by Rolf Nelson
The guard swings the launcher around to point at the foot of the ramp of the crashed flier, where Harbin is still firing. He looks through the scope and sees Harbin aiming directly at him. Harbin’s gun jerks slightly, smoke puffing from the barrel, and the launcher jerks crazily, pointing skyward as the guard falls.
Twenty-one dead guards lie scattered on the ground between Harbin and the mine building. The lifeless form of a shirtless man hangs over the parapet wall next to a grenade launcher. Two guards stand at the edge of the large doorway just inside the mine building. One starts to peek around the corner, toward the airfield. Harbin squeezes off a few rounds at the open doorway and into the sheet-metal walls on either side. The guard pulls back sharply as a hole appears with a CLANK in the wall next to him, and bullets buzz past to ping on the back of the building.
Harbin grabs his ammo can from the ground and sprints to where Helton has fallen. He kneels, takes a few more covering shots, and looks down at Helton. Smoke rises from Helton’s coat, and the back of his neck and head are blackened and blood-spattered. The grenade explosion burned all the way through his coat, but underneath is the shiny silver-white of the book that Helton had tucked away in the cave. Harbin grabs his shoulder and carefully rolls him over. His face is blank, stunned, uncomprehending.
A ringing, roaring, muffling of sounds. It’s all blurry, dark, and moving in slow motion. Helton stares up at Harbin’s mouth yelling, “COME ON! ON YOUR FEET! WE GOTTA GO!” and he closes his eyes for a second. He shakes his head gingerly, squints, and half sits up, looking sideways. Dust puffs kick up from the bullets hitting nearby. Harbin holds his rifle in one hand and helps Helton to his feet. He fires covering shots as Helton stumbles to the next flier, drops to one knee for aimed shots as Helton works his way up the stairs. Then he stands, tosses the last things through the door, runs up the stairs, and empties his magazine at the building. He ducks through the hatch, following Helton into the cockpit.
Sunlight shining in through the cockpit’s windshield casts stark shadows on the grimy seats and screens. Helton looks over the controls for a moment — the layout is much like that in the simulator he crashed — rubs his face, shakes his head gently to clear it, winces, then begins the launch sequence. He clumsily slips the electronic key into its slot, and Harbin places the severed hand on the scanner. Helton flips switches, struggling to keep focus. The drive system spins up, and its sound fills the cabin.
The flier rises smoothly from the landing field, leaving the wreckage of the other below, angles away, and heads toward a valley between two mesas. It sweeps up and around the building, across a small spur and around a bend in the valley, then swoops down to land near the cluster of waiting passengers.
The cargo bay is small, about seven meters long and five wide, lined with flip-down seats. Harbin stands next to the ramp, pulling tight the straps on a safety harness. The flier lands with a thump and a jerk. Harbin hits a large button on the bulkhead, and the rear ramp lowers rapidly to the ground. “Thank God!” someone yells, and the passengers start scrambling up the ramp as fast as they can, carrying the smaller children.
“EVERYONE MAKE IT?” Harbin shouts, in a voice trained to cut through the noise of battle and the fog of confusion.
“Yes,” one of the women replies happily, “All here!”
“One per seat and buckle up!” Harbin takes a young girl from her father and buckles her into a nearby seat with practiced speed and efficiency, then looks around the cargo hold to see others doing the same. “LIFT OFF! GO GO GO!” he yells toward the cockpit, then he slaps the ramp button, and it slowly starts to rise.
Back at the landing field one of the slavers runs, carrying a light machine gun with a long belt of ammo, headed for the remaining flier, a small open-topped two-man quad-rotor with ducted fans. He jumps into the flier, drops the gun into the pintle mount on the front right corner of the cockpit, grabs the controls, and hits a button. He waits a moment for the propellers to spin up, then takes off after Helton.
