Starship Repo

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  They chuffed. “Sticking your claws down the wrong hole if you’re hoping to get an interview with Fullok, little…” Their eyestalks scanned her from head to foot. “Sorry, but what are you, exactly?”

  “Human,” First said but was met with a blank stare. “From Earth?”

  “Sorry, don’t know that one.”

  “Earth. The planet the Assembly almost vaporized five years ago? We blew up the Xecoron, Turemok flagship? Killed the Kumer-Vel of the whole Turemok military?”

  “Not clinking any shells. First I’ve heard of it.” The Ish pointed a manipulator appendage deeper into the hangar. “Slip Thirty-Seven. But don’t expect them to throw a party. More likely they throw you out.”

  “Why so hostile?” First asked. “I thought these people lived for the attention.”

  The Ish crossed their eyestalks. “Not this crew. They’re real secretive. Won’t even lend out tools with the other crews, from what I heard. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  First nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Anytime. You seem like a nice whatever-you-said-you-were.”

  “Human!” First called back as she restarted her trot down the flight line. Halfway to Slip Thirty-Seven, she spotted a set of multispecies bathrooms and headed for the door. “No,” she said to the camera drone. “This you don’t film. Stay right there and wait for me.”

  First could’ve sworn the drone sagged a little like a scolded puppy, but she ignored it as she ducked through the door and found a stall to change into her flight suit. She stuffed her clothes into the bag along with the decoy recording equipment, all of which would be left behind for lack of space in the cockpit.

  She’d expense Loritt for them once she got back. But first, she had to get back.

  First emerged in her new uniform with her helmet under her arm and her bag slung over her shoulder, then looked at her camera drone. “Okay, come along.”

  It perked right back up and resumed following her. First made it all of twenty meters before running headlong into a sculpted, muscular chest. She bounced off the purple-fabric-clad pectorals and looked up to apologize, but instead found herself staring into the face of a legend.

  “You’re…” First swallowed hard, trying to center her thoughts, which were suddenly swimming against industrial lubricant. “You’re…”

  “Maximus Tiberius. Captain.” The Greek statue bowed with a flourish of his hands. “And it’s okay. You’re welcome.”

  “I … I am?”

  “Absolutely,” Maximus said.

  “For what, precisely”

  “For saving Earth, of course. That’s what you were about to say. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen that look thousands of times over the last few years. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “Oh, right. Thank you?” First said, still fighting the current.

  “It was nothing, really.” Maximus inspected a cuticle. “The thanks really goes to my crew, who, under my leadership and guidance, found the will to win. Also the nuclear missiles—they helped.”

  First’s eyes kept wandering off to the bright red sling sitting in the slip behind him. Its prow was sharp, like a knife cutting through space, while the rest of it was supple curves and flowing lines blending into one another like they’d never quite solidified. Maximus noticed her notice.

  “I see you’ve spotted the Rosa di Venezia.” Maximus turned and beamed at the magnificent sling. “She’s the first human-built sling. Handmade by Italian eunuchs.”

  First’s nose crinkled. “Why eunuchs?”

  “I never asked. Probably makes them more streamlined so they can build faster. Less air resistance. I suppose you’ll be wanting an interview, then?”

  “I, ah … a what?”

  Maximus pointed at the camera drone. “Interview? With the race pilots? You are a reporter, right?”

  “Oh!” First’s brain finally caught up. “Yes, of course.” She stuck out a hand. “Clara Catskill, Frequency Forty-Six, Junktion. The Voice from the Void.”

  “Junktion, eh?” Maximus shook her hand a little too firmly. “Had a layover there—and a hangover. And some weird rash thing that Illcarion swore wasn’t contagious…” He paused in thought. “You’re pretty far from home, aren’t you?”

  “Junktion is my home now,” First said, not inviting further questions.

  “Fair enough. So what do Clara Catskill’s viewers back on Junktion want to know?”

  “What brings the hero of Earth all the way out to the Percolete system? That must have been a long haul.”

