by Gary Jonas
“What about it?”
Chandler rapped on Radje’s bandaged skull. “Hello, is anybody in there? Tell me how it happened.”
“Ow! That hurts like hell!”
“So talk to me, pal.”
“All right. What is this, one of those insurance things?”
“Yeah, whatever. You want to tell me what happened, or do you want to listen to a couple of knock-knock jokes?” Chandler moved as if to rap on Radje’s head again.
“Okay! I was on the bridge when we realized we were approaching another ship. It was just sitting.”
“You just ran into it? In other words, it was waiting directly in your route?”
“As near as I can guess. We took a couple of hits and lost the hyperdrive. About that time, six ships intercepted us and started shooting. A message came over the navcom saying that we should surrender to Thorne and prepare to be boarded.”
“What about the passenger, Helen?”
“Uh. Well, I didn’t see her the whole trip. She pretty much stayed in her cabin and didn’t associate with the crew. She was one of them lordy-type women.”
“So you don’t know what happened to her.”
“No idea. I just got out as quick as I could. The captain gave the abandon-ship order. We were just a yacht. We didn’t have the firepower to combat odds like that. I made it to a one-man life pod and launched. The last thing I saw before the stasis field kicked in was the Aurelius and the pirate ship docked together. So far as I know, I’m the only one they’ve found so far. Maybe I’m the only one who made it out at all.”
“So the ship was intact when you last saw it?”
“Yes, but I’m sure it’s gone. No ship ever attacked by Thorne has been recovered.”
Chandler rubbed his chin. “Thorne, Thorne. You know, I keep hearing that name. Why do you think it was Thorne?”
“Well, I saw one of the pirates and he had a sword.”
“A sword?”
“Yeah, everybody knows that Thorne’s pirates have swords.”
“Why?”
Radje shrugged. “They look scary, I guess.”
“Whatever. Okay, you had your chance to tell me a fairy tale and I really enjoyed it. Now, let’s hear what really happened.”
“What do you mean?” Radje said.
“Your life pod was full of … souvenirs.”
Radje tried to sit up and looked around. “I think I need the nurse.”
Chandler smiled. “You will if you don’t start talking.”
“I was just trying to keep the pirates from getting it. It was okay. I asked her and she said it was okay.”
“Asked who?”
“Lady Randol. I seen her when I was leaving. I swear. I was headed down to the pods and I went by her cabin. She was running to the pods, too. She had a gun and then these pirates started shooting at us. I jumped for the pod and that’s all I remember.”
“So you did see Helen, and you even spoke to her? This is finally starting to make some sense,” Chandler said. “You used her to cover your escape, didn’t you?”
Radje turned white. “No! I would never do something like that. I swear to all the gods. I’m just a crewman, but I wouldn’t abandon a woman like that.”
“Sure, bud. I get you. You’re one of those hero types.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I would have stayed to help her, but I thought she got into a pod, too.”
Chandler smirked. “Tell you what. When I find her—and I will—I’m gonna make sure and ask her about you so that we can come back and pin a medal on that chest of yours.”
“Oh no,” Radje said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t anything. I was just in the right place at the right time. No big deal.”
“Sure. Either that, or she’ll tell me you’re a thieving coward who was willing to throw her to the wolves and you’ll get what’s coming to you.” Chandler laughed. “But hey! That won’t happen because you’re telling the truth.”
Radje really didn’t look well. “I need that nurse. I think I’m going to get sick.”
“Tell ya what, hero. I understand from your records that you were a maintenance tech. I need some details of the ship. I need to know what flavor of bubblegum is stuck under which table in the galley. I need to know which faucet is leaky. I need to know what color duct tape you used to fix the coolant hose. I need to know the location of the hidey-hole where you stored your contraband.”
“That was medicinal,” Radje said.
Chandler smiled. “I’m sure it was. We’re gonna go over things, and if you give me what I need, I’ll put a word in to Lord Randol and we won’t prosecute you for theft and desertion. How does that sound?”
