by Britt Ringel
“But you did it before,” Naslund said in support. “You did it when you first started in the CCZ, right?”
Lochlain answered with a slight nod and the pair left the squalor of the lower levels.
* * *
Schooners was nearly empty given the early afternoon hour. Lochlain walked straight in and to the booth in the bar that he and Verdin had staked claim to over a decade ago. The faux wood table was a gouged, weathered mess. The beverage strip bisecting the table had never worked in Lochlain’s time as a patron and a stack of paper napkins folded under one of the table’s feet prevented it from rocking.
As Naslund slipped into the booth, Lochlain surreptitiously placed his datapad over a crude etching gouged into the table’s surface that read “RL+JV.”
“What’s good to drink here?” Naslund asked. His spirits were lifting with the change in scenery. The pub had a welcoming feel despite its certain seediness.
“Nearly everything but a good rule of thumb is to stick with the beer,” Lochlain advised. “That way, if there’s an awkward pause in the conversation, you can fill it by taking a drink. You do that with hard liquor and you’re hurting before negotiations even begin.”
Lochlain linked the menu to his datapad and ordered the first round. Schooners’ selection had increased substantially. The pub even claimed to have a microbrewery on the surface of Vulsia-4. He decided upon a dunkel for each of them and began browsing the appetizer page. Years ago, the pub had a breaded-and-fried, compressed protein supplement that tasted almost like chicken. The hot sauce served with the nuggets demanded liberal amounts of beer to put out the fire.
“You’re in my seat, puppy.”
Lochlain smiled and looked up from the menu.
Verdin towered over Naslund. Folded, muscular arms hid a modest bosom but her sleeveless shirt offered ample views of the numerous tattoos that ringed her arms. The most dramatic depicted a hydraulic piston on her right bicep with the base mount covering her formidable shoulder and the rod mount ending in the crook of her arm.
Naslund shot up from the booth and grinned charmingly. “So I am,” he agreed while thrusting his free hand toward her. “I’m Casper Naslund. Engineer, smuggler and puppy.”
Verdin barked a short laugh and slid into her seat after the handshake. “Naslund, huh.” She reached a long arm across the table and added a drink order into Lochlain’s datapad. “You can write this off as a business expense when you file your taxes with the Federation,” she quipped. “So, Reece, which captain was dumb enough to let you on board his ship?”
Lochlain scooted over to make room for Naslund. “I couldn’t find one gullible enough so I had to buy my own.”
Verdin broke into a fit of hysterics. “Oh God! You know the only reason you haven’t ended up touring space permanently is because your past captains had the good sense and timing to muzzle you.” She was still attempting to stifle her laughter. Her teeth shone like stars.
A server dropped off their order. The apron-wrapped woman nodded respectfully at Verdin and Lochlain noticed her tankard was easily half again as big as the other two. “Welcome back, Miss Verdin.”
Verdin ogled the mug covetously and effused, “Proper customer service, that’s what I’m talking about.” She grabbed the mug with her alloy hand and took an enormous pull that drained nearly three-quarters from it. When she finally came up for air, she released a fearsome belch.
A silence played out and Naslund took a sip. After his second drink, he felt some courage to fill the void. “You and the captain crewed the same ship?”
“For a while,” Verdin answered, “but there’ll be time enough to tell our tales later.” She leaned forward in her bench seat. “You looking for work, Reece?”
Chapter 30
Three hours later, the trio slapped the grimy table at Schooners in drunken laughter once again. Verdin’s purple eyes shed tears as she finished her story, “By now, I got Reece in a headlock and I’m squeezing the life out of him and the customs agent stares at me and then looks pitifully at Reece and says, ‘You’ve got bigger problems than a few crates of tangi-fruit!’” The woman pounded the stained faux wood as she and Naslund again cackled. She groped for her mug and drained its contents.
“I still think you suffocated about a million of my brain cells with that headlock,” Lochlain reflected after the laughter subsided.
