Pirates of the Outrigger Rift

by Gary Jonas

  “We were partners in the Scouts. A two-person ship. Mapping, cataloging, first contact a couple of times with proto-intelligent creatures. We didn’t find the mother lode of advanced societies that some teams have, but we did all right. We made a lot of people rich and discovered a few new worlds to farm. We worked together, lived together.

  “What happened? How did you end up … as you are?”

  “An accident. We were refueling on a fringe outpost and the equipment was antiquated. There was a plasma explosion. I was severely injured. Hank saved me … or what was left.

  “Back at the nearest Confed base they patched up what pieces they could save. My mind was intact, but my body … they replaced what they could, and things worked okay for a while. But the pain never went away. Sometimes I would just shut down and lose control and I would lie in my own piss and filth. Hank would save me again. Clean me up and wait until it passed. But eventually it was too much.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hank had done some checking, and some Confed researchers were recovering technology from the old empire. There is so much that has been forgotten. Some of it for good reason—it was diabolical. But some could be beneficial to the Confed. He came to me with a suggestion. I had been at the point of killing myself. To me, this is a good afterlife. I get to spend time with Hank. For all his childishness he is a wonderful man, good and true. And I get to fly free in space and keep traveling. The pain is gone, and I am by all practical measurements happy.”

  “Do you love Hank?”

  Elsa laughed, and the sound of her voice bounced around the cockpit. “Of course. The question is, my dear, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t love him,” Sai said.

  “No, not yet. But I think you could.”

  Sai shook her head. “I’ve never really loved anyone. Well, Dirion, but that was different. He was my father.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t love. It simply means you’re probably more in need of love than most people.”

  “But still, I hardly know him.”

  “I understand. But I’m still a woman. I’ve already seen that the more you come to realize the man he is, the more you trust him. For you, trust is love. In fact, you may find love easier than trust.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s all right, Sai. I won’t tell him. But if you want him to know, you’re going to have to tell him. He’ll never figure it out himself. He’s a man.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hank arranged to meet Lippman in a public place, the small park just outside the trading house. It was one of the few areas of greenery on Jonesy. Delicate palm fronds shaded rows of verdant undergrowth. Narrow paths crisscrossed the park, their twists and turns allowing park goers to lose themselves in the cool shadows. The park was not well maintained and the greenery had begun to take over everything.

  Hank sat at the edge of the algae-choked central fountain waiting impatiently. He wore a tiny earpiece, his link with Elsa, just in case anything went wrong. He hoped it would stay quiet.

  He checked the time. Lippman was already five minutes late. Of course, Lippman had never been on time for anything in his life. That was another reason why he had been a lousy free-trader.

  Hank spotted him shortly thereafter, nervously making his way through the crowd, looking behind him every few seconds. His eyes locked with Hank’s and he approached the fountain.

  “It’s a good thing you decided to show,” Lippman said, sitting next to Hank, “otherwise I would have gotten pissed off. You wouldn’t want—”

  “Kiss my ass,” Hank said. He moved aside the ghutra covering his face and stood. “If you think for one solid minute that I’m afraid of you, you’re deluding yourself. I’m here for two reasons. Number one is to save myself the hassle of having to dodge another goon squad when it can be avoided, and the second reason is to save your ass.”

  “Hold on, don’t you mess with me. All I have to do is make one call.”

  “And what? You make the call, I space out. They can’t stop me in time. They don’t know where I’m going. Do you think they’ll pay you a single credit for helping them if the girl gets away? They’d be more likely to break your knees for not notifying them when I first landed. And if they find out that you’ve talked to me before calling them, you’re a dead man. Either way, you lose.”

  Lippman shook his head. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his cheeks. “No, you’ve got things turned around. I hold all the cards. I want that reward. You owe me.”

  Hank sighed. “How’s that? Just because you’ve bottomed out and I haven’t yet? Because life isn’t fair? Hell, Tazi, I’ve probably helped you more than any spacer alive. How many times have I bought you a meal or given you clothes off my back?”

  “Yeah, but you never coughed up a credit. You have that condescending attitude as if I can’t be trusted with money.”

  “Well, can you? Have you ever gotten a handout that you didn’t cash in at the nearest bar for stims or liquor?”

  Lippman sputtered. “But … but that’s not the point. I can hurt you. You have to pay! You’re lying about all of this!”

  Hank stood and dug out a credit stick. “Here, Tazi. Here’s a hundred credits. Prove me wrong. I suggest you get a good dinner, get yourself cleaned up, and try to find a job. You’re a lot smarter than you’ve been acting lately. Here’s another chance for life—don’t piss it away.”

  Lippman grabbed the stick out of his hand, but he wasn’t happy with it. “I want more. I want a thousand! You may talk big, but you’re full of shit. You’re bluffing, and I’m not stupid enough to go for it.”

  Hank nodded. “All right. You have two more options. You can contact Security and die quick. Or you can use that hundred up on more poison and die slow.”

  Lippman exploded in anger. He rushed forward, his hands grabbing for Hank’s throat. With a sudden sidestep and a half turn, Hank deflected Lippman’s arms and pushed him in the direction of his momentum. Lippman stumbled and fell to the street.