Radje became very cooperative after that. Chandler logged as many details about the Aurelius as he could get out of Radje. At the end of the interview he felt confident that if he could locate the ship he had enough to identify it.
As he rose to leave, he leaned down to speak to Radje. “I think this is enough, but I may have more questions. Stay easy to contact. Oh, and since you’re going to be stuck here for a while, I’ve got some advice.” Chandler straightened and gestured toward the various patients hacking and wheezing in the room. “Try not to breathe.”
Everybody who was anybody on Nebula Prime ate at the Executive Towers Royale. The restaurant sat perched atop the twin towers of the corporate headquarters with a thin glassed-in walkway between the two portions of the establishment. The north tower seated the general population, while the south tower, built slightly higher, catered to the elite.
Oke sat in the back of his sleek black limo watching the lights of the city flash by as his chauffeur made a slow bank around the towers and descended toward the landing platform.
The limo came to a stop and the chauffeur killed the engine, letting the vehicle slowly settle down on a cushion of air. The chauffeur exited and hustled around the vehicle. He stood waiting to open Oke’s door until the second limo, the one carrying Oke’s personal guards, landed adjacent to them. It was a study in pure waste and ostentation.
Four men in polished black exo-armor stepped out of the second limo and took up their positions. They quickly scanned the area, then the squad leader gave the chauffeur a nod.
The chauffeur opened Oke’s door. “Here we are, sir.”
“Are we on time?” Oke asked.
“Fifteen minutes late, milord,” the chauffeur said, “as you requested.”
Oke nodded and stepped out. “Very good, Bittleson. My cloak.”
Bittleson draped the silver cloak over Oke’s shoulders. Oke chose the mirrored epaulettes because they always caught the overhead lights and flashed, drawing attention to him.
Oke held his head up and strutted along the carpeted path toward the entrance to the south tower. His guards followed, flanking him, two on each side. Out of the corner of his eye, Oke saw people watching him from the windows on the north side. He smirked, pleased, but made sure not to acknowledge the common folk. It was enough that he allowed them to feast their eyes upon him at all.
The doorman saluted sharply and opened the door as they approached. “Good evening, Lord Oke,” he said.
One of the guards shoved the man back as they walked by. Oke continued as if the man were a piece of furniture.
Oke frowned as he approached the restaurant. There was no one standing at the maître d’s station, forcing him to wait. He seethed with anger. A lord should never have to wait!
For fifteen seconds he stood there. He should have delayed his exit from the limo. Finally, the maître d’ returned from escorting another customer to a table.
“Good evening, milord.” The maître d’ bowed deeply.
Oke rolled his eyes. “Yes, too bad I’m wasting it waiting for service.”
“A thousand pardons, milord. I’m dreadfully sorry. I humbly beg your forgiveness.” The man seemed genuinely upset.
“Please just shut up. I am dining with Mr. Maxwell this evening.”
“Yes, sir
. Mr. Maxwell is already here.”
“Take me to him then.” Oke waved the man on.
“Yes, milord. Right this way.”
Maxwell sat across the room at a table facing the windows, sipping at a glass of red wine. As Oke arrived, he stood and bowed.
Oke made sure he twisted to catch the light with his epaulettes as he walked toward the table. He wanted people to know they were in his presence. His bodyguards followed, eyes scrutinizing the patrons with deadly intensity. When he reached Maxwell’s table, he allowed the maître d’ to take his cloak. Beneath it, he wore a hand-painted silk kimono decorated with a confusion of erotic scenes.
“Vincent,” Oke said with a nod.
“Milord,” Maxwell said.
The maître d’ pulled out Oke’s chair. “Please, be seated.”
“Thank you,” Oke said, sitting down and folding his hands in his lap.
The leader of the bodyguards quickly stepped over, scanned Maxwell with a small device, then moved to take his position around the table with the others. They looked like obsidian pillars.
