Thousands of prisoners vanished into the sprawling complex and rechristened the planet “the Rock” after a famous prison on old Earth. And like its namesake the Rock offered no chance of escape. No one could survive on the planet’s sterile surface, and even if they did, there was no way off.
Sure, they could take over the complex itself, but why bother? The weapons on the orbiting platforms, like those on the planet’s four moons, were now turned inward and manned by marines. Nothing could move without their approval.
As things turned out that was a serious mistake.
The attack seemed like a joke at first. A pathetic attempt by the remains of a rebel fleet to rescue their comrades, strike one last blow for a defeated cause, and go out with a bang.
Though defeated by Admiral Keaton at the Battle of Hell, what was left of the rebel fleet had split up and come back together at prearranged times and places. They knew the war was over, but sympathy for their imprisoned comrades drove them to one last desperate act: an attack on the Rock.
Knowing the planet was heavily defended, the rebels expected to lose, to die fighting, but much to their own surprise they won.
The Imperial Marines fought bravely, but their weapons were aimed in the wrong direction, and they were badly outnumbered. Thousands died.
So the planet’s defenses were turned outward once again, and the rebels went about making their prison a home, and in the process transformed themselves as well.
They knew they couldn’t rest. The existing supplies of food wouldn’t last forever, and given the planet’s barren surface, there was no possibility of growing more. Even the thin atmosphere required artificial maintenance.
So the rebels used fighting skills honed during years of war to raid other planets for supplies. They saw themselves as liberators, taking what they needed to continue a glorious cause.
But their victims saw them as pirates, taking what they weren’t willing to make themselves, spreading pain and misery wherever they went.
Time passed and once-bright ideals became increasingly tarnished. Loot became the purpose of their existence, and not as a means of mere survival, but as a means of wealth and privilege.
Disliking the term “pirates,” they called themselves “the Brotherhood,” and styled themselves as an occupational democracy.
But McCade had been to the Rock and seen the way the pirates lived, and there wasn’t anything democratic about it. A council made up of a few powerful individuals ran everything and vied with each other for ever larger slices of a rather fat pie.
And they didn’t take kindly to unauthorized visitors. McCade knew that from personal experience. On his last visit to the Rock he’d managed to rip them off, blow up half a spaceport, and destroy a number of their ships. As a result he wouldn’t be able to sneak in the same way he had before, and once there, he would be in even greater danger.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
McCade looked up into Reba’s brown eyes. Damn, the woman was pretty. If it weren’t for Sara ...He shoved the thought down and back.
“Only a penny? Surely you’re worth more than that. I was thinking of you.”
Reba smiled as she dropped into the seat next to Neem. He didn’t even look up from the holo tank.
“I’d be complimented if I hadn’t seen the holopix of Sara all over the ship. But I have, so I’m worried instead. What’s on your mind?”
“I was thinking that you’re the key to getting on the Rock. And unless I miss my guess, that’s where we need to go.”
Reba frowned. “Why?”
McCade examined the ash on his cigar before tapping it into an ashtray. “The vial was taken during a raid, right? And while the pirates who took it didn’t realize its true value, I understand the vial is quite pretty, and therefore valuable in its own right. And since all loot goes to the Rock for auction, that’s where it went.”
“That’s true,” Reba agreed. “But things sold at auction usually go off-planet with whoever buys them. By now the vial could be anywhere.”
McCade nodded his agreement.“Exactly. But once we find out who bought the vial, we can track them down. Make sense?”
Reba’s eyes dipped toward the deck and back up again. She had reservations but wasn’t willing to share them.
“It makes sense,” she agreed reluctantly. “But how will I get you onto the Rock? And more importantly, how will you get off? I was on patrol when you trashed port twelve. But I heard about it, and I know the executive council would love to get their hands on you. They might allow you to get dirtside, but they’ll never let you go.”
McCade blew smoke toward the overhead and smiled.“Then we won’t tell ’em I’m there.”
Fourteen
Spin was a desolate place, so unremarkable that its name stemmed from its one redeeming virtue, earth normal gravity. Gravity that served to hold a small collection of dilapidated domes in place in spite of the fact that it wasn’t worthwhile.
The planet had little to recommend it. The vast majority of its surface was dedicated to rocky wasteland, and if Spin hadn’t marked the nexus of two minor trade routes, it would’ve stayed uninhabited.
McCade had been there once before. A fugitive called Crazy Mary had led him there after a long and weary chase. He’d ordered her to surrender, but she’d just laughed and gone for her blaster as she had so many times before.
But this time it was her turn to fall, it was her body they dumped outside for the scavengers to pick clean, and it was someone else who walked away.
McCade felt his cheek twitch as Reba lowered Pegasus onto the scarred surface of Spin’s single spaceport.
Three other ships had landed there before them. There was a beat-up Confederation-era freighter, a sturdy-looking tug, and a sleek little DE that had “pirate” written all over it.
Good, McCade thought to himself. The first part of the plan had fallen into place. With a little luck the rest would follow. He eyed the DE’s scarred flanks.