“Well, I got the wrong ones,” Verdin retorted with a toothy grin. She spun Lochlain’s datapad to face her and her eyes widened. “Sheesh, where does the time go when I’m with you?” She used the table for support and stood. “Toby will send you the freight info tonight and I’ll tell him to swing by your slip to drop off the locker tomorrow.” She stumbled coming to the side of the booth. “That is if I can make it back home.” Verdin’s eyes took a last, lingering drink of Lochlain before turning away. “Stay sharp, smuggler.”
“It—it was nice to meet you, Miss Verdin,” Naslund blurted out quickly with a sloppy grin.
“Take care of your puppy, Reece. He’s a cute one.” The woman offered the hostess a sloppy wave as she ambled for the exit.
After she disappeared, Naslund unsteadily moved around the table to sit opposite of Lochlain. He covered his mouth as he belched quietly. “I’m really glad I stuck with the beer.”
Lochlain inspected the contents remaining in his mug. “Three hours of drinking with Janell and you’re still semi-lucid. No wonder she liked you.” He smiled at his charge. “You did well this afternoon, Casper. You laughed at the right parts and knew when to just shut up and let her tell her stories.” He nodded. “I’m glad you tagged along.”
Naslund beamed at the praise. He glanced conspicuously around before saying, “I can’t believe the business part was so easy. It was like, ‘Hey, do you want to run some hot tractors to Carinae?’ and you were like, ‘Sure.’” He spoke with an alcohol-induced bravado. “I’m sure you have a plan and we’ll breeze through but the route to Carinae is no joke. Even Joyshow Freight avoids it like the plague.”
Lochlain considered an appropriate response but Naslund was already on to the next topic.
“When are we leaving Vulsia?” he asked as he continued to look around the pub. “I’d love to take Jack and Elease up here.” He took a pull from his beer. “They were on the shuttle trip but I got the better end of the deal. This place has such atmosphere.”
“We’ll shove off the day after tomorrow,” Lochlain answered as he settled the tab with his datapad. The bill was significantly discounted, most likely thanks to their drinking partner. “Tomorrow we’ll get Verdin’s containers attached and then take the best consignment deals to fill up the rest of the hardpoints. And I still want to take the crew out for dinner.” He grinned and added, “Though not here.” He leaned back and closed his eyes before blowing out a long breath. It was past 16:00 station time. “You ready to go? We need to get back to Zanshin before the station rats come out looking for easy pickings.”
The pair rose from their booth. Lochlain offered the server a farewell before escorting Naslund out of the premises. Although the threat of muggers was real, he had overstated the danger. Level Four of the station was safe, at least it had been the last time he was on the trade orbital. Still, the dire condition of the corridors they passed through had him wondering if he should invest in a small pistol. He had always found that guns typically just exacerbated the danger of any given situation. There were few encounters in the past where a quick, or closed, mouth did not serve him better than any pistol might have, but the attack on board Zanshin haunted him. Nothing short of lethal force would have stopped those men. Without Brooke’s return fire, his crew would all be dead and it would have been his fault as their captain. The memory of cowering in the medical bay as a bloodied Brooke defended him soured what had been a good afternoon. He resolved to talk to her about it.
Despite their inebriation, the pair returned safely to the ship. As they rounded the final corner to the watchman’s station, the two
men finished the last verse of the carousing song, “Distant Lights.” The old space-shanty was a popular drinking song thirty years back. When they arrived at the docking tube lock, Lochlain felt himself fully relax. He slapped his datapad to the control panel and pressed a thumb to the lockpad. A casual glance at the display told him that his other three crewmembers were on board.
He followed Naslund as he stumbled inside and up the docking tube. Before either could open Zanshin’s airlock, Lochlain’s datapad chirped.
“Reece, was that you?” Brooke’s voice asked.
“Yeah, we’re back. Can you get everyone to the mess? We have a new job.”
Ten minutes later, the crew of Zanshin sat at the round table inside the ship’s mess. Lochlain stood near the kitchen island as he sipped a cup of coffee. He had shared the events of the afternoon with his crew and introduced their treacherous destination.
“We’d be transporting stolen construction equipment?” Lingenfelter asked curiously. “Is there really a market for that?”
