Planet Hustlers

by J. S. Morin

  “Here we are,” Esper said, pointedly ignoring Mort. It was one thing distracting her from Emily’s more promising advances, but there was no way she was letting Mort take control. Even in dire circumstances, she’d held strong on her self pledge, and she certainly wasn’t going to break it for him to do Lord-only-knew what.

  Esper carried the two wine glasses over and steeled herself for the state in which she’d find her lightly inebriated host. To her relief, the admiral was stripped down only as far as Esper, although her lingerie matched and looked a good deal fancier, all black and lacy. The admiral had her feet up on the cushions, legs tucked under her.

  Had Emily been expecting this encounter when she dressed this morning?

  I am here on a mission.

  A delicate hand accepted the wine glass and guided it to those strawberry lips. Esper felt a warm tingle as she watched Emily’s throat gulping down a swallow. Emily gasped. “Ah. I will never regret taking the fleet to Jocain IV. Or raiding that winery. Or killing that fussy little man who said I couldn’t have it until it aged.”

  I am here on a mission. It was easier to remember when the pirate spoke like one.

  Emily waved a dismissive hand, fingers fluttering. “Oh, don’t worry. I aged it here, myself. We actually have an excellent wine cellar aboard. Fully shielded against impacts when we have our occasional scuffle.”

  That was her opening. Esper slid onto the couch beside Emily and mimicked her posture. “Speaking of scuffles, there must be a marvelous tale behind the poets leaving Freeride.”

  Emily rolled her eyes and let her head flop back over the far arm of the couch. “Oh, business. How pedestrian. How prosaic.”

  “It is a prettier planet than Carousel. Rolling fields and pastures. Humble, non-preserved crops ideally suited to being consumed locally…”

  “Out with it, Esper dear,” Emily drawled. “I’m inebriated, not drunk. You’re clearly fishing. Did I ever tell you that I fished? Once. I was a girl, and my parents took me. Aquatic world. Undersea corral. Couldn’t have missed catching anything. Still came up with an empty hook.”

  “Um. No. You hadn’t.”

  “Don’t fish,” Emily said, bringing her hands together as if in prayer. “It’s a pointless exercise.”

  “What happened that soured you on Carousel?” Esper asked bluntly.

  A sad smile came across the admiral’s face. “Ousted.” She stood and sauntered over to the bar to pour herself another glass of wine. “Bloody Rucker sent his goons and gave us an offer: leave or earn a price tag. We could have fought off the little convoy of ships Don Rucker sent. But what was the point. He could throw money at half the bounty hunters in the galaxy, start ferreting out our secret bank accounts, or even loose ARGO on our heels. The latter would have cost both sides the planet, but I’ve never been fond of Pyrrhic victories.”

  She threw back the contents of the wine glass in one long gulp. With a satisfied gasp, she set down the empty glass and stalked over to Esper, wrapping her arms around Esper’s waist. “Are we about done with business?”

  Esper licked her lips. She nodded. Wordlessly she allowed herself to be led to the admiral’s bed, which had a view of New Garrelon out the overhead window. The sight of the planet triggered a reminder.

  I am here on a mission.

  Busy hands worked around undefended garments. Lips explored. Legs entwined. Esper tried in vain to plan or scheme or anything else. Emily was tipsy; that was her excuse. Esper could only blame hot blood and a chilly bed back on the Mobius these last few weeks. Her conscience took a smoke out back and let her id run rampant.

  How much time passed, Esper couldn’t say. Neither of them was carrying a chrono. Emily ended up atop her, hands pinning her shoulders to the bed, sweat-soaked hair dangling. “You are a treasure.”

  In that tender moment of passion, Emily looked deep into Esper’s eyes. And in that moment, Esper remembered once again.

  I am here on a mission.

  Emily had looked into a wizard’s eyes without realizing her mistake. Esper could have crushed her personality, snuffed out the light of that beautiful, if twisted, soul. Instead, the pirate admiral’s eyes glassed over. Her lids drooped. Esper put up her hands to support Emily’s gentle fall onto the pillows.