The cargo bay loading ramp is about two-thirds closed and rising slowly. A loud roaring fills the cargo bay as air rushes past and through the opening, tugging at hair and loose clothing. Passengers line the wall of the cargo bay, buckled into the flip-down seats, holding the duffels, ammo, and bandoleers. Harbin, now with a safety line clipped to his harness, checks their buckles. Next to him, a passenger is pouring a cup of water from a 20-liter can when a metallic CLANK sounds and the water can sprouts two holes, one facing the open ramp and one on the opposite side. Another bullet strikes one of the ramp lift pistons, hydraulic oil spurts out, and the ramp stops closing. Harbin jerks his head around to look out the opening and sees the small quad-rotor flying close behind them, the guard trying to pilot with one hand and aim a machine gun with the other.
Harbin snatches his rifle from the man holding it for him, barrel-down, steps to the back door and braces with a knee and one hand, then fires one-handed at the quad-rotor as it dodges and jerks behind their swooping, twisting flier. He struggles to keep his feet as Helton dives and swerves, his view out the back door shifting wildly. A series of holes runs up the loading ramp, and a splash of bullets glint as they ricochet around the cargo hold, and one tears through Harbin’s leg in a small spray of gore. No bones hit, but more than a scratch. Harbin is trying to pick his shots, but the combination of Helton’s evasive flying and the quad-rotor’s erratic motion makes the challenge impossible even for him. Frustrated, he drops the magazine and slams another into the gun, switches to full-auto, and hoses down the general area of the quad-rotor, sending hot brass flying all over the cargo area.
The quad-rotor pilot has one hand on the belt-fed pintle-mounted light machine gun, the other on the control yoke. He fires in short bursts at the escaping flier as he flies erratically back and forth. A bullet breaks his windscreen, making him swerve. He fires back. The two aircraft swoop through a series of tight turns with steep canyon walls on each side, and another round tears a small hole in the front of his quad-rotor. He starts to fire again, but a stream of full-auto tracer fire blossoms out from the flier, and he dodges wildly to avoid it.
In the flier cockpit, Helton twists and turns the control yoke as the canyon walls flash by through windows and screens. He flips a switch, adjusts a large lever forward. He grits his teeth and, seeing a sheer wall ahead, pulls back hard on the yoke.
The tracer fire stops and the guard banks the quad-rotor back into position to fire another burst. Suddenly, the flier pulls straight up, revealing a sheer rock wall ahead.
Harbin inserts another magazine without removing the rifle from his shoulder, and Helton stands the craft on its tail and climbs straight up. Harbin pitches forward and down through the half open ramp door, finally getting a clear and close, if unanticipated, shot at the quad-rotor. He fires a long burst on full-auto as he falls. Tracer rounds stream across the aircraft and its pilot.
The guard rocks back as bullets rip through him. Others plow through one of the engines, disrupting rapidly spinning parts. The engine explodes and the windshield shatters and the aircraft hurtles directly at Harbin. He hits the end of his safety line hard and is jerked up out of the way, like a high-speed yoyo being reeled in, barely clearing the quad-rotor as it hits the sheer rock wall of the canyon and explodes.
Relaxing
The spaceport lounge is a busy place, with lots of booths and tables, screens on the walls, varied lighting. A dozen passengers from the rescue sit at a long table, talking over drinks and the remains of meals, while Helton and Harbin sit across from each other at the far end.
“Been a while since I had more action on leave than in the field,” Harbin says. “Felt good to be in a non-contract fight where the only rule was ‘win’.”
“Too bad about your getting shot, though,” says Helton. “The leg seems to be healing nicely. No noticeable limp.”
“Shouldn’t be. The Boss and the Wife both frown on getting damaged outside the line of duty. On duty as well.”
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“I’m sure they’d cut you some slack, given the situation.”
Harbin grunts disagreement. “Part of my job is to teach people how to not be careless and die from stupid. I wasn’t careful enough when I boarded the tramp ship and let myself be gassed and dropped in the desert. That would be unforgivable if we hadn’t managed to get ourselves out of it.”
“Your boss must be a serious hard-ass.”