“Inside Carinae?” Brooke answered for Lochlain. “You bet there is. In fact, it’s probably more lucrative right now than guns or drugs.”
“Oh, we’re carrying that too,” Naslund boasted drunkenly. His coffee had remained untouched during Lochlain’s debriefing.
Brooke shot a hostile look at her partner.
“Just guns,” Lochlain amended. “Never drugs.”
“Right,” Naslund affirmed between belches, “and some ammo and body armor.” He looked up to Lochlain. “Right, Captain?”
“Just a small locker that will go inside the ship,” came the reply.
“How are you going to beat an inspection?” Truesworth asked. “They’ll use sniffer devices that’ll pick up the propellant inside the ammunition.”
Lochlain strolled to the pantry at the far side of the kitchen. It was deep but less than a meter wide. He stuck an arm inside and tapped on the outer bulkhead. “There’s conduit on the other side of the wall but this basically leads right to Zanshin’s hull.” He tapped the opposite side. “This wall separates the pantry and the stairwell leading up to the top deck.” He took a step back and eyed the narrow compartment thoughtfully. “What if we shoved the locker inside the pantry and then just put up a wall to cover it?” He looked at the countertop nearby. “Maybe even extend the counter in front of the new wall.”
“A false wall?” Brooke asked.
“No,” Lochlain clarified, “a real wall that closes off the pantry completely. We can tear it down once we’re past local law enforcement and docked.” He stepped back and leaned against the island.
“Sniffer devices will still pick up the bullets,” Truesworth cautioned. “At least Republic ones would.”
“I’m sure the Fed’s are at least as good,” Lochlain said. “Mercer, is there any way you can rig a vacuum inside the pantry without equipment that might tip off an inspection team?”
She shook her head. “No, not really, short of drilling a hole through our hull. I can’t do that without a spacewalk.” She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “You’re going to make me EMU again, aren’t you?” She gazed once more at the pantry but continued to shake her head. “We’d also have to reinforce the pantry and make sure every seal is perfect.” She closed her mouth and considered further. “It would be a surprisingly complicated process, Reece.”
“What if we just submerged the ammo into something stinky?” Lingenfelter suggested as she waved her hand near her nose. “One of my freshman roommates was really into kimchi. I still can smell it.”
“Probably not,” Lochlain said, “but you’re onto something. Jack, can you head up the construction job? Make a list of what we’ll need and secure the resources tomorrow. Plus, see if you can find an airtight container. A standard polymer container will do. We’ll stash our submachine guns inside it too.”
“Buy some kimchi, also,” Brooke said. “We can have it cooking when they inspect us. Every little bit helps.”
Truesworth rose from his chair and walked to the pantry. “I can do all that but inspectors will also use sonic interrogators to search specifically for smuggling compartments like the one we’re creating.”
“What smuggling compartment?” Lochlain asked innocently. “That empty space behind the wall is from the stairwell, officer.”
Truesworth brought a hand to his chin and snorted. “Huh. That’s conveniently placed.” He eyed the alcove. “It’s even thin enough that you really can’t tell the stairs don’t run all the way back to the hull.”
“Unless they start taking measurements,” Brooke stated. She bit her lip briefly. “Or they start looking at Tuoma-class deck plans.”
“They won’t need deck plans to find our three dead friends in the forward hold,” Truesworth noted. “As distasteful as it is, we’ve got to space them the first chance we get.”
Lochlain took another sip from his coffee cup. “Oh, no. I want the inspectors to find them,” he said with a smile.
Chapter 31
The next day was a flurry of activity. Brooke and a very hungover Naslund worked to fortify Zanshin’s navigation shield for the onslaught it would suffer inside the tunnel to Carinae. Truesworth compiled a list of materials he would need for the remodeling job while Lochlain and Lingenfelter contracted with the most desperate customers they could find to transport seven additional FUES containers to the frontier star system. Three of the enormous forty-meter shipping containers carried technical parts for an industrial company. Two were massive bulk containers filled to the brim with promethium while the final two containers held disassembled farm equipment and spare parts. By the late afternoon, Zanshin was heavily loaded with a full complement of cargo running down her spine. The promised return for their delivery was a small fortune.