  “I first caught a glimpse of sling racing at an exhibition race in Wolcot. Back when I was still just a lieutenant in the AEU navy, I piloted remote combat drones for a couple of years and was a hot stick. I had quite a bit of leave built up over the years, and the last few were a doozy, so I took a leave of absence, lined up some sponsors, and came out here to shake some hands, kiss some babies, and give the rest of the galaxy a taste of what we earthlings can do.”

  First nodded and smiled along, trying to look like the talking bobbleheads she’d seen on the news when she was a kid. “It sounds so exciting.”

  “Oh, it is.” Maximus hit her with a weaponized smile that almost twinkled at the corner.

  “What’s the best part of sling racing for you?”

  “The moment right before the light turns amber; they don’t do green for go out here. When you’re sitting there on top of nothing but a nuclear reactor and a drive cone, sixty thousand horsepower tucked just a few centimeters under your seat, the promise of imminent, explosive action. That moment of anticipation isn’t something you’ll find in any other chair in the galaxy.”

  “That was beautiful. What’s the worst part?”

  “The catheter. Definitely the catheter.”

  “Ha!” First laughed for the camera. “When you’re on the stick, is it true what they say, slow is fast?”

  “What? No. Fast is fast. What a ridiculous saying.”

  “Are you going to take the checkered flag today?”

  “Of course! If you don’t go into battle expecting to win, why are you there?”

  “Thank you, Captain Tiberius. I’ll let you get back to your preparations.”

  “You’re more than welcome. You know, for a second there with your flight suit, I thought you were a pilot.”

  “Oh, no, just getting into the spirit of the thing, you know?”

  “Ha! Thank goodness.”

  First’s head cocked to the side. “Why do you say that?”

  “No offense, but slings are very dangerous. The hot seat isn’t a safe place for a”—Maximus paused and mentally adjusted course—“a younger person like you. You understand, right?”

  First simmered. “Oh, I think I understand perfectly.”

  “Excellent!” Maximus said, totally oblivious to the change in “Clara’s” disposition. “No hard feelings, then. Enjoy the race. And send me a copy of that clip when it’s out of editing. I’d like to see it.”

  “See you at the finish line,” First said, baring her teeth before storming off toward Slip Thirty-Seven. She pulled out her handheld and called the Towed. “Fenax, change of plans. Pickup point will be the far side of the race’s finish line.”

  “What?” Fenax sounded as alarmed as she’d ever heard them. “Why there?”

  “Because I’m doing the race.”

  “Oh, merciful winds below. How will I know which sling to grab?”

  “Simple.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m going to be first.”

  “You’re already First.”

  “Just do it.” First cut the link and laid eyes on her new ride.

  CHAPTER 20

  Officer O’Chakum had gone to the trouble of printing off photos from the crime scenes on holographic paper so she could theatrically pull them from her folder and slap them down on the table, emphasizing a point or adding gravity to an already heavy question with each successive copy. They remained strewn across the tabletop as the depositi
on wore on into the late evening.

  “Okay, let’s start over from the beginning,” O’Chakum said, splaying her gray fingers and pressing them onto the table. The Lividite had stamina, Loritt gave her that much.

  “Must we?” Loritt said.

  “I believe so, yes.”

  Loritt picked up his handheld to look at the time. “We’ve just entered the seventh larim of this ‘interview.’ I don’t mind telling you that it’s felt more like an interrogation for the last five of them. I do mind the fact my lawyer here is charging by the larim and is probably buying himself some new upgrades on the local net as we speak. No offense, Prudanse.”

  Vitle stared off at the ceiling while he virtually perused a new expandable memory module. “None taken.”

  O’Chakum pointed at Quarried Themselves looming behind the two of them. “We’re getting a deposition from a Grenic. Did you really think we’d wrap it up in time for lunch?”

  Loritt eyed Quarried for a moment as the Grenic carefully listened to the glacial playback of one of O’Chakum’s endless questions.