Oke looked through the windows at the people on the north side of the restaurant. Many of them stared across the walkway at the privileged few who rated high enough to sit on Oke’s side. His generosity suddenly got the better of him, and Oke blessed them with a wave of his hand.
The maître d’ offered menus, which Oke dismissed. “Have the chef create something.”
“Certainly, Lord Oke.” The maître d’ bowed and withdrew.
“Such a dreary evening this is, Mr. Maxwell. The flight over here was horrid. I really don’t know why I agreed to meet with you.”
Maxwell smiled. “Milord, I believe that you might come to think of this evening as one of the most fateful in your life.”
Oke was intrigued, but he refused to show it.
“Really? How quaint that you think so.”
Maxwell leaned forward, keeping his eyes locked onto Oke’s. “I have information for you, milord. What I’m about to tell you must go no further. I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence.”
Oke heard this sort of thing every day. Everyone thought they had information that could be divulged only to a lord. “Yes, yes, what is it?”
“One of my employees uncovered some files that point to corruption high up in the corporation. Extremely high. If I read the information correctly—and I went over it thoroughly—it would seem to cast suspicion on a lord.”
“Your employees dared to investigate us?”
“No, milord. This employee was doing a routine file check and came across some accounts that did not balance. When he checked to see whose account it was and cross-referenced the deposits and withdrawals, he brought the files to me.”
“What did you discover?”
“Well, milord, it seems that Lord Randol has been receiving unusually large amounts of money from, shall we say, suspicious sources. If it were anyone else, I would assume that he was profiting from some illegal enterprise.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I thought, too, milord. I went over the information again and again and it keeps coming up the same. This in combination with his reluctance to admit Casey’s guilt creates a certain … impression.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
“Not yet. I wanted to advise you of the problem first. I’m on shaky ground here. I feel that you’re the only lord with the strength and insight to properly deal with this situation. What should I do?”
Oke considered this, tapping his forefinger against his lips before nodding. “It’s vital that this scandal be kept quiet—especially in light of the impending stock sale. Continue your investigation and keep me apprised of what you learn, but maintain a low profile.”
Oke leaned back as the waiter arrived to set salads before them consisting of three blades of Altairian lime grass and a single drop of blue dressing.
“Can I get you anything else, Lord and sir?”
“Go away,” Oke said. He waited for the man to leave before pushing his salad bowl to the side, leaning toward Maxwell. “Anything you uncover, you bring to me first. Is that understood?”
“Yes, milord, but what about Lord Randol? What if he suspects? He’s already attacked me in open council.”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll speak with Lady Hemming about this so she’ll side with me. Not to fear, I’ll be discreet. You’ll have our support.”
Jonesy was a bustling spaceport floating in the middle of a galactic crossroads. The planet was generally considered to be worthless, but at one time the airless, barren hunk of rock had been valuable real estate. A small war had been fought over control of the region, once important when the influence of the old empire depended upon strong supply lines and tyrannical discipline. The port had been domed to hold the artificial atmosphere so that its inhabitants could engage in commerce without vacsuits. Palm trees and grass had been imported to beautify the filthy rock, and the turd was polished thoroughly. There had been great plans for Jonesy.
Now, with the empire dead and gone, and the Confed a weak substitute, Jonesy had degenerated to a dingy oasis—a place to take a real shower and grab a bite of home-cooking on your way to somewhere else. Hank thought of it as a glorified truck stop.
Even so, a steady stream of goods poured in from all corners of the galaxy to be bought, sold, and traded. It was a place of diverse cultures and alien races, where many people had secrets to hide, and no one asked too many questions. Hank had chosen to refuel there for that very reason.
He docked the Elsa under an assumed registration as the Vasco, which he’d used successfully in the past, complete with the proper forged documents to back it up. He intended to refuel, check the local buzz, then space out quietly. There was no sense in attracting unwanted attention, particularly by security.