  Onlookers gathered to watch the fight, muttering to one another and pointing at Lippman, who stumbled to his feet.

  “Damn you!” Lippman screamed and swung a fist at Hank.

  Hank dodged the blow and sank a short, powerful punch directly in the center of Lippman’s face.

  Lippman froze and fell back on his rear end, dazed. Then he bent forward and began to throw up.

  Hank walked away. “Elsa, I’m headed back. Make sure we’re ready to take off when I get there.”

  “Is he going to turn us in?”

  “I don’t know,” Hank said, hoping that Lippman might wise up after he recovered from the punch. “But either way, I plan on us being offworld before he gets a chance.”

  Lippman still tasted blood. His nose throbbed and he probed a loose tooth with his tongue. Hank Jensen, big man. Well, he was going to show Hank just how small he really was.

  He went to a public comlink and inserted the credit stick Hank had just given him. The machine deducted its fee and he put the stick back into his pocket. It was ironic that Jensen’s stinking charity was paying for his downfall.

  The call connected, but the visual was blacked out as a man’s voice answered. “What do you have for me?”

  “This is Tazi Lippman on Jonesy. Hank Jensen and Sai Collins are here at the starport in Delta City. Come and get them.”

  “You sure it’s them?”

  “I know Jensen. I used to be friends with the bastard. It’s him all right. I live at the Carlton on Epsilon Street. I’ll be home later this afternoon waiting for my reward.”

  “We’ll check it out. If you’re playing games with us, you’ll regret it.”

  “No games. Just be ready to pay up.”

  He ended the call. “Screw you, Jensen.”

  Four hours later they came to the Carlton. Hank Jensen and the Elsa had already shipped out by that time, and they knew that Lippman had met Hank in the park, tipping him off wit
h his extortion attempt. They were not in a forgiving mood. He got his reward in the form of a shot to the forehead. Word was put out on the location of the Elsa and the noose tightened a bit more.

  Lippman had beaten the odds. He didn’t die broke. He still had five credits left on the stick Hank had given him, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey as his estate.

  They called him Thorne. If he’d ever had a first name, no one knew it. Nor would they dare utter it if they did know. He liked being called Thorne, and if you knew what was healthy for you, you stayed on his good side. Some people insisted that Thorne didn’t have a good side.

  Thorne’s passion was piracy. He loved the power. Loved the way it felt to blast someone’s ship, then board it and take what he wanted. He loved the respect that fear gave him.

  Thorne enjoyed attacking lone ships, but given the choice he’d opt for caravans. He and his crew had once stumbled across a caravan, and they were so complete in their theft and destruction that they attracted the attention of someone with real power.

  It was common knowledge that Thorne respected power. He was a man who took whatever he wanted wherever he wanted, and not only did he get away with it, but no one would ever challenge him. While that felt great, Thorne knew he lacked the kind of power his mystery friend at Nebulaco had.

  When the first message from the informant had been delivered to him, Thorne wasn’t sure whether or not to believe it. It came from the lips of a small, unimposing man, a common beggar. But the credits the messenger delivered, a token of the informant’s esteem, gave credence to the story.

  The informant rarely communicated with Thorne’s forces directly. The informant had a complicated network, each group using one or two contacts to pass information up and down through the organization. No one knew who the informant really was, and those who asked too many questions didn’t live long.

  The first time Thorne acted on information from this mysterious informant, his main concern was that the raid he was planning was some sort of trap. The lightly guarded caravan might be a Confed task force trying to clean up the sector.

  But Thorne couldn’t resist the opportunity. He and his crew flew over to the quadrant where this caravan was supposed to be, and sure enough, the informant’s information was dead-on. So Thorne attacked, and the payday was tremendous.

  The informant didn’t want any of the money, but Thorne knew he must have earned a profit somehow.

  Mostly, Thorne loved the way the media reacted. They were fearful and awestruck. That had not always been the case.

  Years ago, a reporter on the planet Sumter made the mistake of calling Thorne an insignificant coward. He said Thorne attacked only ships with no real firepower and that he would never be anything more than an irritant to the public. He suggested that someone swat him down like the buzzing insect that he was.

  The next day, Thorne strode into the studio where this reporter was on the air broadcasting his newscast to the civilized worlds. Security tried to stop him, but Thorne simply shot them. He walked right up to the pest and smiled. “Those things you said about me. Tell me to my face.”

  The reporter nearly had a heart attack, but Thorne wouldn’t let him off so easy. He hacked the man to pieces with an antiquated sword, live on the air, then turned to the camera. “Anyone else wants to call me a coward, go right ahead and you’ll get a nice personal visit as well.”

  Since then, while the press didn’t sing his praises, they certainly spoke with respect. He had all his men carry a sword as a symbol of what he would do to those who crossed him. And now, thanks to the informant, he got more press than ever, and more money than ever. So much so that he never even considered breaking away.

  Now Thorne sat at the head of the table enjoying a party thrown in his honor by his crew. He had a woman on either side of him, a huge plate of food, and a giant flask of Aldeberon whiskey. His bald head glistened in the light, and the girls took turns plucking bits of food from his mustache.