As was tradition on most freighters, Lochlain allotted one of Zanshin’s small internal holds to the crew. The four-meter by four-meter compartment just aft of the entertainment lounge was currently empty and by offering the space to the crew, the possibility of additional profit presented itself. Naslund and Truesworth quickly volunteered the capital for the buy low, sell high venture and Lingenfelter excitedly scanned the trade pages for opportunities. By the time the trio had purchased thirty-nine kegs of sodium perchlorate, Verdin’s men had come and gone, delivering the tall but slender locker that would be carried in the former pantry.
Lochlain opened the locker to collect the ammunition for sealed storage and Brooke released a low whistle. A combination of hard-shell and soft torso armor sets still bearing the logo of Federation Station Security Forces were packed inside. The SSF armor was high quality, especially the pliable armor designed to be worn under a uniform. She searched the stock, looking for a size that would fit her. Finding one, she modelled the armor for the crew with the enthusiasm of a fashion icon, describing the features of the vest as if she could sell them one.
The weapons inside the locker were identical MR-22C5 carbines, the standard issue for SSF officers. Janell Verdin had obviously cultivated a contact within local law enforcement. Lochlain asked Brooke if she wanted to store her own pistol and ammunition inside the pantry but she declined, citing her CBP credentials as plausible justification for her to possess a firearm inside Federation space.
Truesworth returned to the freighter midafternoon, arriving at the watchman’s station with a robotic sled carrying the remodeling materials needed to close off the pantry. He had even thought to purchase a framed holographic picture to hang on the new wall. Once Lochlain stowed the ammunition into the airtight container provided by Truesworth, the crew began work on the smuggler’s compartment. Construction took a full three hours even with all hands available. Lochlain’s idea to extend the counter turned out to be infeasible given their time constraints but Truesworth’s addition of a secondhand kitchen cart covered the dead space well. By the time they finished spray-painting the wall to match the rest of the compartment and deposited the waste material in the watchman station’s recyc
ler, even Lochlain was having trouble visualizing where the pantry had been. Now approaching 18:00 station time, he looked around to his paint-smudged crew. “Good work, everyone. We’ve earned a nice dinner. Let’s get cleaned up and meet back here in thirty.”
Half an hour later, the group walked toward the center of the orbital. Lochlain had made reservations via datapad earlier in the afternoon. The restaurant, named Solo Mio, was located on the main commerce deck one level above Schooners. He watched with amusement as Naslund led the way, excitedly pointing out the various shops to Lingenfelter. The young man had changed into less extravagant clothing, wearing custom-fitted slacks with a button-down silk shirt and a dark green pullover. Lingenfelter, who gaped at each spectacle presented, wore a modest pair of synthetic-fiber pants and a simple, white top referred to as a “commoner’s tunic” in Appiation space. Though Naslund continued to narrate a tour, Lingenfelter’s eyes often strayed to Truesworth beside her.
The Brevic seemed subdued but Lochlain attributed the restrained demeanor to a reversion to the Brevic stereotype. Over the last week, he had noticed that the Republic expatriate’s clothing leaned toward a more conservative style and color than was typical inside the Federation. He idly wondered if Truesworth’s choices were considered fashionable inside the Brevic Republic and light-heartedly decided that Brevics probably wore repetitive black attire that made every citizen look identical. He glanced down at his one and only suit and realized the irony of his musings. “Remind me to buy some more clothes, Mercer,” he said, feeling slightly guilty about casting judgment upon an entire population.
“Buy some more clothes,” she parroted with a smile, looking back at him.
Lochlain made a face and then looked past her, ostensibly to check for station hooligans before dropping his eyes to enjoy the view she presented from behind. Ever since he had met her, Brooke had always shied away from wearing dresses. The result was a nonstop parade of slacks, pants and leggings that highlighted her trim figure. He had always been attracted to the CBP agent’s physical qualities but after months of working together on On Margin, he had realized the undercover agent was far more than just physically enthralling. She was intelligent, witty and most importantly, confident and self-reliant.