Sai sat back in the copilot’s seat with her feet up on the control console. “Can we order out for food? I’m already sick of this synthetic crap.”
“At least I can cook,” Elsa shot back.
“Oh yeah? What do you call this? Electric Mystery Meat Surprise? Wait a minute. What makes you think I can’t cook?”
“Nothing, just the fact that women like you normally dish out their specialties on their backs.”
“Metallic bitch!” Sai yelled, kicking at the controls.
Hank sat with his face in his hands quietly muttering to himself. “I’m in hell. I have died and been sent to everlasting perdition.”
Finally he could take no more, and he stood and took a deep breath. “Will you both just shut up!”
“She started it,” Elsa said.
“I did not! Besides, where do you get off telling us to shut up?” Sai said, pointing her finger at Hank.
“Exactly,” Elsa said. “Who do you think you are?”
Great, Hank thought, they found a common enemy.
“Listen. We’re going to be stuck with each other for a while longer, so please, for all our sakes, try to get along. We can’t risk leaving the ship, so why don’t we do something constructive? How about you two work on analyzing the corporate security net for any news about us. I’ll order some Xai food and a couple of beers.” He stopped and looked in his cooler. “Make that a case.”
Before Hank could reach for the com unit, it signaled an incoming message. “Answer it, Elsa. Keep us out of the vid.” He hoped it was just the dockmaster confirming his fuel order.
Elsa answered the com, putting up a phony holographic simulation of herself as a human. “Hello, who is it?”
A holo image of a pudgy middle-aged man appeared in miniature above the com unit. “Elsa, that’s a good look for you. Is Hank around?”
“Shit!” Hank said. He recognized the man as Tazi Lippman, an ex-pilot, ex-friend, current rummy who turned up now and then to hustle credits for liquor. “Lippman! How in the hell did you know it was me? I tried my damnedest to be incognito.”
Elsa’s fake
image dissolved, allowing Lippman to see Hank. Lippman smiled. “Ah, you can play all you want with registration codes, but I recognized Elsa’s lines. I hear you’re into the passenger trade these days.”
“Well, you do what you can to make a buck.”
“I’m talking about one special little wench, one with a price on her head. Sai Collins. Where might she be?”
Great, Hank thought, news travels fast. One of these days I am going to slit your throat, you old lush. “What? Price on her head? Damn! And I let her off on Matilda just a couple of hours ago. How much was it? Maybe I can still find her.”
Lippman shook his head, laughing, but it was forced, and his eyes had a cast of desperation. “Now, you wouldn’t want to lie to me, Hank old boy. After all, we’re friends. Friends share things with each other. A fifty-thousand-credit bounty makes for a strong friendship, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
Lippman’s face tightened. “Come on, Hank. Why would you be so secretive if you didn’t still have her on board? Tell me, are you going to turn her in, or has she paid you enough to help her?”
“You’ve been sucking down the wrong fuel, my friend. You’re imagining things.”
Lippman flushed red. “Don’t screw with me, Jensen! You’re so smug, sitting in your fancy ship, free to do what you want! Remember this, you and I are just the same. You could be scraping the bottom just like me after a bad piece of luck. I deserve a piece of this, Hank. I need it. And you’re either gonna pay me my due, or you’re gonna have to face Security. Remember, there’s a price on your head, too. Which will it be?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It didn’t take long for one of his larcenous little birds to whisper in Chandler’s ear that someone had just bought an Athena-class yacht and was looking to refit it into a pleasure cruiser. Chandler used some of Randol’s money and was able to get a name.
Louie “The Finger” Rocco specialized in providing entertainment to those unfortunate souls in the remote boomtowns of the Outyonder. He was a humanitarian soul who enjoyed spreading love and companionship—for a price—at his pleasure domes and casinos. This selfless impulse had made him one of the richest men in the sector, though still a pauper when compared to the lords of the megacorporations. Louie’s well-known philosophy was: “So what? They got more money, but I get laid more often.”