Harbin shrugs. “He’s among the best, but he doesn’t suffer fools or stupid mistakes lightly. Working for him is tough. Fighting against him is tougher.”
“Next time we’ll just have to take a ship with better armor.”
“Hard to find. Most ships don’t have it. Generally it’s useless.”
“Like souvenirs?”
Harbin shoots Helton a dark look. “There’s a first time for everything. Normally they’re as useful as a screen door on a spaceship.” He shrugs fatalistically. “Been a while since I was one-upped on getting shot and living to talk about it. That’s something to tell your grandkids about. Any more ideas about the book?”
“Nope. At least it’s open, now. Lots of damaged pages, but they are seriously tough. Some sort of metalized carbon nano-tube stuff, I think. No idea who made it. Can’t go back without government clearance, and they’re not letting us anywhere near that prison mine again. Haven’t told the authorities about the cave or the book. Ah, well. It all worked out okay. Good guys lived, bad guys mostly died, official investigation started–”
“Likely just a whitewash–”
“-but started anyway. Some official reward cash and …” Helton looks over at a few young ladies sitting nearby, “a couple of cute new friends who owe me their lives.” One with a kid next to her smiles back when she notices him looking at her.
Harbin grins. “Don’t let it go to your head, Hero.”
“After a near-death experience, you think about things. Long-term, life sort of things. I do, anyway.”
“Been there. Were I younger and single, I would again, too. Met my wife that way, just after…” Harbin is silent for a moment. “Being close to death does make you think about life. The closer you get, the deeper you see into yourself. No real risks, no deep thoughts.”
“Feels good to have more control of my life again.”
“Any plans till your flight pulls out next week?”
Helton shrugs. “See the sights. Meet people, hopefully a cute one. Get a new coat. Find a game. Try to stop being amazed that I actually landed something without killing anyone.”
“If you call that a landing.”
“Picky, picky, picky. We walked away, didn’t we?”
“Technically. If you define ‘walk away’ broadly enough,” Harbin says grudgingly. “All things considered, you did well. You did your family proud.”
They clink their glasses, lean back in their chairs, and drink.
Cards
Five men and three women at a card table in a discreetly lit, respectable entertainment establishment. All are nicely dressed and there are a lot of chips on the table. Helton has the smallest stack, but it’s still substantial. Half a dozen people stand around watching.
Helton eyes his cards and the lone ten of spades in the center of the table, then tosses in a pair of chips. The woman to his left folds silently. The next player pushes in two chips to meet and raises by three chips of a different kind. The onlookers murmur.
Four men and two women and the three of diamonds. A dozen people are now watching. Helton’s heap of chips is about average, compared to the others’. He pushes a stack of ten brightly colored chips into the center, adding to the large pile already there, prompting surprised exclamations from the observers. The long-haired woman beside him slams down her cards in disgust.
The man to her left has only ten chips of the same kind left. He eyes the pot nervously and looks at his hand, then his chips. He swallows and pushes his stack in. The next player folds.
Three men and the nine of clubs and two dozen watchers. Three quarters of the chips not in the pot are in front of Helton. A grim, skinny man with long flowing hair, a goatee, and dark glasses has most of the rest. The last man — average build, sharply dressed, short hair, tendency to tremble — has only ten chips left. Helton looks over the other two players’ stacks and pushes forward a pile, about half what Grim Guy has remaining. The dealer rakes the pile closer to the pot but carefully keeps it separate. Trembler trembles: he’s forced out, or at least can’t win from a large side pot. Grim Guy matches Helton’s bet, and again the dealer keeps it slightly apart. Trembler trembles more.
The dealer looks pointedly at Trembler. “All in with a side pot, add money, or fold?”
“No. No. You can’t force me out like this. You CAN’T! I need the whole pot!”
“Shut up,” says Grim Guy. “You know the rules.”
“You CAN’T!”
“If you cannot add money to match, you’re only in the main pot,” the dealer says calmly.
Trembler’s desperate now. He looks around at the other players and the crowd, seeking a way out. “But … but … how … How about my ship?”