Destroyer Escorts were just right for small one-ship raids. They were fast, heavily armed, and large enough to carry some loot. Small stuff like isotopes and rare gems.
The com screen swirled to life as Reba cut power to the ship’s repellors. On it was a man who just barely qualified for the name.
Hair crawled over his bullet-shaped head, sprouted from his ears, and covered his face. His eyes blinked constantly as he spoke.
“It’s gonna cost you a thousand credits to park that play pretty on my pad.”
Reba scowled. “A thousand credits my ass. A hundred, and not a penny more.”
The man grinned evily. “Your ass ain’t worth a thousand credits. Not even here. Nine hundred.”
Reba made a rude gesture. “Two hundred.”
The man displayed yellow teeth as he laughed. “Seven hundred.”
“Three hundred.”
“Six hundred.”
“Four hundred.”
“All right, all right. Five hundred credits. But don’t expect any free drinks.”
The screen went suddenly black.
“You humans crack me up,” Neem said from the hatch. As usual he wore a red heat cape wrapped around his skinny torso. “All that bargaining for a simple landing fee. Whatever for?”
“Entertainment mostly,” McCade replied as he released his harness. “The less formal entertainment there is, the more bargaining we do. Now, does everyone understand the plan?”
Reba nodded and Neem’s tail twitched in agreement.
“Good, let’s get ready.”
An hour later Neem stood by the lock to see them off. “Good luck, Sam, I hope everything goes smoothly.”
“Same to you, Neem. And remember, keep a close eye on the sensors. If someone tries to board, dust ’em off.”
“Dust ’em off,”Neem said experimentally.“I like that.Another alternative to waste ’em, grease ’em, and ice ’em. You humans certainly have a grisly language.”
“You’ve been
watching too many holo dramas,” McCade said patiently. “Just do it, okay?”
“Okay,” Neem replied happily. “If anyone tries to board, I’ll dust ’em off.”
“Good. I’ll see you in a week or so.”
Pulling the rebreather down over his head, McCade checked the neck seals and looked at Reba. Hers was already in place and she gave him a thumbs-up.
McCade palmed the lock control and waited while the inner hatch cycled open. When Reba stepped through he followed.
Both waved at Neem until the hatch had cycled closed. There was a wait while Spin’s noxious atmosphere was pumped in, and a slight pop as the hatch cycled open and pressures were equalized.
Needless to say there were no robo stairs to meet them, so Reba was forced to deploy a ladder and wait while McCade clanked his way down it. The leg shackles were noisy and slowed him down.
As Alice’s one and only peace officer, McCade had other more modern restraints aboard the ship. But the leg shackles were the most dramatic by far and therefore appropriate to the situation.
As Reba made her way down the ladder McCade took a look around. The DE looked larger now, looming above him like some sort of metal monster, partially hidden by wisps of poisonous fog. Was that gun turret pointed his way on purpose? Or had it been positioned like that all along?
His thoughts were interrupted as Reba gave him a shove and growled, “Get a move on, stupid. This ain’t no sightseeing trip.”
McCade tied to catch himself, but his leg shackles tripped him and he fell.
Reba jerked him to his feet with a growl of frustration and gave him another shove.
Head hung low, shackles clanking, McCade shuffled toward the nearest dome. Someone could be watching or monitoring their radio traffic, so Reba was right to establish their relationship.
But did she have to shove so hard? Should he put this much trust in her? What if she betrayed him the moment they got inside?
Then Neem would come to his rescue. He’d try anyway. While Reba was asleep the two of them had cooked up a plan. Neem would lift Pegasus on her repellors, cripple the DE, and cut a hole through the skin of the main dome.
Assuming Neem managed to carry out the first part of the plan, McCade would don his rebreather, release his leg shackles using the electronic key taped to the inside of his left forearm, and escape via the newly created exit.
The plan was complicated and vulnerable to a sorts of unforeseen problems, so McCade hoped they wouldn’t be forced to use it.
Reba gave him another shove and he stumbled forward.
Piles of debris were heaped left and right. It was SOP to throw garbage outside the lock until it threatened to engulf the dome itself. At that point someone would climb aboard an ancient crawler and shove the garbage into a nearby ravine.
Reba palmed the lock. The hatch made a grinding sound as it cycled open. It too was overused and undermaintained.
Long before it was fully open the hatch began to iris closed. They hurried to get inside and just barely made it. Seconds later a noisy pump went to work evacuating Spin’s noxious atmosphere.
A slush of water and mud covered the bottom of the lock. Plastic sacks full of garbage lined both sides of the chamber and the walls were covered with a variety of graffiti. None was especially original.
The place was still the same. Fortunately he wasn’t. In the unlikely event that someone remembered him, McCade figured that his five-day growth of beard, filthy rags, and beaten demeanor should be a sufficient disguise.
A tired buzzer announced a breathable atmosphere and the green indicator light in McCade’s rebreather confirmed it. As he shuffled toward the inner hatch McCade pulled the rebreather down off his face and let it hang by its straps.
Continually urged on by a series of shoves and insults, McCade followed a muddy path down a poorly lit corridor and into a circular room.