  Rolling Emily onto her back, Esper brushed aside the hair matting her face. On impulse, she kissed those slumbering lips. There was no point trying to convince herself that this had just been doing her part for the mission.

  However she’d done it, Esper had gotten a key piece of information. Now she had to get that message back to the Mobius. The problem was, the pirates all still considered her a hostage.

  With a sigh, Esper pulled on her sweatshirt and headed for the door. It opened at her touch, and a pair of guards outside stiffened to attention.

  “Oh. It’s you,” one of the guards said, shoulders relaxing into a slouch. “Sorry. Admiral’s orders. You aren’t to leave without her accompanying you.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me that,” Esper challenged.

  “Listen, I won’t raise a hand to you, but…” the man’s words trailed off as he took the bait. Unseeing pupils dilated.

  “Hey, what are you doing to—”

  The other guard slumped to the floor, and Esper caught him with telekinesis before he hurt himself.

  The corridor lights flickered briefly.

  “Now,” Esper said firmly to the one in her thrall. “I want you to go down to the hangar and deliver a message. If anyone stops you along the way, tell them you are acting on Admiral Chisholm’s orders.” Esper stopped herself just short of calling her Admiral Emily. “Here’s what I want you to say…”

  # # #

  The knocking persisted. Carl was still awake, browsing through the fridge for something worth eating before bed. But out in the cargo hold, there was this knock.

  Exasperated, he picked a bacon cube out of the back of the food processor and ate it like a salty, fatty, candy bar. Then he headed down to see what was making that noise.

  Carl paused at the landing. He paused at the base of the stairs. He paused and stopped chewing at the cargo ramp. Then he hit the button to lower the ramp.

  Standing there, hammering at the landing gear with the butt of a blaster rifle, was one of Chisholm’s goons. This one was wearing a Victorian Englishman’s suit coat and top hat, with a monocle dangling from a chain that disappeared into his breast pocket.

  “Ah, there you are,” the man called out jovially. “I am here to deliver a message.”

  “Ooookay,” Carl said, peering to either side of the hangar and finding that the man was alone.

  When next the man spoke, it was clear where the message had come from. Though the vocal chords were no doubt his own, the words were clearly Esper’s. “OK. Whoever gets this, let Carl know. I am staying voluntarily as a hostage. I’m not in any danger at all. The poets got booted out of Freeride by Don Rucker, and they aren’t happy about it. There may be some way we can work with that information. Just don’t let the admiral know I was the one who told you.”

  The man stood there gawking when he finished. “Whadda you want?” he demanded, voice suddenly his own once more.

  Carl held up his hands. “I was just seeing if we had clearance to head out for a while. You know, let these hot negotiations simmer down a bit.”

  The Victorian guardsman cleared his throat. “Quite right. Yes. Of course, that’s what we were discussing. I don’t imagine you should have any troubles departing. We have a token of your goodwill. Happy travels.”

  There was a sweet euphemism. Token of their goodwill, huh? These poets had a way with words. Almost made it seem like they’d left Esper there willingly.

  “Thanks,” Carl called down through a smile he didn’t pretend wasn’t fake. As the cargo ramp rose once more, he headed for the cockpit. “This would be so much easier if Esper could just strangle that pirate admiral and be done with it.”

  Morals. There was a time and a
place for them. Usually the time was later, and the place was over there. Sure, there were lines that weren’t worth crossing. But occupying a sovereign star system and holding a planet hostage was one of those “gloss it over in the history books” sorts of offenses. Rebels, insurgents, revolutionaries, freedom fighters. Call them what you will, but the successful ones employed bloody tactics and good public relations teams.

  With most of the crew asleep, a working star drive—which Carl was still struggling to get used to—and the rank of captain, there was nothing stopping Carl from piloting the Mobius off the Look Upon My Works Ye Mighty and Despair.

  Except the pirates.

  Settling into the pilot’s chair, Carl keyed the comm. “Hey, you fine people have our friend Esper as a guest. Mind us stepping out for a few days to do a little fact-finding for these negotiations?”