The crowd hushes. Both Helton and Grim Guy study him. “Your ship?” Helton asks flatly.
Trembler sounds scared at first, but gradually convinces himself. “Yes. Yes. I have a starship at the port over in Adelaide. I… I’ll put the title in the pot to match you. It’s worth far more than that, and–” He cuts himself off, fearing he’ll scare them into refusing. Grim Guy and Helton look at each other. Then at Trembler. Then at the pot and side pot. “Hey, it’s not that unheard of,” Trembler protests. “Some famous ships have been won in card games!”
“Title?” Grim Guy asks. Trembler pats his vest pocket. The crowd murmurs in surprise. But Helton is suspicious.
“Verify it before accepting?” he asks.
Trembler produces a slim packet of fancy paper with a credit-card-sized sheet of plastic bonded into one corner. The dealer brings out a handheld scanner unit. He scans Trembler’s face and hand and the smart card in the corner of the title. The scanner beeps, and its readout displays: “100-percent ownership of the twenty-thousand-ton starship Tajemnica verified.”
The dealer nods to the other players; the ship is Trembler’s to bet. “Are you pledging this ship, the, uh, Tah-JEM-ni-ka as collateral?”
“It’s TA-zhem-NEETZ-ah”
“Ah, okay. You pledge the, er, Taj– … ah this ship, for the bets on the table for this hand, of your own free will, and promise transfer of ownership to the winner, effective immediately, if you do not win fairly?”
“I do.”
“Do both of you accept this asset title as a matching bet, going to the winner of this hand?”
Helton nods. “Yup.”
“I…” Grim Guy pauses, a long, tense pause. “Yes.”
The dealer nods and places the title on top of the pot on the table. Helton pushes in enough to match Grim Guy’s remaining chips. Grim Guy goes all in.
“It’s a contract,” the dealer says. “All bets matched and called.” The players stare at each other. “Show your cards, please, gentlemen.”
Trembler lays down his four cards. A full house, using the nine of clubs in the center to match his nine of hearts, with a trio of fours. The crowd gasps and exclaims.
Grim Guy smiles. He puts down his cards. Also a full house. The nine of clubs matches his nine of spades, and he has a trio of jacks. Trembler shakes and twitches more spasmodically, sweat breaking out on his brow, but he doesn’t say a word, as everyone now stares at Helton.
Helton holds his hand silently for a moment, looking at the pot. Then, ever so slowly, he tosses them down, one at a time. Two of spades. Two of hearts. Two of clubs. Two of diamonds. Four of a kind, beating two full houses. The crowd explodes in cheers and congratulations.
Grim Guy just grows grimmer, and Trembler seems to faint dead away. The Dealer pushes the pile of chips towards Helton, who sits still, staring at his winnings
with a growing smile.
TAJEMNICA
Spaceport
A graceful, midsized, low-orbital ship knifes through the airspace high above a city, the modest spaceport of Adelaide. A wide and tan plain stretches to low mountains, the blue sky above has scattered clouds, and an unassuming city sprawls away to one side of the port. The fifty-passenger, sharply streamlined flier descends towards the landing field, a simple and dusty facility with six evenly spaced concourses radiating out from a large central building. Along each concourse are pairs of landing pads, small ones close to the center, larger ones further out, and a narrow landing strip on one side for the occasional aerodynamic-lift sport craft. A dozen ships of various sizes and shapes are in port.
The main road leads from the end of the widest concourse toward town. Meandering away from the other arms are narrower roads leading to warehouses and industrial areas scattered along that edge of town. A few smaller pads are scattered about near some of the beige outbuildings farther from the main terminal, with a collection of ship parts, wreckage, tarp-covered heaps, and personal aircraft and spacecraft. The flier zips down, heading for one of the midsized landing pads.
Helton sits in a window seat looking out eagerly from the cabin of the flier, dressed in a new traveler’s coat with nice clothes underneath. Next to him sits Floyd, a young man in shabby-looking clothes, also craning his neck to see out the window.