  “Point taken.”

  “You know we’ve finally identified the victim, right?” O’Chakum said.

  Vitle stirred. “I object to that characterization. The victim is standing behind us, Officer.”

  “The deceased, then,” she said. “Is that more agreeable?”

  “It’s more accurate,” Vitle said. “Please continue.”

  O’Chakum scowled ever so slightly. “They were Sullican, a transient named Hilix. A known associate of Soolie the Fin. That name mean anything to you?”

  “I’m familiar with him, although not socially,” Loritt said. “He also runs a repossession business.”

  “So you’re competitors, then.”

  “We’re in the same business, but I’d hardly call him a competitor. Plenty of contracts to go around.”

  “Still, it probably wouldn’t upset you to learn Soolie, most of his associates, and a ship registered to his company all went missing a little over a month ago, would it?”

  Loritt leaned back, aghast. “How terrible! I assume a thorough search was conducted?”

  “As thorough as can be expected with a falsified flight plan. You wouldn’t know anything about their disappearance, I assume.”

  Loritt held out his secondary arms palms up and shrugged. “Wish I could help you, Officer.”

  “Oh, I think you may yet. Now, the Grenic’s roommate, this human female.” She looked at her notes. “Firstname Lastname. Really?” O’Chakum glared at Loritt. “It’s scarcely possible to imagine a more blatantly fraudulent name.”

  “It was a data-entry error on her refugee application. She’d been repeatedly assured it would be straightened out.”

  “When?”

  “Any day now.”

  “So what’s her real name?”

  Loritt rubbed his chin. “You know, I never got around to asking her.”

  “You have someone with falsified identity documents for an employee, and you never got around to asking her why?”

  “Objection,” Vitle said.

  “It’s not a cross-examination, counselor. You can’t raise objections.”

  “You’re conducting it eerily enough like one,” Vitle bit back. “As my client already stated, the documents were not falsified; they were entered incorrectly, and efforts to correct them are ongoing. Further, Miss Lastname is not an employee but an outside consultant contracted to advise us on security issues.”

  “That’s interesting,” O’Chakum said. “What are her qualifications, exactly?”

  “She came highly recommended,” Loritt responded.

  “A juvenile refugee on the station for six months running street cons and matching the description of a prolific aircar thief was highly recommended?”

  Loritt leaned in and folded his hands. “Those are pretty good recommendations for a security expert. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Where is she?” O’Chakum asked. “I want to interview her about this … incident.”

  “I’m afraid Miss Lastname is on an assignment in the Percolete system.”

  “That’s a month away!”

  Loritt shared a knowing look with Vitle. “Yes, I suppose it is. And it’ll be another month at the least before she returns.”

  “What’s she doing way out there?”

  “Behaving herself, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  First swung the meter-long socket wrench like a Louisville Slugger. It connected with the side of the nearest pit crewman’s knee with a pop and a shriek. Her plan had been to charm one of them into letting her do a behind-the-scenes shoot that would end with her sitting in the pilot’s chair. But her encounter with Captain Tiberius had left her feeling cross, her charm fell apart after a few seconds, and she’d decided on a more direct plan of action.

  “I told you grease monkeys once already!” she shouted above the cries of the crewman grasping his ruined knee, then adjusted her grip on the huge wrench. “This sling has been repossessed. I am the legal owner now, you’re all trespassing, and I’m within my rights to whip you into a meringue if you get within five lengths of it.”

  This gave the pit crew pause, whether to size up their unexpected opponent or to ponder the meaning of meringue, First couldn’t say. It was an inelegant solution, one Loritt would likely frown upon. But he wasn’t here, and First was out of fucks for men’s opinions today. Regardless of species.

  “We’re calling security,” a random voice called out from the back of the scrum.

  “Good!” First clapped back. “Saves me the trouble. Because as soon as they review my authorizations, you’re all watching the race from a holding cell.”