  During the long pause that followed, Carl found a playlist and listened to The Guess Who. There was something about the sentiment of sharing the land that struck him as particularly topical, given the political situation on the planet below. Probably not anything he could use, but it put Carl in the mood to think about togetherness, peace, and everyone getting their guns out of each other’s business.

  “Mobius, you are cleared for departure. You have seven days to return, or your crew member is forfeit.”

  Carl frowned. That just wasn’t playing nice. Part of him was tempted to force Esper’s hand. She wouldn’t allow them to keep her permanently. Maybe if she were confronted with a life as a pirate slave girl, she’d think twice about rolling up her sleeves and getting biblical in the literal fire-and-brimstone sense.

  The nav computer still had an old data set for the Freeride system. Carl had overridden the place’s real name—couldn’t even remember what it was. The point was, he had his leverage. The Poet Fleet had come to New Garrelon with their tails tucked between their legs because Don Rucker had flexed some muscle (and probably some cash) to drive them out.

  Chisholm didn’t give a shit about the stuunji exiles’ adopted homeworld.

  Time to go find out what really happened.

  # # #

  From orbit, Carousel didn’t look like much. Drab brown and murky, it resembled an Earth-like that someone had dropped into the waste reclaim and fished back out, hoping no one would notice. It could have been any of a thousand similar worlds scattered throughout the galaxy. Once the Mobius had landed and the cargo bay had opened, the smell made a clearer impression.

  “Eugh,” Carl said with a feigned gag. “This is why we don’t come back to crapsack planets once we’re done with them.”

  Ambling down the ramp behind him, Roddy snickered. “Could be worse. We could have gone back to Mirny.”

  “That place suited me just fine,” Archie commented from the top of the ramp, where the rest of the crew bid Carl, Roddy, and Cedric good luck on their mission.

  “Right,” Roddy called up the ramp as he backpedaled down. “That’s because you don’t have a sense of smell. If you can remember back that far, envision one of those open flame cookouts you humans enjoy so much.”

  Archie tilted his head and gave a robotic smile that came just short of holding genuine warmth. “Sounds idyllic.”

  “Now snuff the fires and snort the ashes. That’s this place.”

  “C’mon,” Carl said with a jerk of his head in the direction they were heading. “I’ve got enough colorful images of this place up my nose without you adding the laaku perspective. Let’s get this over with.”

  The cargo ramp lifted, and Carl led Roddy and Cedric toward the exit of the public starport. It looked the same as he remembered. The change of ownership from pirate to syndicate hadn’t done anything for the industrial mining decor or the dim view of orbital space. A moon hung in the evening sky that Carl hadn’t remembered noticing on their prior visit, but it wasn’t enough to make up for the rest. The scarred red moon showed its own signs of mining operations, visible even from the planet’s surface.

  Carl stopped their procession at the security checkpoint on the way out. This was non-sec space. Unless they were on the local law enforcement radar—which would have been code for the Rucker Syndicate’s radar—no one cared who came and went. Sure, Yomin had dummied up fake credentials for the Mobius to land under, but that was just standard operating procedure these days.

  “Hey, buddy,” Carl addressed a uniformed grunt who was staring down at his terminal inside the security kiosk. It looked all official and shit, but the guy was probably watching a flatvid brothel sampler or playing games. “Can I get directions someplace?”

  “Fuck off,” the guard said. “What do I look like, the omni?”

  Carl stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He shoved his snarky commentary in there with them. This wasn’t the time to antagonize the guy. “Nah. Just figured that you wouldn’t have your boss’s home address listed or anything. I know the deal. Carousel has a government and all that jazz. But I know the Ruckers are running the show these days. I’m in the—”

  The slouching guard bolted upright in his seat. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “Carl Ramsey,” he replied calmly.

  The guard’s eyes went wide. Not looking away from Carl, he reached down and tapped a button out of view. “Hey, Mick. I’ve got a guy down here at Pad 94 claiming to be Carl Ramsey. Requesting instructions.”

  The guard wore an earpiece, and Carl’s hearing wasn’t anything close to good enough to eavesdrop. But the guard nodded along with the response he was receiving. Then the guy held up a datapad in Carl’s direction, tapped something, and set it back down.