The air was thick with blue smoke. It hung in layers of blue-gray with the heaviest smoke on the bottom and the lightest on top.
A few things had changed since he and Bloody Mary had faced each other in the center of the room. The bar was kitty corner from where it had been, a new holo tank took up a large part of one wall, and the layer of grease that covered everything was even thicker.
Conversation stopped and every head turned as they entered. Not too surprising since they were the most exciting thing to happen all day.
McCade was careful to maintain his submissive posture as Reba pushed him toward the center of the room and swaggered along behind. Watching from the corners of his eyes he saw the bar was about half full. It wasn’t difficult to sort them into groups.
The pirates sat by themselves toward one corner. There were eight of them, nine if you counted the woman passed out on the floor. Their table was loaded with empties. They seemed dazed as if the two strangers were apparitions only half seen and partially understood.
Unless they were short on personnel McCade figured there were two or three additional crew members still aboard the DE.
The male pirates watched Reba with a certain amount of interest, but no one jumped to their feet and called her name, so none of them knew her. Good. They had a story prepared just in case, but McCade didn’t want to use it.
The freighter’s crew sat on the far side of the room. They were as far away from the pirates as they could get and still be in the same bar. McCade didn’t blame them. It’s a wise sheep who stays as far away from the wolves as possible.
There were four of them. The captain was a solid-looking black woman in her forties. To her right sat a youngish-looking woman with the flashes of a power engineer on her nonreg cap. Next to her sat a brutish-looking Cellite and a beat-up android. The latter was sucking an electronic cocktail via a wall outlet. Like the pirates they’d left one or two people aboard their ship.
There was a scattering of other people in the room as well, an older man and a boy who might have been a match with the tug, plus the usual assortment of drifters.
One of these was a man of indeterminate age with flat dead eyes, expensive clothes, and a blaster with custom grips. Just as the pirates looked like what they were, the gambler looked like what he was. His eyes drifted across McCade and came to rest on Reba. A smile touched his lips.
“Greetings. At the risk of sounding trite, what brings someone like you to a place like this?”
Reba smiled. “Gravity, the need for a number four power board, and a powerful thirst.”
The gambler nodded understandingly. “Would you care to join me? I don’t bite.”
Reba looked around as if considering her other options.
It’s perfect, McCade said to himself, don’t overact.
McCade heaved an internal sigh of relief as she grabbed a chair and shoved him toward another. “Sure, as long as you don’t mind gark breath here. He gets into trouble if I leave him aboard ship alone. Isn’t that right, gark breath?”
Reba kicked McCade just as he tried to sit down. He fell and the pirates laughed.
McCade swore under his breath as he picked himself up and claimed a chair.
“What was that, gark breath?”
“Nothing,” McCade mumbled.
“Good,” Reba said, turning toward the gambler. “Now where were we?”
“Just getting acquainted,” the gambler replied smoothly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Does a Zerk monkey like fava fruit? You bet your ass you can.”
The gambler summoned one of the saloon’s two staff members, a slovenly woman who doubled as Spin’s only prostitute, and ordered drinks. After accepting two glasses of black brew, the gambler paid and offered Reba a toast.
“To quick money and just enough time to spend it.”
“Amen.”
Both upended their glasses. Reba choked, coughed, and came up grinning. “I don’t know what that was, but I’ll bet you could run my ship on it.”
“They call it a Tail Spin,” the gambler answered as a deck o
f cards appeared in his hands.
Reba eyed the cards and licked her lips. A nice touch, McCade thought admiringly. Not only was Reba keeping her word, she was doing it with a certain amount of class.
The gambler saw her hungry look and smiled. The cards jumped from one hand to the other and back again. “Do you play?”
“Sometimes,” Reba answered with just the right amount of hesitation. “Not very well though. Would you be interested in a friendly game of Flash?”
The cards made a graceful arc as they rippled through the air to patter down in front of her. The gambler smiled. “Deal.”
Fifteen
Reba was good. Maybe too good since she was winning instead of losing.
It was the gambler’s deal. He’d just lost a long series of small pots, and although he kept his face professionally blank, McCade could see the sheen of perspiration that glossed his forehead. The gambler had upped the ante in hopes of recouping his losses. But would it work? If not, he’d lose his entire stake. A stake he’d need to buy his way off Spin. It was just a theory, but a theory that fit the situation like a glove, and would explain the gambler’s anxiety. An extended stay on Spin would be less than pleasant.
The cards made a gentle slapping sound as they hit the surface of the table. Before long there were ten cards facedown in front of each player. Reba looked up. “Dealer flashes first.”
The gambler inclined his head slightly. Long white fingers lifted the cards one at a time and showed or “flashed” them at Reba. She had approximately one second to see and memorize each card before the gambler flipped it over and tucked it into his hand.
Then it was Reba’s turn. She held each card up for a full three or four seconds before hiding it away. But the gambler was still losing in spite of that advantage. Maybe Reba had a better memory than he did, or maybe she just outclassed him, but whatever the reason things were not going according to plan.
McCade shifted his weight from one side to the other. He wanted to yell, “Lose damn it, lose!” but bit his lip instead.
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