  A messenger entered the room, squeezed past the revelers, and handed a note to Glenn Manter, Thorne’s right-hand man. No messenger would dare interrupt Thorne.

  Glenn glanced at the note and nodded, then moved through the throng to the head of the table. Glenn held up the sealed communiqué. “It’s from the informant.”

  Thorne took the communiqué and broke open the seal, reading it.

  “Do we have a new assignment, or is it about the Randol woman?” Glenn asked.

  “Actually, it asks a favor. The informant wants us to patrol for a ship heading from Jonesy to Trent, the Elsa, piloted by Hank Jensen and carrying a woman named Sai Collins. He doesn’t have the flight plan on this one, but the route is common. He wants us to send out raiders to destroy the ship, chase down any life pods, and make sure there are no survivors.”

  Thorne lowered the note. “Hank Jensen, that sounds familiar. Was that the son of a bitch who took a shot at me in the starport bar on Calico?”

  “One and the same,” Glenn said.

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “He will be soon. I always hated that cocky bastard.”

  “Does the message say why the informant wants them dead?”

  “No, and I don’t care. I’ve been in port too long.” Thorne stood, drawing the cutlass from his belt and giving the room a wild-eyed smile. “I haven’t killed anyone in weeks.”

  “Have you ever been to Trent?” Hank asked. He checked the nav computer and made a few minor adjustments. Their exit from Jonesy had been abrupt, and their flight plan not as efficient as he would have liked.

  Sai laughed. “Other than Raken and Nebula Prime I haven’t been anywhere.”

  “Raken’s not exactly a place I’d like living. It’s okay to visit, mind you, but it’s all concrete and metal. Trent, though, that’s a place worth spending some time.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s an agworld. Not one of those robotically farmed, plant-cloning operations like most of the Greensward planets, no, Trent is different. People work the land there. They actually own it. No synthetics, very limited mechanical assistance, only a few androids. It’s organic and real. You can actually take a nap under an apple tree, take in a sunset, or sit on a back porch and watch the rain come in across the fields.”

  “You talk like a displaced country boy.”

  Hank nodded. “That I am. I was born and raised on a little upstart colony on the edge of Manspace called Hava. I didn’t know squat about piloting until I hit the military.”

  “Do your folks still live on Hava?”

  “No,” Hank said quietly, “no one lives on Hava anymore.” He rose from the pilot’s seat, his face expressionless. “Sorry, excuse me, I need to check the engines,” he said, leaving the cockpit.

  Sai waited a few moments, but when Hank didn’t return she spoke. “Elsa?”

  “Sorry. If he wants to talk about it, he will. If not, it wouldn’t be right for me to tell you.”

  “You’re a good friend, Elsa,” Sai said.

  “I can’t help it, I’m wired that way.”

  A while later, Hank returned, wearing his standard-issue grin. “How about a beer?” He asked.

  “Sure,” said Sai.

  Hank pulled a couple of cold ones from the cooler and opened them, handing one to Sai.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m sorry about bringing all that up. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Oh that? It’s not your fault. You just stepped in a pile of unfinished business. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

  “I know what you mean. You see, from where I sit, you’re a very lucky man. I don’t remember my parents at all. I was around three when they … disappeared.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Hank asked.

  “I don’t care,” she said, taking another sip. Sai had to admit the cold brew was good. Hank knew quality.

  “Dirion was the source of all my information about the past. He found me on the street
s, barely alive. I was in shock. He said I must have been wandering around for a while. This was in the days before he was totally interfaced with the Grid. He said he was walking along and he tripped over me. I had fallen asleep in the gutter.

  “At first he was going to leave me there, but something stopped him. He said he sensed that I was special. When I was a little girl, I used to fantasize that he had fallen in love with the darling little street urchin, but I know now that it was my psi talent that caught his attention. He knew I could turn out to be useful. Don’t get me wrong. Even though he picked me up to use me, it could have been worse. Most street children get used in much more terrible ways. I was lucky.”

  “But what happened to your parents?” Hank asked. “Where are they?”

  Sai shrugged. “I don’t really know. Dirion tried to research it, but he never found anything conclusive. More than likely I was the offspring of some starport whore who outgrew her welcome with her pimp. But, ever the romantic, I imagined my parents as execs who were ambushed by street punks and I was somehow separated from them. They frantically tried to find me, but alas, the wicked city had devoured me. There was a part of me that dreamed they would find me one day. For years that wish lingered in the back of my mind. Until one morning I woke up and it was gone. It died like most dreams die, quietly in your sleep, almost as if they had never been there in the first place.”

  Hank listened gravely. His eyes had a far-off look, as if he could actually see that little girl shivering in the cold street. His beer rested in his hand, though he hadn’t taken a single sip.

  Sai put her can down on the console and ran her fingers though her hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to depress you.”

  “Oh no, I’m fine. In fact, I’m glad you told me. You’re right. I get to feeling sorry for myself and I forget that I’m a damn sight better off than a lot of people.” Hank finally took a drink and put up his booted feet. “I reckon since we’re telling stories that I ought to tell you my pathetic little—”