  “No. I just took that right now… All right... Yeah… Consider it done.”

  “We good?” Carl asked with a forced smile.

  A steel curtain unrolled from the security booth’s roof, blocking view of the guard. Muffled through the barrier came the response. “You’re not my problem anymore.”

  Cedric gestured toward the security crash gate. For a moment, Carl considered letting him magic it back up. But there was no point. This was a nobody. Let him bow out gracefully.

  “Why’ve I got a bad feeling about this?” Roddy asked no one in particular.

  “Because we dropped in unannounced on a criminal syndicate. But it’ll be fine. Me and Don are still tight. None of his underbosses would risk pissing him off by dusting us.”

  “I may not be my father,” Cedric said quietly. “But I will not allow ruffians to end our lives.”

  “Reassuring as fuck,” Roddy groused.

  A hover-cruiser came around the corner at the distant intersection outside the landing zone. It kicked up a cloud of dust that approached like an Ancient West stampede.

  Carl raised a hand to wave. “That’ll be our ride.”

  The hover-cruiser just missed clipping the three of them as it jerked to a halt, nose-diving toward the permacrete as the thrust reversers fired. A pair of Rucker goons stepped out, then a familiar face exited the vehicle to join them.

  It was Don Rucker’s younger cousin, Rico. He was a bowling ball of a human with no discernible neck. Last Carl had heard, Rico was planetside on Mars, working in combat sports.

  “Ramsey?” Rico asked, pulling a pair of shader lenses down his nose to peer over them. “Shit. That is you. What the hell you doing on this hunk of charcoal?”

  Carl and Rico approached with arms extended and hugged briefly. “I heard this hunk of charcoal was under new management, and I wanted to stop by and see for myself.”

  “Ain’t much to look at. Turns terras around though, so what can you do?” Rico shrugged.

  “Last I heard, you were fixing Gold League fights. How’d you end up out in this tropical paradise?”

  There were a lot of ways to get on the wrong side of a mobster. Outing his criminal activities in public was usually a good start. But Carl was an old family friend, and this was their planet. They might as well have been in the private lounge of a nightclub or the vault of a casino. />
  “Don figured that last time wasn’t gonna happen again. Wanted a little muscle out here that was missing before. Know what I mean?”

  Carl nodded. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  Rico waved Cedric and Roddy over. “C’mon, fellas. Ms. Rucker don’t like waiting, and you know how she gets.”

  Carl’s suspicion had just been confirmed. It was Janice Rucker’s revenge tour. The poets had ousted her from Carousel once. Now, she’d just returned the favor. “Yeah, me and Ms. Rucker have butted heads before when she was in a bad mood.”

  Rico snorted.

  Of course, last time Carl had spoken with Janice Rucker, he hadn’t just played her against the Poet Fleet to get Esper back. Hopefully, she didn’t take that sort of thing personally.

  # # #

  The ride to the Rucker hotel and casino was smooth as a hover usually was, with a gentle bobbing motion from state-of-the-art compensators that hadn’t been maintained quite to factory standards. The scenery was as dull as Carl remembered from his last trip. To be honest with himself, he was having a hard time justifying why this place was even worth fighting over. Sure, it made money, but so did millions of commercial and industrial enterprises across the galaxy including ones that weren’t complete toilets.

  Vengeance.

  Janice Rucker had never been one for personal slights. She’d gotten a foothold here once before, and Carl had song-and-danced it away from her. Sure, Janice had probably turned a nice profit in the process, but knowing that psycho, it still probably felt like losing.

  Carl hoped that he wasn’t the exact wrong person for this mission. After all, even smart animals learn not to fall for the same trick after a while. He had to give Janice at least that much credit.

  “So, how’s life been treating you?” Rico asked over his shoulder from the pilot’s seat. “You still based out of that sweat sock of a jungle moon?”

  “Yep,” Carl replied, leaning back with his fingers laced behind his head. “My dad’s taking care of the day-to-day shit. Keep myself in space as much as I can. Can’t keep a spacer planetside. Does funny things to the blood, I hear.”