, yes. Very good. Very good indeed.”
Jimmy looked toward Jock’s kiosk in the center of the massive hangar. He noted that Jock wasn’t inside so he started to move off toward the hangar’s exits. Near one of the far walls he saw a blue tarp covering a large pile of plastic drums and quickly he slipped out of his spacesuit. After sliding the second drill case, his helmet, spacesuit, and rucksack under the tarp next to the barrels, Jimmy took up a concealed position, behind the legs of an unused marcher lift, to spy on Zaafer.
The young tech made a good show of examining the seals on the crawler. After a few dallying minutes, however, he took the loaded drill case from the crawler’s rear compartment and secured the case to the bumper of a glide-scooter. As Zaafer skittered off, Jimmy followed and did his best to remain out of sight. Taking cover behind shelving girders and assorted secured cargo bins along the way, when Jimmy saw Zaafer sail past Armadil
lo Bay H and continue on to the farthest reaches of the hangar he felt simultaneously vindicated and pissed off. Well, what do you know… Jock had lied to him about which tender he intended to use, that little, backstabbing weasel.
Skulking closer, Jimmy watched as Zaafer parked the glide-scooter outside Armadillo Bay X next to an automated hover bin. Zaafer jumped off the scooter, retrieved the rock-laden case from the bumper, and pulled on a shiny hazmat suit. Just as he finished zippering up his protective gear, a crashing sound erupted from the other side of the hangar and Zaafer craned his head toward the sound.
Jimmy plunged out of sight just in time. The sudden clamor at the other side of the hangar—it didn’t take a brainiac to put two and two together. The noise must have been intentional. A distraction. Made sense. Jimmy knew, of course, that the shipping hangar was constantly monitored by an imaging drone. The drone would certainly zoom over to investigate whatever the ruckus was about and leave Zaafer to load the bogusly filled case onto the tender unnoticed.
Sneaky son of a bitch, that Jock.
Two can play at that game though.
After making his way back to the tarp where he’d left his gear, Jimmy saw the reason for all the noise. A bundle of drafting pipes had spilled off a shelf as, handily, the belts securing the pipes had unexpectedly come undone. Jock was standing close to the mess with a few curious onlookers. Keeping an eye on Jock and the imaging drone hovering above, Jimmy took his rucksack full of gold and the rest of his gear from under the tarp and hustled off to the equipment stores in ASOCC.
20. NEWS FOR THE HORDE
In the canteen, Østerby and Stormkast were taking copious turns with a squeeze bottle of hot sauce on their soy-burgers when an announcement appeared on the VDT screens above the bar. The announcement, read by a woman identified as JSC Leela Pendergast, appeared after an image of the Azoick arrow-in-midflight logo. For legal purposes and further lucidity, a crammed synchronous crawl in multiple languages flowed beneath the woman’s face as she began.