  From behind them, a Nelihexu in an unzipped flight suit pushed through the mob of mechanics and came to a stop just outside the reach of First and her wrench. “What’s all this, then?”

  First nodded at him. “I expect you’re Sigmalo Fullok.”

  “I am.” He held out an open hand. “And that’s my favorite wrench.”

  “Just borrowing it. Need to make a few adjustments.”

  Fullok pointed down at his injured mechanic. “To my employee’s knee? Tools are used to fix things, stranger, not break them.”

  “It fixed his attitude,” First said. “How can I help you, Mr. Fullok?”

  “You can step away from my sling and return my wrench.”

  First smirked. “It’s not your sling anymore. Should’ve kept up with your loan payments. As for your wrench, I’ll be happy to put it back in the toolbox once you and your pit crew clear out.”

  “That’s not happening.”

  First shrugged. “Race starts in half a larim. I’ve got nothing else to do. I can wait right here until the amber light and we can all watch the race start without you.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He held up his hands. “We could come to some sort of arrangement. Whatever your finder’s fee for this job, I’ll double it.”

  “So you have money for bribes but not for your creditors? Sorry. Pass. My boss would be ever so cross when he found out.”

  “And who is that, exactly?”

  “Loritt Chessel sends his regards.”

  Fullok’s left eye twitched at the name. “I see. Well, there’ll be no reasoning with you, then?”

  “Nope.”

  “Very well. Keep the sling. I’ll buy another one.”

  “With what money?”

  Fullok ignored the taunt and waved his crew away. As he turned to leave, he looked back at her through the corner of his eye. “Bit of free advice. Be careful around Chessel. He’ll drop you like a hot rock the rakim you’re no longer useful. I watched him do it for cycles.”

  “I’ll give your opinion all the consideration it deserves.”

  Fullok saluted her with two fingers, then left. His pit crew trickled out behind him and gave her some choice words and hand gestures of their own. The wrench clanged onto the floor at First’s feet. With le
ss than half an hour before the race, she had to go through her preflight checklist, get the sling fueled and ignited, and herself strapped in. Alone. An hour of work for people who knew what they were doing, but First wasn’t going to miss the chance to wipe the gleam off Captain Tiberius’s perfect white smile.

  Wasting no time, First opened her handheld to the preflight and started working her way down the list. Every sling was built to conform with their racing class specifications, but no two were exactly alike, and each one developed their own little quirks the longer they were flown. She pulled the “Remove Before Flight” sleeves and plugs from the various thruster nozzles and delicate sensor probes, taking a second to visually inspect each one for damage or deformity. A cracked thruster bell or dirty range-finding laser lens would end her run real fast. Maybe even end her, permanently.

  That done, she moved on to the vectoring gimble the main drive spike was mounted to. It could angle the spike almost forty-five degrees in any direction to vector the thrust where the pilot wanted it to go. But they were temperamental and required frequent disassembly and bearing replacement. If it froze up on her at the wrong moment, it could send her into an unrecoverable spin, crashing into another sling, or plunging down a gravity well. None of which were attractive prospects.

  But Fullok’s pit crew proved themselves competent at the very least. The gimble moved smoothly through its entire range of motion without hesitation or drag. The cockpit’s O2 bottles were topped off as well, and it only took a few minutes to figure out how to adjust their settings to the slightly richer mix humans were built for. Thank god the Nelihexu were aerobic oxygen breathers instead of methane or chlorine, or there would have been no way to finish the race on the little pony bottle of air she’d brought.

  All the instrumentation checked out. Onboard emergency batteries were charged and showed no shorts or faults. Seals looked good. Only things left were to top off the hydrazine tanks and fuel up and jump-start the reactor.

  She found the hydrazine cart tucked behind one of the tool chests easily enough, but when she tried to power up its counter-grav coil, nothing happened. Dead battery. Nor did the filler hose reach far enough, and there weren’t any compatible hoses in sight. She found the recharging port, but it would take long minutes to get enough charge back in it to restart the coil.